Butterflies Don't Lie

by B. R. Myers

  “Oh,” she said, still looking at my finger, as if she were talking to the shrimp. “When you’re finished here, you should come pick up your uniform.” She backed up a bit, probably worried my fish smell would drown out her sunshine. She left through the swinging door into the dining room.

  I looked pleadingly at Loretta. Even she could tell I was no help in the kitchen. She waved her cotton towel. “Get out of here, babycakes.”

  I wiped my hands on my capris and sped out of there faster than you could say “sushi platter.”

  I followed Chloe’s ponytail through the dining room until she disappeared between a pair of French doors at the far end.

  The mid-sized room off the main dining area served as the restaurant’s old-fashioned bar. It was lined with mahogany wood and brass trim. Framed pictures of schooners were hung all around for that fresh-from-the-sea feeling, I guess. Round tables with curved leather chairs dotted the floor space. It smelled like stale beer and furniture polish.

  Several other girls were already sitting at a few of the tables. They were slightly older, and I didn’t recognize any of them. They greeted Chloe with hugs and cheek kisses. I sat in a chair closest to the window, painfully suspicious of how I must smell like dead fish. A set of double glass doors led to the patio.

  I rubbed the fuzzy gorilla, pretending to look outside as I eavesdropped. It was soon obvious these girls were the waitresses, and that Chloe and I were the only busgirls.

  “I thought you quit for good last year,” Chloe teased one of the girls.

  The blonde twirled the end of her hair and snapped her gum. “Two weeks of late shifts at the gas station was enough for me. Besides, there’s a new owner. Things might be different this summer.”

  Chloe and the other girls looked unconvinced. A few bits of gossip about the new owner began to be shared.

  “Divorced,” the blonde offered.

  “Scandalous playboy,” someone else added under her breath with a hint of a giggle.

  “I heard he won the restaurant in a poker game in New York.”

  “Hard-ass,” a dark-haired waitress said. She was wearing a white tank top with a bedazzled skull on the front. There was a black widow spider tattooed on her ankle.

  After two minutes I was envisioning the prime suspect in every Law & Order episode. I looked down at my Kipling bag and realized the gorilla was already sucking his thumb. Panic started to rise in my chest.

  Stupid aquaphobia! I should have been volunteering to check Blaine’s shoulders for sunburn, not sitting by myself, the odd girl out, as the debutantes compared notes.

  I thought about Francine, and a small ache grew in my stomach. She’d only been on her family vacation for three days and I already missed her. But if Francine had been there, she’d have told me to focus and concentrate on my goal.

  I imagined the spreadsheet. No matter how sucky the day was, I was determined to check off the uniform box. Last year the employees wore white blouses with black pencil skirts. With a push-up bra and some altering, I could make it a snug, sexy fit.

  I had to take Francine’s advice seriously; after all, she was the one having awesome kissing sessions with Tanner. She described it as every synapse firing double the amount of neurotransmitters, thereby creating throbbing fireworks in her thoracic cavity.

  Smarty-pants.

  I squinted out the window. It was almost sunset. Most of the boats had their sails down and were tying up to their moorings. A couple walked hand in hand along the edge of the restaurant’s lawn.

  “All right, girls!”

  Ahoy, Skipper!

  Through the French doors, a man strolled in wearing a white turtleneck and blue blazer. And, I’m not kidding, the guy even had on a white captain’s hat. If he’d had a beard, I’d swear I was looking at the High Liner Foods mascot.

  He clapped his hands like a Sunday school teacher, signalling for our silence, which was useless since we’d all been rendered speechless by his outfit.

  He introduced himself as Omar Deveau and then proceeded to give a five-minute history lesson about the restaurant. How this would help us serve chowder to tourists, I wasn’t sure. My stomach growled, making him pause. He narrowed his gaze at me. I coughed in my hand, then gave him a small smile.

  Mr. Deveau took a moment to smooth down one side of his already-slicked-back hair. “I want the Queen’s Galley to really stand out this summer. A trait all the most successful establishments have in common is a…?”

