by Dalya Moon
Courtney showed me the cute cords she'd bought at Anthropologie and said she'd gotten the feather extensions just up Granville Street.
“My hair's too normal now,” I said, wiping down the tables as she cleared. “I'm going to get some feathers. What did you say was the name of that place?”
“You can't copy me. This is my look.”
“Pluck a duck, you're kidding me, right?”
“I quack you not. Get your own look.”
I faked a stomach cramp and went to the staff washroom before I said something I would regret. With her being small and Asian and me not, I didn't think feather extensions would make us look like twins. I wondered if she'd deny Britain the same, or if Britain already had feathers in her short, brown hair.
In the bathroom, I removed the scarf from my head, because it looked like I was trying too hard. I put some water on my hands to smooth out my hair. The fluffy stuff kept getting in my face, ever since I'd lost the dreadlocks, and I hadn't gotten used to the tickly feeling of it on my cheeks. I had figured out that the hair product stuff other people used wasn't simply optional, but that if you wanted to have nice-looking hair, you had to use something. I'd raided my brother's stash and tried something called wax that day, but the tiny dab they recommended wasn't doing much to tame my fly-aways. Fly-aways! You don't have those when you wear dreadlocks.
I grabbed some of the hair from the top and front and quickly gave myself three messy little braids, then fastened them with some twist-ties borrowed from the kitchen. I looked ridiculous, but I figured it would get a laugh from Courtney at the very least.
Out in the dining area, I was surprised to find a new person sitting in my section. He had broad shoulders and blond hair, cut short on the sides and spiking up high in the middle. From the side, he had an appealing profile, with a really nice jawline. It wasn't until he looked up at me with dazzling blue eyes I realized he was Cooper, Marc's artist friend.
Chapter 8
When I approached the table, Cooper said, “Don't spare the smart mouth on account of knowing me.”
“Don't spare the tip on account of my new hairdo. Trust me, it looks funny, but the braids will reduce the amount of hair content in your meal by fifty percent.” I shook my twist-tie-fastened braids.
“I'm a bad boy,” he said.
“Tell me about it.”
“I brought my Starbucks,” he said, lifting his paper cup.
“Oh goody! I get to charge you a dollar twenty-five.”
“And I don't have to drink the coffee you guys brew here. Totally worth it. What exactly is the secret to your coffee?”
“I put the new grinds on top of the old ones,” I said, which wasn't true at all. Our coffee was decent for a diner, but we liked to play it up for laughs.
His light-brown eyebrows shot up, so either he was surprised or good at faking it. “Do you add banana peels too?”
“Only on Fridays. And it's Thursday today, so you might be safe.”
“My lucky day,” he said.
“These laminated rectangles contain words about food,” I said, handing him a menu.
“No need to look. I'll have the clubhouse,” he said.
Taking a stab at flirting, I let my voice get bubbly as I said, “How do you know we have a clubhouse sandwich? We might not.”
Still grinning, he said, “Don't you have a little message pad you should be writing this down on?”
“Only if I care about getting the orders right.”
“What time are you off?”
Behind me, a guy said, “I think that's enough, now.”
I jumped, startled, and turned to find Marc, standing by the door and looking bewildered.
“Thank you for helping me fend off untoward advances,” I said to Marc.
“Not him, you,” he said, pointing at me. “You leave him alone, you beast.” Marc grinned as he took the chair across from his friend.
My jaw dropped. It literally dropped right open, leaving my mouth open and speechless.
But not for long.
“Do you know what you want?” I asked impatiently. “Or are you going to deliberate over the menu for ten minutes then order the same boring thing you always have?”
“Burn,” Cooper said to me. “Keep 'em coming. Make him cry and I'll add a zero to your tip.”
The way Marc pursed his lips at the teasing melted my heart.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “You did have the special that one time. We have a great one today with fresh strawberries and french toast. Or I could get you a menu.”
“I'll have the special,” he said, turning his head just enough to meet my gaze.
Softening, I said, “I think you'll enjoy it.”
He swallowed. “Thank you. I've had a stressful day.”
I reached down and squeezed his shoulder. He jerked a little, but didn't push me away. “I'll take good care of you,” I said. “Starting with coffee, right?”
“Yes, thank you, Perry.”
When he said my name, electricity shot through me.
As I walked away, I wondered what had just happened. I had squeezed a customer's shoulder? What was next? Calling everyone honey and sweetie, like some truckstop-diner mom-substitute?
I punched the order into the computer. Sometimes, if we just have a couple of tables, we'll tell the kitchen the orders, but most of the time we use our Squirrel software, which puts the order into the kitchen and also does up the bill.
I tapped away at the buttons, messing up the simplest things, like hitting hot chocolate instead of coffee.
Every time I looked up, Marc was staring my way. He'd quickly turn away again, but I knew he was watching me.
This went on for an uncomfortable forty minutes; I could feel his gaze on me the whole time he and Cooper were there.
When they finally left, even though I was surrounded by people, I felt strangely alone.
