by B. R. Myers
I paused, realizing how sad that made me.
“Garlic.” How-hole nudged me.
I blinked a few times, still stuck in my daydream. “What?”
He waited to see if I would clue in. “Pass me the garlic, please,” he repeated.
I frowned as he smashed several cloves with the flat blade of the knife. He added the pulpy mess to the dressing, then whisked it in and started to hum. I didn’t recognize the tune.
“I thought you already made the dressing,” I said.
“Garlic,” he said again.
I picked up a whole bulb and raised my eyebrows. He nodded and took it from my hand. He looked over his shoulder at Ronnie. “How is the captain at flirting?” he teased her. “Maybe I could learn some tips.”
Ronnie giggled. Everyone, including me, automatically smiled. It was like angels were ringing bells. I bet she’s never had to keep a spreadsheet, I thought.
“Keep your mind on the food,” Clyde chastised, but I could hear a lightness in his voice. I would love to know what the kitchen staff gossiped about. I was slightly jealous of How-hole.
He whisked in the last bit, then dipped the tip of his pinkie in to taste. He smacked his lips together. “Needs salt.”
I gave him a look. His blue eyes only danced back at mine. My stomach swooped a bit. Well, it only made sense since I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. I needed to remember to pack a snack for myself in Chet’s swim bag from now on. Two stomach swoops in one day was too many. I dipped my hand into my apron pocket for a peppermint, but all I felt were empty wrappers.
Ronnie took out the salad and escargot. I peeked through the kitchen window and watched as Mr. Deveau scoffed down How-hole’s super garlic-infused Caesar salad.
The effect was brilliant. Slowly, over the main course, and through a dessert of blueberry cake with real whipped cream, the cake decorator kept moving her chair further away from Mr. Deveau’s eager conversation. I dared to walk through the dining room. The smell of garlic was enough to turn the air green.
But my thrill at secretly embarrassing Mr. Deveau was short-lived. As soon as she left, he found me, and the blaming started. Thankfully, this time I wasn’t alone. Ronnie was beside me, needlessly polishing the silverware. My heart warmed at her show of allegiance.
“No contract!” he spat at me. I held my breath—the fumes were almost visible. I waited for him to blame me for the garlic too. “No TV appearance! Do you know how much that would have helped us?”
I shook my head. Why did he keep asking me questions I had no clue how to answer? And why didn’t someone give this guy a mint, for freaks sake?
“And to make matters worse,” he continued, “we have an especially important wedding coming up with NO wedding cake!”
A glob had formed in my throat. I wanted to swallow it down, but I was afraid any movement would trigger a ballistic reaction in Mr. Deveau. I had to wait this out.
“Do you know any wedding-cake caterers?” he asked me in a baby voice that made me want to vomit.
“No,” I said quietly. At least I’d found my voice. I wanted to mention that it was only salt, and surely the whole mess couldn’t be blamed on me. And if he didn’t dress like Fred from Scooby-doo or talk like an English butler then maybe, just maybe, she would have said yes.
The witticisms were great inside my head, but the comebacks never seemed to get all the way out.
He smoothed his ascot and looked out the window at the harbour. He let out a long sigh. “Edward is going out of town, and has left this extremely important task up to me. He can’t rearrange his schedule for every little screw-up.”
Someone cleared their throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Deveau,” Chloe said hesitantly. “I know a caterer you could use.”
Mr. Deveau cocked his head, trying to gauge the likelihood of one of his busgirls having an idea worth considering. “Are they well known?” he asked suspiciously.
Chloe nodded. “She has years of experience, and she was just on a local cable show giving tips on how to throw the perfect backyard barbecue.”
Mr. Deveau cringed when she said barbecue.
Chloe sensed his hesitation. “She can give you a huge list of satisfied clients,” she said. “And she’s friendly, and makes the best egg salad sandwiches.” Chloe paused to give Mr. Deveau one of her winning smiles, and then added, “But best of all, she can be here tomorrow.”
