Butterflies Don't Lie

by B. R. Myers

  He noticed my reaction, and the corner of his mouth curled up. “Loretta’s Caesar salad dressing is a Queen’s Galley favourite.” He said the last part with a flare that perfectly imitated Mr. Deveau.

  I couldn’t help but smile, but I fought the laugh. I could not and would not laugh at How-hole’s jokes. I had to be friendly, yet formal.

  Mr. Deveau burst into the kitchen, which was no surprise to me. He’d been hovering more than usual that afternoon. I had no choice but to suspend my interview and move into the next room, trying to stay inconspicuous. You could never be busy enough for Mr. Deveau. His greetings were always questions.

  “Polish the silverware yet?”

  “Are the linens folded for this evening?”

  “Do we need to dust the upper moulding?”

  Seriously, this guy thought he was Carson from Downton Abbey. But today he was especially tenacious. “She’ll be here at one o’clock!” he kept saying. He checked his watch a million times, just like Alice’s rabbit in Wonderland.

  I nestled up next to Ronnie, who was rearranging one of her perfect bouquets. “You could do this, like, professionally,” I told her.

  She beamed back at me. Mr. Deveau stalked by, his fingers fidgeting with the brass buttons on his blazer. Ronnie gave me a tip. “He’s super anxious today,” she whispered. “A fancy cake decorator is coming. He’s trying to convince her to put one of our summer weddings on her show.”

  “Wow,” I said. “No wonder he’s freaking. There’s only three people in the restaurant. Who’d want to promote this place?”

  “Just look busy,” she said. “As long as you’re tidying something he’ll leave you alone.”

  I snuck a quick glance over at Chloe. She’d been folding and refolding linen napkins, but was making it look totally natural. Since Chloe had the dining room cased out, I decided I could top up all the salt and pepper shakers in the pantry. The “pantry” was just a row of shelves along the back of the kitchen that connected to a short hallway leading to the holding bar.

  I was very familiar with this area as I used it as my personal hangout with its never-ending supply of wrapped peppermints that the waitresses put on the tray with the bill. I probably consumed a pound of peppermints my first week.

  I hefted the huge bag of salt Clyde kept on the bottom shelf. Loretta had returned from her smoke break and was humming along to the radio. I could hear the whisk beat a few times. I scanned the shelves for another make-work project. I wiped out a few sugar bowls and lined them up on the counter.

  Mr. Deveau’s high voice signalled something grand was happening. I peeked out the glass window of the swinging kitchen door. Mr. Deveau was seating a woman at a table by the window overlooking the harbour. He was all smiles and red cheeks. I could see him sweating. And wow, the chick was hot. Ronnie and Chloe appeared instantly, making Mr. Deveau beam.

  I looked at the empty sugar bowls again. I was running out of make-work projects so I decided to wait until Mr. Deveau was wandering around the kitchen to fill them up. No point in looking busy if no one’s watching, I reasoned. I took another glance out the door’s glass panel. Everyone was smiling. A good sign.

  Ronnie and Chloe had the dining room covered, and since I couldn’t prod How-hole for details about my possible upcoming blackmail, I sauntered into the small holding bar.

  I needed a fix.

  A long counter jutted out from the wall. I slipped behind and reached under the shelf for my Kipling bag. I pulled out the July issue of Modern Teen. I reached into my apron pocket and unwrapped two peppermints.

  I smiled, picturing Blaine and I hanging out by our lockers. I sucked and chomped on three more peppermints as I whipped through the rest of the questions with my usual lightning speed. I tallied my score and was pleased to read that I am indeed, a fearless flirt.

  Then I froze. Someone was right behind me—someone who smelled a lot like garlic.

  TEN

  How-hole’s arm reached over my shoulder from behind, pointing to the magazine. He read out loud, “You are the girl that guys love to be around. You build up their ego and make them feel desirable with your smiles and attention. You know what you want, and are fearless in your endeavours to make that special love connection.”

  I flicked his arm away and pressed the magazine to my chest. “Excuse me! This is private.”