They'd both been so sweet to me, almost competitive about getting my attention whenever I'd gone by their table. Marc had asked if he could feel one of my braids, and Cooper had insisted on pulling on the other one.
Never before had I wished so much to sit at a table and be a customer instead of a waitress.
As of Thursday, Marc had come in three days that week. That had to mean something.
“He likes you,” Courtney said by the waitress station.
Smirking and giddy, I said, “You may be right.”
“What's your next move?” she asked. Courtney was all about moves, apparently.
“Next time I see him, I'll ask him out,” I said.
“Unless he asks you first.”
I jumped up and down on the spot, saying, “Eee!”
My head felt twirly and light. Just the idea of asking a guy out on a date made me crazy nervous. I had to drink a big glass of orange juice to get my legs to stop shaking.
I kept hoping I'd see Marc again, but I had my days off on Friday and Saturday, and to my disappointment, he didn't come in on Sunday. He'd never come in on a Sunday before, so I decided he had to have other regular things that day, or he wanted to stay away from the busy weekend crowd.
Surely he would come in on his regular day, I thought. I was so nervous by the time Monday morning rolled around, even more because he didn't show up until half an hour after his usual time. For a full twenty-nine minutes, I'd overreacted and was miserable at the thought of not seeing him.
I'd worn special shoes for him, too. They had laces down the front and spiky little high heels—not high in a clubbing context, but high for waitressing. I fully planned to change into my regular comfy pirate boots after I saw him for the day, but I wanted to show off how nice my legs looked in the heels. My calves had such a great, compact curve in those boots, and the height made me feel sexy.
Even Toph and Donny in the kitchen had agreed I was “almost an eight” in those shoes, as well as the short, black dress I'd borrowed from my mother's closet. I'd accessorized with feather earrings, and I wore my hair
parted down the middle, in soft, wavy layers with no fly-aways thanks to a liberal coating of various gunk from the drugstore.
The weather was quite rainy that Monday, so we had our rented floor mats—the black ones, not the tacky red ones—down the center aisle of the restaurant. What I didn't realize was Courtney had already tripped once on the rug where it overlapped another one, and what I thought was a shadow on the floor wasn't a shadow so much as it was a carpet-cave, waiting to catch my toe.
Unsteady on my brand-new heels, I tripped a little as I left the safety of the waitress station behind the bar, then I teetered at the halfway point. Marc stood just inside the door, waiting to be seated.
His face changed expression, his attention moving to my legs. They tingled, from knees to ankles, under his gaze. I heard Tyra Banks and her cohorts in my head, telling me to work it, girl, work that walk.
You won't be surprised to hear that I tripped and fell, my foot catching on the shadowy edge of the floor mat. All five-foot-seven of me, and all one hundred and mumble-mumble pounds became a projectile, launched right at Marc.
Bless his reflexes, the guy caught me as easily as one of those Frisbee-catching dogs grabs a practice throw. And he dipped me, as easily as Johnny Castle dipped Baby in Dirty Dancing. The restaurant, which was about a third full, erupted with cheers and clapping.
Held in his strong arms, I melted as Marc gave me a deep, passionate, tasty kiss.
Actually, that last part didn't happen.
Still, our physical encounter was rather intimate, because it involved exchanging bodily fluids. After catching me, a few people did clap, and Marc made a funny, wincing expression, then sneezed right in my face. We were both so surprised, I screamed and he dropped me. Hard.
Hands grabbed at my clothes—Courtney's hands, pulling the hem of my black dress down to cover my underpants. I was wearing one of my boy-shorts pairs that my brother had given me as a joke for my last birthday. They were gray with red piping, in a Y shape down the front, just like a men's pair of gonchies. They gave good coverage of the bikini area, but were not the sort of thing you want a cute boy to see you in.
As Courtney and Marc helped me to my feet, I could think of nothing but my underwear and how horrible they were. I would go home that afternoon and immediately throw them in the garbage, but for the moment, I was trapped in my humiliation.
With a disapproving tone, Marc said, “Those carpets are a hazard.”
I said, “So are tile floors that are all wet from people like you tracking in rainwater.”
We stared at each other for a moment while the diners around us went back to their breakfasts, satisfied with the entertainment value received.
Marc started to laugh. “I'm so sorry I sneezed on you.”
“It was refreshing.”
He took off his glasses and wiped at his eye, still laughing. “It's just a bit of allergies, I don't have a cold, I swear.”
“If I get a cold next week, I'm blaming you.”
“I'll bring you chicken soup,” he said.
“For real?”
“Yes. I keep my word.”
“I'm sorry you had to see my horrible underpants. Most of them are much better. By which I mean my underpants.”
He pressed his lips together tightly, the edges of his mouth curving up.
I said, “Try not to think about my underpants.”
“I'll try,” he said.
I showed him to his favorite seat by the window. “Do you like peaches? Donny's been trying something, and it's not on the menu. Perhaps you'd like to sample it, be our first guinea pig.”
“I'll devour whatever you bring me,” he said.
Even though it was pouring rain outside, somehow a tiny shaft of sunlight came in and glinted off his tortoiseshell glasses frames and brown eyes.
