Getting Over Garrett Delaney (8 page)

“You’re not going to try them on?”

“And see just how bad they look?” Kayla backs away. “You’re way braver than me. See you!”

As I watch her walk away, I feel a strange pang. This conversation must be the longest one we’ve had in years, and right now, I can’t even think of the reason why.

“Kayla, wait!” I call suddenly. Then I stop, embarrassed, but she’s already turned. “Do you have plans?” I ask. “I mean, we could maybe get a soda or something. Exchange stain-removal tips,” I add, my face heating up.

Kayla pauses for a minute, then shrugs. “Sure, I don’t have to be anywhere.”

“Great!” I realize how eager I sound and dial it back a couple of notches. “I mean, OK. That’s cool.”

“Meet me out front when you’re done.” Kayla smiles. “I swear, I’m breaking out in an allergic reaction to all this polyester.”

“OK!” I feel a weird sense of achievement. “See you outside.”

“So, Totally Wired,” Kayla starts as we claim our monster neon Slushies from the food-court stall. The mall is busy with gaggles of preteen girls camped out on every bench and weekend shoppers drifting aimlessly down the fluorescent-lit fake streets. “Want to switch? You take tiny demons and I’ll serve coffee. That place has the cutest guys on staff.”

“It does?” I slurp at my drink, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia. Or is it déjà vu? Either way, this is a scene I must have played out with Kayla a hundred times when we were younger, back when a day at the mall and icy treats were pretty much heaven to us. “Like who?”

“Where do I start?” Kayla asks, flipping her sheet of blond hair over her shoulder. “The chef guy, with the messy hair? And that tall one who’s always in black.”

“That’s Denton.” I nod. He’s joined at the hip with Aiko, or rather, joined hip to thigh, since he towers about eighteen inches over her. “I don’t really know him — our shifts never overlap. He’s dating Aiko — they’re really cute together. But Josh, the chef guy, he’s nice. Kind of a goof.”

“Oh?” Kayla gives me a look.

“What?” Just then, I feel my phone buzz. Garrett! I sneak a glance at the screen. Nope, phantom buzz.

Beside me, Kayla keeps talking. “You know, he’s cute, and you’re working all those long shifts together… .” I look back in time to catch her giving me a meaningful wink.

I suddenly realize what she means. “Josh? No way. He’s like, old.”

Kayla smirks. “And?”

“And he’s always goofing around,” I tell her, and tuck my phone away. “Yesterday, he wore bunny ears the whole day. Not my type.”

She lets out a disappointed sigh. “I forgot, you don’t date.”

“Um, can you blame me?” I say, self-conscious. Is that my reputation — the nondater? “You know what Sherman boys are like.”

“Come on, there are some good ones!” she protests. Suddenly, her eyes brighten. “Ooh, maybe I could set you up with one of Blake’s friends —”

“Don’t!” I yelp. She looks startled. “I mean, that’s sweet,” I add quickly, “but I’m OK for now. Being single.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugs. “But those guys are a ton of fun. Trust me.” She winks again, and I’m reminded of what different high-school lives we lead. Me with Garrett, her with her table of peppy friends and weekends partying up at the lake.

“So what’s Blake up to this summer?” I ask, steering the subject away from me and my long dateless nights of solitude.

Kayla makes a face. “Mainly college prep. He’s heading to NYU in the fall.”

“Oh.” I pause. “Are you guys going to try and stay together, or … ?” I trail off, not wanting to bring up any potential angst. But instead, Kayla just slurps her mammoth raspberry Slushie, unconcerned.

“Oh, it’s going to be fine. We’ll do long distance, and vacations and holidays, and then in two years I’ll be at Columbia.” She says it casually, as if it’s a plan for the weekend, and not the next few years of her life.

“Wow, that’s … great,” I venture. “That you’ve got it all figured out, I mean.”

She shrugs. “We’re meant to be together. So we’ll make it work.”

“Oh.”

I can’t help but wonder about her resolve. I mean, sure, I’m certain that things will work out with Garrett, too, but we’re
destined
to be together. Kayla and Blake are cute, but can a high-school crush really last? “Good luck with that,” I offer. “It’s not easy to keep things together when you’re both off doing different things.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she says. “Garrett’s gone for the summer.” She pauses. “I’ve always wondered, did you two ever … ? You know.”

“Nope,” I say. At least, not yet.