  “Do you really believe that stuff?” he asked. His voice wasn’t condemning, it was more confused.

  I spun around and gave him my best lemon face, a useful tactic when I have no desire or clue how to answer.

  He waited for me to say something, then took another route. “Well,” he said, waving a hand at the magazine, “it’s probably hard to get an accurate answer when you’re cheating. Tends to mess up the results, I imagine.”

  This I could not ignore. “I’m not cheating!” I said indignantly.

  He studied me through squinted eyes. “Really? I guess I better watch myself, then. I never had you pegged for the fearless flirt type.” He leaned his elbow on the counter. There wasn’t much space between our bodies and the wall. I’d have to push past him.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I said. His blue eyes bored into me, and I dropped my gaze, hating how my face had grown hot. “Besides,” I said, throwing the magazine down on the counter, “just because I’m dressed like Laura Ingalls Wilder doesn’t mean I’m boring.”

  He gave me a hint of a smile. “I never said you were boring. I just think someone who’s afraid to tell the truth isn’t exactly…” He took the magazine and read. “‘The fearless type: always ready to try something new, no matter what others think.’”

  “I’m extremely fearless!” I said. “Just because you ride without holding on to the handlebars doesn’t make you some kind of brave hero.”

  He handed me back the magazine, then folded his arms in front of his chest. “Prove it.”

  “What?”

  “Prove that the magazine is right.”

  I snorted. “How? By driving like a maniac and smashing up my mom’s hatchback?”

  It was suddenly dead quiet. I could actually see my words, typed, in the air between us.

  His jaw tightened and he rubbed the side of his chest. “Never mind,” he said. “You wouldn’t have the guts to go through with my idea, anyway.” Then he disappeared around the corner.

  An invisible thread pulled me along. I told my feet to stop, but they followed How-hole back into the pantry. My empty sugar bowls looked at me accusingly.

  I thought of Francine’s spreadsheet. I was tired of being scared. If I did this stupid thing How-hole had planned, I knew I would be brave enough to walk up to Blaine and kiss him full on the mouth—just like a fearless flirt would do.

  I caught up to How-hole and stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “All right,” I said. “I’ll prove it.”

  A few minutes later we were at the top of the steep hill overlooking the Queen’s Galley. How-hole was on the seat. And I, the extremely fearless flirt, was sitting forwards on the handlebars secretly shitting bricks. Every episode of Real Life in the ER was coming back in horrific detail.

  “Nervous?” he asked.

  “No.” My hands shook as I tightened his bike helmet over my head. It was only fair that I got the helmet, since I was the one who would probably hit the pavement first.

  I balanced, then placed a death grip on the handlebars beside my thighs. My feet were tucked under my knees, and my long skirt was bunched between my legs.

  Real ladies always lift their skirts when they ride a boy’s handlebars.

  How-hole pushed off. The bike wobbled a bit, then he pedalled strongly and straightened out. He was making it go faster? It was like climbing that first hill of a roller coaster—you know you’re going to scream, but there’s no way to get off the ride.

  We slowed for just a
second, then the front tire—and my face—tilted downward. The shadows of the trees blurred past me, the wind blasted through the helmet and messed up my hair. I screamed. The pavement looked ready to jump up and eat me.

  My skirt blew into my face, blinding me, but I didn’t dare let go of my death grip on the bike. So there I was, careening down the hill with a convicted felon who might be crazy, with my skirt over my head. We were going so fast I couldn’t feel the wheels on the road. It’s like we were flying. Oh God, were we flying!

  Suddenly I could see again. My skirt settled back down as the bike slowed. We levelled off at the bottom and glided past the restaurant. How-hole started pedalling again, making the circle through the intersection. We got a few beeps from startled drivers, then came to a stop in the driveway by the kitchen.

  He held the bike steady while I unclenched my knees. My heart was racing. I took off the helmet and handed it back to him. “See?” I said, acting all tough and macho. “Definitely fearless.” I couldn’t help but notice I had left out “flirt.”