  He looked at us expectantly. Some of the girls wiggled in their chairs, crossing and uncrossing their already tanned legs. The dark-haired waitress twirled her earring.

  “A theme,” he finished, disappointed with our lack of business savvy. His finger played with the brass buttons on his blazer. “The rich nautical history here makes Mariner’s Cove the perfect summer destination for thousands of tourists each year.”

  My stomach threatened to growl again. I wished I had eaten the whole bag of popcorn earlier. Mr. Deveau’s voice droned on. I snuck another look outside, wishing I was relaxing on the patio watching people stroll by—in particular people who worked at the yacht club.

  Suddenly, a wonderful image began to form in my mind: I’m carrying a tray of tall drinks across the patio, looking all sexy in my tight black skirt and fitted white blouse. Blaine happens to stroll by…

  “The tourists want colonial history.” Mr. Deveau’s voice was full of expression. “Imagine you’ve been transported back in time…”

  I catch Blaine’s eye, then take an ice cube from one of the glasses and slowly run it along my throat. (I got that idea from the “Are You Naturally Seductive?” quiz in the May issue of Modern Teen.) Blaine stops in his tracks. He stares back at me, then a smile slowly curls at the edge of his mouth. I lift my hand to wave him over…

  “For the full effect, I’ll need one of you to model,” Mr. Deveau finished with another clap. “Yes, you there.”

  It was suddenly quiet. I left my patio fantasy and saw that everyone had turned in my direction. My arm was still stuck in the air from waving at a pretend Blaine.

  Uh-oh.

  Visions of seducing Blaine from the patio vanished in a flash of Little House On the Prairie. Mr. Deveau was holding up what I really, really hoped was NOT my uniform.

  SIX

  I changed in the bathroom. The flowery wallpaper and antique sconces didn’t make the scene any prettier. I put everything on except for the hat. Oh, dear God, the hat.

  It took every ounce of strength I had to walk back into that bar. I tripped on the skirt a few times. How was I going to carry a tray dressed like this? I pushed through the French doors. Chloe actually gasped. Mr. Deveau clapped his hands together, then rushed over to me, primping and tucking material. He made me twirl around for him.

  The dark-haired waitress with a tattoo turned a shade of pale that would rival a zombie. A pink bubble popped and stuck on the blonde’s face. I stood before my co-workers like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Be: I was their future, and it scared the crap out of them.

  “How,” the dark-haired one said, staring and pointing at my skirt, “are we supposed to navigate the stairs to the upper floor?”

  Mr. Deveau was busy trying to make the sleeves of my peasant blouse fluff up more. “There’s a dumbwaiter, Julia,” he said, matter-of-factly. Then he hit her with a sidelong glance. “And every lady knows to lift her skirt when she walks up stairs.”

  I didn’t have to look at Julia to feel the heat from her stare. Instead, I studied my floor-length brown skirt, pleated for extra puffiness. I probably could have worn a pair of snow pants underneath and still looked the same. A long white apron was tied around my waist.

  If Blaine ever did walk by while I was on the patio, I would hide under the nearest table.

  “Are You Naturally Seductive?”

  No. I’m a natural n
erd.

  And when I didn’t think it could get any worse, Mr. Deveau noticed what I’d try to hide in my fist. I played dumb, but he finally took it from me and plunked it on my head.

  “Holy—” the blonde one started.

  “Quaker!” Julia interrupted. “She looks like a pioneer!”

  Actually, I thought “Laura Ingalls Wilder’s nightcap” would be a more accurate description. But yeah, a long brown skirt, paired with a short-sleeved peasant blouse and topped with a white nightcap screamed, “I’m from the past, would you like rolls or crackers with your chowder?”

  Chloe’s lips were pressed together like she was trying to keep from laughing. Then Mr. Deveau dropped the bombshell. “You’ll soon see how easy it is to work in this because I need staff for the private party I’m throwing in an hour.”

  Mouths fell open all around the room. In the end, Mr. Deveau decided that considering I was already changed that I should stay, especially since I was the newest staff member and should start training right away.