Ronnie and I looked at Mr. Deveau. I could hear the cogs turning in his head. “All right,” he finally agreed, as if he were doing Chloe a huge favour. “Ask her to meet me here tomorrow. Make sure she has a portfolio. And let her know, this is not a free lunch date.” He shot me a look. “We can’t risk another fiasco like today.”
I closed my eyes and pictured my yellow gorilla sucking his thumb.
TWELVE
I sat on the front steps of the Queen’s Galley, daydreaming of ways for Mr. Deveau to get hurt.
Maybe he should ride on How-hole’s handlebars.
I was under the shadow of the massive oak that dominated the front lawn. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to lift it off my sweaty neck. I closed my eyes and remembered the way it had flown straight back when I went zooming down the hill. A warm breeze carried the smell of the ocean up from the harbour. My stomach twisted. I could almost taste the salt water.
I checked my watch, then dug out my magazine. Dad wouldn’t be here to pick me up for another half hour. I went over my flirty quiz twice, rethinking all my answers. Each time I got a different result.
Dammit!
How does a strange guy who barely talks to me know me? I thought. And why do I care?
“I don’t,” I answered myself. Besides, How-hole was the least of my worries. I’d probably get fired for whatever screw-up I had next. In addition to Chet’s swimming lessons, I was his babysitter whenever Mom and Dad both happened to be working or out of the house, which seemed to be happening much more frequently these days. This job, miserable as it was, was my only bit of freedom this summer.
I rubbed the back of my neck. The only thing that gave me comfort was knowing this day couldn’t get any worse. Things could only improve, I wistfully reasoned. I glanced over at the gazebo, hoping for an appearance by Blaine, but it was empty.
“Hey.” Chloe’s perfectly creamed legs walked past me. I grunted. She stopped at the second-last step and turned around. “Look, try not to let Mr. Deveau bother you,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said tiredly. Then I added inside my head, easy for the favourite to say.
Chloe could apparently read my mind. Her expression changed. “I don’t get you,” she said.
That was a weird thing to say. I straightened up. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry, that came out rude,” she said. “I mean we’ve worked together for a week now, and I don’t think I’ve heard you say three sentences in a row.” She laughed lightly, like my shyness was hilarious compared to her effortless charm. “You’re squirrelled away with a magazine all the time. If you talked a bit more, people would notice you.”
I pictured Mr. Deveau’s veins popping out of his head. “I think I’ve had enough attention for one day, thanks,” I pointed out.
She gave me a pitying look, then said, “Never mind.” She put her ear buds in and started to walk away.
The unfairness of her assessment felt like a slap in the face. Was it my fault the most popular girl in school didn’t understand that I was intimidated by all the older, much cooler girls at work?
I might be a confused flirt, and maybe I’m a dork in the romance department, but I sure wasn’t taking advice from Ms. Perfect on how to roll with the punches. I jumped up and ran after her, ready to plead my case.
“Yeah?” She took her ear buds out, waiting for me to say something.
I wanted Chloe to know I wasn’t as big a loser as she saw at work. I
wanted to seem cool, likeable, or at least interesting. I needed proof I wasn’t a total social dunce. Francine’s spreadsheet blinked behind my eyelids. “I have a friend,” I blurted out. I did a mental facepalm. Only people who have no friends insist they have friends.
Chloe’s gaze shifted away, probably too embarrassed to keep eye contact.
“I have a friend,” I repeated. “She’s tiny with big red hair. Um…she dates Tanner Kaizer.”
Chloe’s face changed into a smile of recognition. “Oh, yeah. I know Tanner.”
I smiled back and tried hard not to roll my eyes. Of course she’d know Tanner. The hot jocks are popular no matter which grade they’re in.
“Her name is Fran, right?” she asked.
Franner.
Francine would be pissed if dating Tanner was her only way of being recognized by other students at school. She prided herself in getting top marks each year. Some girls date guys like Tanner just to get noticed. But Francine isn’t like most girls.
“She seems like a real sweetheart,” Chloe added.