  The edges of his blue eyes crinkled in a smile. I walked ahead of him, trying not to trip on my shaky legs. I marched into the kitchen with my head held high and caught my reflection in one of the glass cabinets. My hair was windswept, my cheeks were red, and I was smiling. Like, hugely smiling.

  I put my cap back on, tucked in a few stray wisps of wild hair, and hummed all the way to the pantry. Mr. Deveau boomed through the swinging door, almost knocking me over. He patted his red face with his silk handkerchief. “Sugar!” he demanded. “She wants sugar with her coffee.”

  I stared back at him blankly.

  I thought his eyes would burst out of his head. He motioned to the cake decorator by the window. “Hurry, girl! She wants sugar!”

  Jolted into action, I poured several scoops from the open bag into one of the empty sugar bowls I’d just cleaned. He stared at me all the while, making me glad I’d at least tidied up back there. I rushed out after him, and then placed the bowl on the table. I was so nervous a few crystals spilled onto the linen. Mr. Deveau’s face contorted like he was in silent labour.

  “Oh, pardon me,” I said.

  She barely glanced up. I watched as she put not only one, but three heaping spoonfuls into her coffee. She played with the spoon for a bit, letting it tinkle the side of the cup. Mr. Deveau grimaced each time. Then he gave me a signal to leave, which I obeyed wholeheartedly.

  I escaped back to the pantry, resting against the shelves. I could smell yummy bread. Someone had put rolls in the warmer. I smiled, feeling more energized and hopeful than I had in a long time. I’d dodged a bullet from Mr. Deveau, and I had survived How-hole’s test. Hopefully this would make us even for the shrimp-head thing.

  I felt in my heart that this moment was the turning point in Operation Tongue. I was sure Blaine would come into the restaurant that very afternoon. I grinned like an idiot. My luck had finally changed. This was the start of my new, awesome life. This summer something amazing would happen for me, I just knew it.

  Then I heard someone gag. Mr. Deveau shouted.

  I glanced at the sugar bowls lined up beside the bag of salt. My eyes grew wide and my stomach dropped to the floor.

  ELEVEN

  Mr. Deveau burst through the swinging door, veins bulging on the side of his head. He leered at me and leaned in close. I thought going down the hill on How-hole’s handlebars with my skirt over my face had been terrifying, but at this very moment, I really thought I would pee my pants.

  “You!” Mr. Deveau started. “How could you be so stupid?” The veins throbbed violently, threatening to burst all over my face.

  “I…I’ll fix it,” I whispered. My insides turned to water. I clenched my thighs together, wishing I could disappear.

  “All you had to do was bring out one simple thing.” His voice was harsh. I’d never seen him this upset. The kitchen became very quiet. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Clyde and Loretta had frozen, as if any movement might bring them into the argument.

  “Can’t you read?” He held up the salt bag and pointed at each letter. “What does this say?” he asked.

  My lips trembled.

  “S—A—L—T.” He stabbed each letter with his perfectly manicured finger. “Is this a salt bowl?” He slammed the glass bowl on the counter.

  I shook my head, not daring to open my mouth. I had managed to prevent incontinence—so far—but the tears were right there, brimming on my lower lids. I dug my fingernails into my palms, trying to concentrate on the pain.

  Ronnie came through the swinging door with the poisoned cup of coffee. I caught her look of sympathy before she glided back out with a fresh cup. It was that look that made the first tear come. I tried to blot my face with the crook of my arm as I began to scan the shelves. Mr. Deveau was breathing harshly. Then, finally, on the bottom of the cupboard, I found it. My hands fumbled with the bag of sugar, the stress making me clumsy.

  Mr. Deveau grabbed the bag from my hands and slammed down a bowl. He ended up spilling sugar all over the counter, onto the floor and my foot. I didn’t bother moving. I was afraid I’d empty my bladder or really start to cry. I focused on the pattern of spilt sugar on the floor.

  A timer dinged. Chloe appeared from around the corner. She must have been listening. She only held my eye for a couple of seconds before dropping her gaze. She stepped around Mr. Deveau’s mess over to the bread warmer and took out the rolls, placing them in a napkin-lined basket.