“Really?” She crinkles her forehead in a frown. “Not even a ‘friends with benefits’ thing?”

“No!” I reply, horrified. “We would never risk our friendship for something like that.”

“Oh, sorry,” Kayla looks as if she’s mentally reassessing something. And that’s when my back pocket buzzes. For real this time.

It’s a text.
Tried calling, got your voice mail. Can you talk?

Garrett. How did I miss his call?

“ … don’t you think?”

My head snaps back up. “Um, what was that last part?”

Kayla sighs. “Do you need to call someone? You’ve been checking that thing, like, every two minutes.”

I can tell from her face that “Yes, I have to go, now!” wouldn’t be the right answer. “It’s fine,” I lie, snapping the phone shut and stowing it in my back pocket. “It can wait.”

“OK. Hey, can you hold these? My lips are crying out for ChapStick.” She passes me her shopping bags and Slushie until I’m laden with handles and cups in both hands. “Man, where is that thing? I’m sure I saw it in here somewhere… .” Kayla digs through her purse while I juggle our collected junk.

“Um,” I murmur, trying to keep hold of everything. “I don’t think I can keep …”

“I swear, this thing is like a portal to some other dimension.” Kayla grins, still rummaging in the cavernous confines of her pale-blue shoulder bag. “It swallows everything whole.”

And then I feel the buzz of my phone again.

“Kayla?”

But she’s upended her bag and is dumping makeup and spare change and tampons out onto the floor. I edge over. “Could you … ?”

“Sure, just a sec!” ’

My phone buzzes again, this time with Garrett’s ringtone, an obscure Belle & Sebastian song he loves. He’s calling!

That second drags into an eternity as I watch Kayla hunt for the mythical missing ChapStick. Garrett’s ringtone sounds again. And again. This is torture. I can’t focus on Kayla, the mall, anything! Not when Garrett is waiting on me, somewhere out there… .

What if he can’t deny it anymore? What if he
has
to tell me how he feels?

Enough! Carefully, I move one of the Slushies over into the crook of my right arm, so I’m clutching it to my chest. Then I set about transferring shopping bags out of my left hand, hooking two onto my pinkie and trapping the handle of another between my teeth. There: my phone hand is free! Now, if I can just stay very still, I might be able to reach around… .

I grope across my body for my left back pocket and reach my ringing phone with the very tips of my fingers. Gently, gently, I nudge it closer, until I can almost —

“Found it!”

Kayla suddenly bounces to her feet, proudly clutching the pink tube of ChapStick.

“No!”

But it’s too late. She knocks into me; I teeter, losing balance, and then — as if the world has slowed — I realize in a split second that I have a terrible choice to make: answer Garrett or keep my load stable.

Phone or Slushies. Phone or Slushies.

So I choose.

I’m not proud of what happens next: the horrifying arc of lurid red liquid spilling through the air, Kayla’s squeal of disbelief. But what was I supposed to do? Destiny doesn’t wait for a convenient moment to call, and if you’re too slow, then you risk letting it pass you by forever. No, you’ve got to cling on to fate — or your cell phone — tight with both hands, and to hell with the consequences. Which in this case are a ruined outfit, and Kayla fleeing from me as fast as her cute blue sneakers will take her.

Even the next morning, I still feel bad, and after all that, Garrett only wanted to know the name of the guy who wrote that book about all the sad young literary men. At least, that’s what he
says
he was calling about, but who knows what emotional truth was lingering on the tip of his tongue, had I only picked up the call sooner?

I’m saving all the notes and handouts for you.
Garrett’s IM bubbles to life on my screen. Early mornings are the best time for him to chat, before classes get started
. I’ll mail them this weekend — I promise.

No problem,
I type back, wistful. For the first time in years, I don’t know exactly what he’s doing; the stories he tells me are all at a distance, secondhand narrations of what he’s been seeing, and doing, and thinking.
Are the classes fun?

More work than fun.
His reply comes a moment later
. But worth it. I’m learning so much.

“Honey, I’m leaving in two minutes!” Mom calls upstairs.

“OK!” I yell back, typing a quick good-bye.
Text if you want to talk!
I even allow myself a casual
x
sign-off before I log out, grab my bag and my comfiest pair of sneakers, and hurtle downstairs.