That little hollow part of my stomach began to ache. I nodded then motioned to the yacht club. “She’s super smart too. She suggested I work at the yacht club this summer, but I wanted to come here instead.” I gave a shrug. “No wonder I’m screwing up so much. Francine is always right. I guess I should have listened to her.”
Chloe stayed quiet, rolling the ear buds in her fingers.
I tugged on my Kipling bag. “She’s gone for the whole summer.” I tried to fake a laugh. I hadn’t meant to ramble on like this, especially not to supercool Chloe. I paused and let out a breath. “The worst part is that I can’t even text her to tell her she was right.”
Yup. The teen version of asphyxiation: no texting.
Chloe’s mouth fell open at the horror of not being able to text. She looked a lot like a gaping Glen Fairweather at that moment. I thought I’d finally gotten to her. That she may have some clue what life is like for the ordinary people.
“She told me—” I stopped mid-sentence as Blaine’s pickup truck drove by. I caught a glimpse of his left shoulder, but he didn’t see me. He was staring straight ahead.
What next, dear God? Kill me now.
I dragged my eyes away from the spot Blaine’s truck had just been, and turned my attention back to Chloe. “Francine told me I would have an amazing summer even without her,” I added dully. “She promised this job would make so many things happen, but I don’t think she meant being yelled at in front of the entire staff.”
Chloe looked pained.
A horn blew and my dad waved out the car window from across the street. Chloe started to say something, but I walked around her and down the front path.
I pushed through the front gate and across the street, my stomach clenching with guilt. Chet was in the back seat, giving me his huge grin. I’d have to be all happy and talkative on the drive home. My evening was already planned out. I pictured us watching a movie or playing soccer in the backyard after supper.
Here’s the thing: everyone else sees me as a failure or a screw-up, but not Chet. To him, I’m a rock star. That’s why the guilt kills me the most, because sometimes I wish he didn’t need me so much.
I SLEPT HORRIBLY that night. Francine’s spreadsheet loomed, the size of a billboard. The empty boxes waiting to be checked stared me down accusingly. It leaned forward and landed on top of me, flattening me out.
I woke up flailing my arms against the bed sheets. I rolled out of bed, rubbing the aching spots. Carrying trays and standing all day wasn’t good for my posture or my ego. Mr. Deveau’s words echoed inside my head, stuck on repeat.
Chet ambled in wearing his shark goggles. He was humming something that sounded suspiciously like “Edelweiss.”
“Okay, Kowsey?” he asked. His eyes were wide with concern. My heart melted. He was the only one who asked me that anymore. I took his hand and looked deeply into his shark goggles.
“I’m worried, Chetter-cheese,” I confessed.
He frowned at this. I pressed my lips together. God, the little stinker looked cute even when he was scared.
I gripped his hands tighter, pulling him closer to me. “I’m worried that the fart I can’t hold in any longer is going to knock you unconscious!” Then I let one rip.
Chet screamed and laughed, struggling to get away from me. “I blasted you with my farticles!” I announced—unnecessarily, of course. The barbecued sausages Dad had eventually served for supper last night had been festering in my gut.
Chet put his hands around his throat, pretending to choke on the fumes. The door opened and Mom stood there, one hand on her hip, the other holding a mug of coffee. Chet stopped choking and gave her his famous squint.
No one, even Mom-the-serious, can resist his charm. I wished I could take him to work with me. She tapped her watch. “Swimming,” she announced, like she didn’t have a driver’s license.
“We’re already in the car!” I said, too tired to hide the cheekiness in my voice. The truth is I wanted to get a little reaction out of her. The only time I saw her was in between Chet’s activities. She hadn’t been home last night either. But maybe it was for the better. She’d probably take Mr. Deveau’s side about me being “irresponsible” with the salt, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want to hear about my bike ride with a convicted felon.
After a lightning-fast shower, I put my wet hair in a ponytail and slipped on my cut-offs and flip-flops. I growled when I saw Mom had still forgotten to pick up bread. Dad had left me a banana and yogurt smoothie on the kitchen table. Instead, I grabbed three granola bars and a bottle of water.