I was in love. I mean, I was in crush, which feels a lot like love.
Barely a week earlier, I'd decided to give dating a try, casually, and maybe mess around with some fumbling boy my age. What I hadn't expected was that I'd fall madly in crush—like look-at-his-Facebook-profile-photo-ten-times-a-day-madly—with an older guy I barely knew.
Back in the kitchen, I begged Donny to make the magical dish that could potentially make Marc fall in love, or in crush, with me.
“I don't just make it for anyone,” he said.
“Fine. What do you want?”
“You babysit my kids one night.”
“Fine. Done deal.”
“On New Year's Eve.”
“That's almost a year away!” I said. “What if I have plans? What if my boyfriend wants to take me out dancing?”
“He can come over and you two can dry hump on my couch after the kids are in bed.”
“You'll be home by two?”
“I'll be home when I'm ready to come home. You know this dish has magical qualities. You know it can make people fall in love. Now do you want it or not?”
I leaned over to the pass-through window and peeked at Marc, framed in the front window.
“Make it,” I said, shaking Donny's hand.
Chapter 9
The dish began with Donny's home-style banana-chocolate-chip loaf. He cut it into thick slabs and dipped it in a mixture of egg and cream, then threw the sizzling slices on the grill, along with a chunk of salted butter. The smell of cinnamon infused the air.
Once grilled to golden-brown perfection, he arranged the slices on a white plate and topped them with a mixture of lightly-stewed peaches and candied pecans. He garnished the plate with a single ripe gooseberry in its paper lantern leaves.
Careful not to fall again, I walked the plate out to Marc. Conversations stopped as people turned to see what they were smelling.
I set it before Marc without a word.
“I don't know if that's edible,” he said, pointing to the gooseberry.
“There's an orange berry inside. Really sweet and good.”
“I don't know if I can eat all this food,” he said.
I pictured myself being jumped on by Donny's kids on New Year's Eve and momentarily regretted the deal I'd made.
Marc grinned. “But I'll sure try!” He grabbed his fork and knife and dug right in.
My own stomach growled, but he didn't seem to notice.
I scurried off to fill the water pitchers with fresh ice and water. Courtney snuck up on me at the bar sink and said, “Marc and Perry, sittin' in a tree.”
The music playing over The Whistle's old speakers wasn't up very loud, so I told her to shush and not embarrass me.
“Remember, you have to ask him out,” she said. Using her fake Chinese accent, she said, “You ask out nice boy or I am disappoint.”
I giggled. “I like the speed things are going. He can just come in Mondays and I'll feed him two thousand calories each time, and pretty soon he won't be able to get away from me if he tries, because he won't fit out the door.”
“Bad plan. Ask him out.”
“He's the guy. The guy should ask the girl.”
“He's a smart one,” she said. “He knows it's your job to be somewhat nice to people at your job. He doesn't want to be yet another pervert hitting on you at work.”
“I've never been asked out at work. I'm not you. I don't laugh nervously at everyone's jokes and get three phone numbers a day.”
“Exactly. But you found a hottie who's interested, so make the most of it. He asked you to the art show, so the ball's in your court. Your move.”
“What do I say? Shall I ask him if he wants to fornicate with me in the back of my mom's Land Rover?”
“Dummy. Start with a walk or something.”
“Outside, with all the bugs?”
“Yes.” She waved her hand excitedly. “Get him to walk around Stanley Park with you.”
I scrunched my nose. “That's a couple of miles at least. We'll be too exhausted to fornicate.”
Courtney giggled. “You have to stop talking like that.”
“I'm being authentic
. This is how I talk.”
Someone on Courtney's side of the restaurant whistled for service, so she took off like a rocket. She showed up late fairly regularly, but she was always responsive to her customers when she was on-shift, which kept her from getting fired. That, and the owner rarely fired people.
When Courtney came back, she looked at me solemnly and said, “I've been a terrible influence on you. Before I came out as a lesbian, I did a lot of things to hide my secret. I kept people away.”
“You didn't keep me away.” I did not understand where she was going with this.
“With other people, I did. I'd make up strange things so people would think I was weird, not gay. When we were at slumber parties, talking about our crushes, who did I say was my crush?”
“You'd always say something gross, like an inanimate object, or Ryan Seacrest. Then later, you'd agree with someone else's crush.”
“Exactly. The weird stuff was to buy me time. I was so deathly afraid I might say a girl's name that I practiced saying anything but what I felt.”
All the water pitchers were filled, and I was starting to get that waitress sixth sense that some tables needed their plates cleared.
I grabbed a bar cloth and edged away from the counter. “I'm glad you're more comfortable now, but what's this got to do with me, or cute Marc out there?”
“Everything. You said Marc was talking about authenticity. I wasn't being authentic back then. You know, you and I both do this thing, where we keep people away by always tipping them off balance.”
“I don't want to keep people away. I've got nothing to hide.”
She shook her head. “Never mind. We can talk about it later. Britain explains it way better than I do.”
“Britain can eat my sweaty balls.”
Courtney pointed at me with one petite finger. “Right there. You're doing it.”