  Chloe volunteered, and Julia, whose lip did a weird, curled-up thing when she was handed her uniform, was tonight’s waitress. She also had to sub as bartender, since she was the only one old enough to serve alcohol. The others, including the gum-chewing blonde, were allowed to go home. I watched them leave and wished I could go too.

  We met in the small holding bar, just off the main foyer, waiting for the guests to arrive. Back in the day, when the restaurant was super busy, this room was actually used by people who lounged around on the red velvet cushions drinking cocktails until their table was ready.

  Tonight, with our white nightcaps and forced smiles, the vibe was less elegant.

  I kept telling myself that it would be worth it when I checked off “Pick up uniform.”

  I’m so pathetic.

  Julia was texting her boyfriend and basically ignoring me and Chloe. Now that I was closer I could see her earrings were little diamond skulls. I guess she likes a theme just as much as Mr. Deveau.

  Chloe, I had to admit, made the silly uniform work. She looked like an extra in a Jane Austen novel or something. She would be the lowly maid who catches the eye of an earl and consequently finds out she’s the long-lost daughter of a duke.

  Are You Naturally Seductive or an Uppity Busgirl?

  “You know,” I began, hoping to turn things around, “the uniforms aren’t that bad.” I paused but no one said anything. “I mean, when Mr. Deveau started talking about the history of Mariner’s Cove, I was worried he was going to make us dress like pirates.”

  Julia didn’t even look up from her phone. “We look like brothel wenches. Pirates would have been cool. I was a pirate for Mardi Gras, and I was dead sexy. We’d get better tips dressed as pirates.”

  I shared a look with Chloe. I snorted, but she only smoothed out her skirt.

  Great.

  The guests arrived slowly. Mr. Deveau ushered everyone through the dining room and into the bar. As Julia served the wine and beer, Chloe and I headed to the kitchen, ready to be loaded down with trays of finger foods.

  Loretta laughed so hard when she saw our uniforms, she turned a slight shade of purple.

  “Go ahead,” Chloe said in a light tone. “Tell us we look like brothel wenches.”

  Clyde wrinkled his nose. “Don’t give yourselves that much credit. You look like the girls who empty the brothel wench’s chamber pot.”

  Loretta didn’t breathe for another minute. How-hole’s ball cap was turned around the right way so the brim was hiding most of his face, but his shaking shoulders told me all I needed to know.

  Blaine would have never laughed. He would find something positive to compliment us about—especially Chloe, because she was totally selling the thing.

  I reminded myself of the one and only reason I was putting up with this, and I used the image of Blaine’s perfect back to help get me through this horrible night.

  I picked up my tray of sautéed garlic shrimp wrapped in pea pods. My training consisted of copying Chloe. She smiled, told people what the food was, and then gave them a napkin.

  I tried my best to smile, hoping it didn’t look as fake as it felt. Then I dropped the toothpicks when I had to push my cap back up on my head. Chloe managed to glow the whole night.

  I recognized some local business owners, but Mr. Deveau spent most of his time with a George Clooney look-alike. You know, older but still kind of good-looking.

  “Shrimp in a pea pod?” I offered, showing off my Chloe-esque smile.

  Mr. Deveau was still wearing his captain’s hat. He smiled at me like I was his favourite girl in the world. “Kelsey,” he said, “I’d like you to meet someone very important.” He waved his hand toward the man. I was impressed he bothered to introduce me at all. “This is Mr.—”

  “Just Edward,” the man interrupted. He smiled. I noticed even the tiny wrinkles around his eyes were handsome. “No pretences here,” he told me.

  My cheeks flushed and my brain went blank. The chair beside me had more personality.

  Mr. Deveau sensed my inability to speak. “These are absolutely to die for,” Mr. Deveau informed Edward. “The chef bought them fresh from the fishermen on the wharf this morning.”

  I envisioned the white bucket full of half-frozen shrimp heads still thawing in the kitchen.

  Edward frowned. Even I knew we didn’t catch shrimp anywhere near here. Mr. Deveau realized his mistake and pulled at the white collar of his turtleneck. “I’m sure everything will work out well in the kitchen.”