I sat beside the green-haired kid’s mom on the bleachers that day. She was actually pretty nice. “You have a lot of responsibility,” she said to me. I sat a little straighter. It was nice to hear someone say that out loud.
“Nah,” I said. “Chet isn’t work.” But my parents make him seem like that, I added inside my head.
I could have stayed there all day—lying on a towel, eyes closed, my music on, dreaming about me and Blaine—but since I’m so responsible, I had to go to work.
When Mom arrived to pick up Chet, I wanted to crawl under a rock and hide: her hair was in the same messy bun as earlier, and she was still wearing her slippers.
Geez! Embarrass much?
When I pointed this out, she only huffed as a reply. Why couldn’t she be like the green-haired kid’s mom?
I crossed the intersection and walked along the white picket fence of the restaurant. Chloe was standing just inside the doorway. The flashback of my confession about missing Francine made me wish there really was a rock to disappear under—like forever. I must have sounded like a complete basket case, or at the least, a desperate loner looking for attention.
It would be awkward trying to avoid her all day. (Yes, I like to avoid conflict. I learned that from a quiz in the March issue of Cosmo Chick.)
I put my head down and decided to enter through the kitchen. The garden had undergone a total makeover. It looked like something out of Martha Stewart Living. There were tall blooming foxgloves, delphiniums, lilies, a huge daisy bush, and a few lavender bushes I recognized from some of my dad’s old gardening magazines. (Plus, I once did a quiz called “What Type of Flower Are You?” For the record, I’m a tiger lily: delicate, yet strong.)
The kitchen door closed behind me. I stopped and listened for a few seconds. Someone was singing, and it wasn’t Loretta. I tiptoed around the corner. How-hole had his back to me; instead of his ball cap, a set of Beats rested on top of his head. He was using a ladle as a microphone. I put a hand over my mouth, trying to muffle my laughter.
He let loose like it was the finale of Canadian Idol. I didn’t recognize the tune and the lyrics weren’t anything I’d heard before. It sounded like one of those “life-is-so-unfair” songs. Geez, it could’ve be
en my summer anthem.
The spontaneous choreography sent him into a spin with a side-step on the end. He froze when he saw me. My eyes darted around the room. I started to play with the zipper on my bag. He slid the headphones off his head, letting them wrap around his neck. His hair was kind of curly today. It didn’t look so bad. Must be the lighting.
“What…um,” I started. “I mean I didn’t recognize the song.”
How-hole cleared his throat. “It’s old…like, eighties stuff.” He realized he was still holding the ladle. His arms fell to his side, then he crossed them in front of his chest. The ladle poked out from under his arm like a bad joke no one could forget.
I smiled. He was nervous, and I liked that I had something to do with that. After all, he was usually the cool one. I said, “You’re here early.”
He blew a wisp of blue hair out of his eyes, then motioned with his thumb toward the back kitchen door. “I had to help with the garden,” he explained. “Plus I had to make up a new batch of Caesar dressing.”
My eyes grew wide. “You didn’t get in trouble with Mr. Deveau, did you?”
He placed the ladle down and leaned against the counter, his suave attitude resurfacing. “No.” Then he added, in a more serious tone, “Don’t worry about him, okay? He can’t fire you.”
My cheeks grew warm. The horrible scene replayed in my head, the words just as sharp.
“The truth is,” he began, talking faster, trying to lighten the mood, “he can’t fire any of us. He’s not the owner.”
“Oh.”
“Besides,” he added. “Chloe got another caterer to come in.”
And now we’re suddenly talking about Chloe. Isn’t that sweet. I guess I knew who he was showing off for. “Yeah,” I said, curtly. “Must be a nice feeling to save the day instead of ruining it. I bet she doesn’t have to worry about getting yelled at.”
“Interesting.” He squinted back at me. I hated how he seemed to be reading my mind. “You’re the only one I’ve heard say that about her.” I squirmed under his stare. He pushed off the counter and started washing mixed greens in the sink. “Anyway, Mr. Deveau is meeting with the caterer on the patio.”