“You look nice.” Mom smiles as I burst into the kitchen, but she can’t stop herself from reaching out to rearrange my hair. I bat her hand away. “I’m glad you’re finally growing those bangs out.”

“Nope, I just forgot to trim them,” I tell her, taking a slice of leftover apple strudel from the fridge and then — at her expression — adding a real apple.

“But they’ll be so cute longer.”

“Cute is for six-year-olds,” I tell her as I nibble at my cold, delicious breakfast. “Cute is only one step away from
adorable.
”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

I sigh. If she had it her way, my mom would still be braiding my hair and tying satin bows on the ends, but there comes a time in a girl’s life when she has to take other things into consideration when it comes to her hairstyle choices. Male things. And so when I sat down to watch
Amélie
with Garrett back after we first met and he commented on how stylish she looked, I figured, why not? The blunt-cut bob works for me, kind of. It balances out this nose of mine, and on good days, I even look foreign and interesting.

“We should get going,” I tell Mom before she can segue from my bangs to my clothing, demeanor, and general life choices. “I don’t want to be late for work.”

No such luck. My mom can segue with the best of them. “Are you sure you want to serve coffee all summer?” She follows me out to the car. “It’s not too late to quit, and I still need an assistant for the Positivity Now! seminars next week.”

“No, thanks,” I tell her carefully, rather than explaining why handing out name tags to a flock of lost souls in search of purpose via seven-step plans is pretty much my idea of hell. I’d rather wrestle with the Beast than hear how a simple organizational chart can save the world. “Anyway, there’s a whole literary tradition I’m following. Garrett says even Trotsky wrote in the coffeehouses of Vienna.”

Mom doesn’t look convinced. “I can pay ten dollars an hour. And you’ll have free entry into all kinds of motivational talks.”

Motivation enough to turn her down. “Thanks, but I’m having fun.”

Lie.

“And the people are great.”

Well, some of the people. Now that I’m a vaguely competent employee, Dominique has exchanged disdain for icy detachment and doesn’t say a word to me aside from orders and occasional demands to go clean something. Josh is friendlier than her, thank God, but he’s still so goofy; it’s hard to get him to stop messing around long enough to have a straight conversation.

I’m just starting to set up for the morning when he barrels through the door, carrying a fishing rod and a toolbox dangling with hooks. His nose is sunburned and peeling, and his brown hair is sticking up in wayward tufts.

“You fish?” I ask, resisting the urge to pick pecans from the tops of the muffins as I lay out the day’s pastries. Oh, caramelized deliciousness! I turn to Josh before I break, like, five different health and safety laws. “I didn’t know you were the huntin’, shootin’ type.”

“Sure.” He grins and unloads his gear with a loud clatter. “Birds, beasts, mammals, I’ll kill ’em all. There’s actually a couple of rodents out back if you’re feeling hungry… .”

“Eww!”

“What?” He laughs. “Nah, the fishing’s more my dad’s thing. He likes to drag me along sometimes. His idea of bonding, I guess.”

“You’re lucky.” I sigh. “My mom’s idea of bonding is for us to sit down and fill out goal charts together. Or go for manicures. But, well …” I hold up my bitten nails as evidence of just how futile that cause is. “It’s cute, though, that your dad wants to bond.” Finished with the morning setup, I hoist myself onto the countertop. We haven’t officially opened yet, and the coffee shop is a quiet sea of neat tables and full sugar dispensers. The calm before the storm. “My dad and I kind of have the same thing. He’s always traveling,” I explain. “But whenever he’s in town, we always go to a show together, some band I want to see. It’s dorky, I know, but …” I trail off, embarrassed. “I don’t know, it’s kind of nice, to have a thing like that. Just us.”

But Josh doesn’t seem to think I’m being childish. He nods, drumming absently against the counter with a couple of spoons. “Right. I have three older sisters, so my dad has a lifetime of it stored up. You know, football, baseball … Pretty much anything involving guns and balls — and don’t even think about cracking a joke right now.” He laughs and points a warning spoon at me. “Because believe me, I’ve made them all.”

“Lips, sealed.” I mime, trying to keep a straight face. “But didn’t your sisters like sports? Us girls can like balls, too.” I stop, realizing what I just said. Josh cracks up. I blush. “Stop it! You know what I mean!”

He coughs. “Too easy.”

I roll my eyes. That’s the thing about talking with Josh; I never know when he’s going to take what I’ve said and twist it into something funny or gross.