  Edward’s gaze hardened, turning Mr. Deveau an even more interesting shade of red. He nervously touched his lips with his napkin. “Please try one,” he urged.

  On cue, I thrust the tray closer to Edward. I kind of liked that he made Mr. Deveau nervous. He took a shrimp and winked at me. My knees turned to water. “Thank you,” he said. “With a smile like that, you’ll make lots of tips this summer.”

  I could feel the heat move up my neck, filling my cheeks. “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  By the time I returned to the kitchen I had started to feel the floor under my feet again. There’s a reason women flock to George Clooney. Well, besides the fact he’s a movie star and super rich. One word: Suave-a-licious.

  The party was only two hours long. Julia had washed down the bar, put the empties in the basement, and was on her boyfriend’s motorcycle before you could say, “Play us a jig on the fiddle, Pa.”

  Chloe barely gave me a smile in the bathroom. She changed back into her sundress and gold hoop earrings in silence. I guess the rules of high school count in the summer, too. Cool older girls don’t chum around with the younger nerdy ones.

  I clutched my stomach. The ache wasn’t hunger. I missed Francine. Maybe she was wrong this time.

  I shouldn’t be here at all. Why did I ever think I had a chance with Blaine?

  A morbid cloud of self-pity hung over me.

  I was sticky and gross. Instead of putting my capris on, I stayed in my brothel look, except now I had my yellow Kipling bag as an accessory. The front door was closed, so I went into the kitchen.

  Loretta was wiping down the counter. Clyde motioned to several white buckets on the floor. “Empty that into the flower beds,” he ordered. He read my expression, then explained. “It’s the leftover dishwater. I hate waste. And in my restaurant, fresh flowers go on the tables every day.”

  This was the perfect end to my miserable shift. I pictured myself giving him a salute, then taking the bucket and dumping it over his head. That would wash off his pencil-thin moustache.

  Here’s the thing about being mad—it gives you a lot of strength. I adjusted my Kipling bag, grabbed the white bucket, and pushed out the back kitchen door.

  The screen door slammed behind me. I marched down the steps, and swung that bucket with the strength of ten angry busgirls. Slow
ly, painfully, I watched in silent horror as a wave of shrimp heads scattered over the flower bed.

  “Once the mopping is done, you can leave.” Clyde’s voice echoed from the screen door. I could see his silhouette. The bright tip of a cigarette lit up. He exhaled smoke through the screen. I slunk back, even though I was sure he couldn’t see me—or the pile of shrimp I’d just bombed the flower bed with.

  The bushes close to my feet rustled. I clamped a hand over my mouth, swallowing a scream. I hate the dark. I hate little critters. I hate things that can run up my leg. I tucked the skirt between my thighs, trying to make pants.

  What would Laura Ingalls Wilder do? Smack it over the head with a frying pan and have it for stew, I guessed.

  This was useless. I was useless. And I was trapped. Clyde mashed his cigarette butt into a sand-filled pot by the door and finally disappeared.

  I left the bucket hidden in the bushes and decided to make a run for it. There was no way I was going back in the kitchen to face How-hole. He’d probably thought up a load of insults about my uniform.

  Mr. Deveau’s voice coming from the kitchen stopped me in my tracks. “Excellent, Edward.” His voice was sickeningly sweet. “You won’t regret it.” He ended with a clap. He probably writes with lots of exclamation points, too.

  Clap! Clap! Clap!

  It was like being around someone who sets off popguns randomly. I envisioned a summer of frayed nerves and fingers permanently stained with fish guts.

  My good pal, Edward, turned to talk to whoever was behind them. “Make sure you do a good job,” he said. His patronizing tone was unmistakable.

  I felt slightly sorry for Clyde. I had a suspicion Edward was going to be a big influence on the summer. But it wasn’t Clyde who came to the door after Edward and Mr. Deveau had left.

  How-hole swished the mop back and forth over the floor. The screen door creaked open. Instinctively, I backed up into the bushes. He turned and poured the old dishwater over the railing. The old dishwater I was supposed to dump. He stared in my direction. I stopped breathing. He took off his ball cap and ran his hand through his hair a few times. Then he went back inside.