  “Thank goodness someone knows what they’re doing,” Mr. Deveau said, staring back at me. “If I could, I’d fire you on the spot, you clueless little thing.”

  He smoothed back one side of his hair, then stormed out. His excuse for my dumb mistake floated back to me. Chloe followed him with warm bread for their table. Ronnie glowed with her usual sunny disposition as she rhymed off the specials.

  I inhaled shakily—it felt like I’d been holding my breath since Mr. Deveau’s entrance. I got down on my hands and knees and started to clean up the sugar. A few pots clanked, and slowly the kitchen came back to life.

  “Here.” A dustpan and brush appeared over my shoulder. Loretta looked down at me. Her face showed its usual unimpressed frankness. I wondered how many busgirls she’d seen get yelled at. “I’m busy making crêpes for tonight’s dessert special,” she told me. “When you’re finished, go help Luke.”

  I waited until she’d turned her back, then I glared across the room at How-hole. This was all his fault. If I hadn’t let him tease me into doing that stupid bike stunt, I wouldn’t have messed up the sugar. The floor had never been cleaned with such violent strokes.

  Stupid handlebars. Stupid shrimp heads. Stupid salt. And lastly, stupid Kelsey. I was sick of being such a screw-up. I hated this job. I wished Francine hadn’t left me alone this summer. She must have known I’d never be able to handle the spreadsheet by myself.

  I concentrated on getting every last speck of sugar. I didn’t want to face anyone until I was sure I’d blinked away all the tears. Images of Blaine and I making out vanished with every sweep of the broom. Soon, the only sign of my disastrous mistake was the burning of the tips of my ears, still throbbing from humiliation.

  I made my way back to the prep table, where How-hole had made several piles of chopped vegetables. The knife flew swiftly in his hands, creating perfect little diced pieces of red pepper. He was like an infomercial or something.

  I stood with my hands in my apron pockets. I waited for an order but he stayed quiet, content to slice and dice. He kept his head down, concentrating on his work—or maybe he was so embarrassed for me he didn’t know what to say.

  I doubted that. He seemed like a guy who would always tell you his opinion—you know, one of those guys.

  I glanced at the windowsill and saw a little vase with three daises. I rolled my eyes. God, am I the only one here who doesn’
t have a friend?

  I thought of Francine, but instead of the usual lonely ache, I felt a punch. She was off having a fabulous vacation with her family at their cottage, and I was stuck in this colonial hell, desperately trying to check off her little boxes like it was some kind of science experiment.

  Maybe that’s all it was to her—one big science experiment. And I was failing miserably.

  Ronnie waltzed in and gave the lunch order to Clyde. He nodded while slapping a slice of butter into the frying pan. Loretta leaned over from her crêpe station and grinned at the order. “Escargot for the lady,” she sang out. “And a Caesar salad for the captain.”

  Clyde snorted at the nickname.

  “Do up that salad, Luke,” Loretta ordered, flipping a perfect crêpe. She stacked it on a plate that was already a tower of thin wraps.

  How-hole quickly changed gears. He wiped his hands on a tea towel, made space on his cutting board, and then he began ripping apart a few romaine leaves.

  “He’s flirting with her,” Ronnie said behind us. My face flushed. “I’m not sure if it’s because she’s so attractive or if he thinks it will convince her to showcase the wedding.”

  I stayed quiet, wishing Ronnie would think of a topic that didn’t involve the guy who had just chewed me out in front of everyone. I hoped someone would at least call him a snot-nosed dirtbag or something, but everyone seemed happy to accept it and move on.

  I didn’t know any of them very well, but I did feel a bit betrayed.

  I imagined how awesome it would be if Blaine were working here. He wouldn’t have stayed quiet and watched Mr. Deveau humiliate me. He would have stood up for me. He would have put his arm around me and declared that I was the best girl in the world. And that if Mr. Deveau couldn’t see that, then he was a true snot-nosed dirtbag.

  But this was a pointless fantasy because if Blaine were working here, I never would have made that stupid mistake with the salt in the first place because he’d never ask me to ride on his handlebars.