Maine Squeeze (40 page)

I'm sitting at my computer and I have a paper due in 12 hours that I haven't started yet. So I got up and put on my favorite Steve Maddens with my pajamas.

I'm like the “before” picture. In a computer magazine. I need a makeover and also a memory upgrade.

Time for another pledge: I will never leave a paper until this late again.

Would it be so awful if I didn't go to college? I'd save Mom and Dad a lot of money, for one thing. I'd start working at an interesting place sooner—get out of the food service industry. If smoothies and shakes qualify me for anything.

SLIGHTLY LATER …

Took a short break to do some reading. I just threw down my fashion mags in disgust.

Why is everything “bubble gum” color this year?

Nail polish. Perfume. T-shirts. Etc.

We are a Bazooka Bubble Yum Society.

Was there ever a spearmint year? Sugar-free cinnamon?

Don't they realize that for those of us with reddish hair, this is a complete and utter disaster? I have enough problems without trying to wear baby
pink
, okay? Like, for instance, freckles. Not getting completely fried when I step out the door. My lips are chapped beyond recognition. And what do I get to put on them? What is selling at every stupid gas station and convenience store? PINK LIP BALM.

Where is the “balm” in that?

Realize I am going slightly insane over worrying about election results.

Whoa. Just got off the telephone. First the Tom called to say he thinks we will win. “You already won,” I told him. “It's me that's running.”

“We all win if you win,” the Tom said. Being disgustingly nice. Then he had to go back to his date.

Then Alison called. She is so homesick or something it's scary. She started crying the second she heard my voice. “Is Mom there?” she sniffled.

“No, she's at her book club,” I said. “What's wrong? Didn't you make first chair? Did you have a bad recital—”

“My whole life isn't music!” Alison yelled. Funny. Then how come she spent all her free time reading sheet music and risque biographies of famous composers? Why was she even at this college that specialized in having a great Music Dept?

“So what else is going on?” I asked sort of awkwardly.

“I can't … it's just …” She was totally fumbling.

So I told her about my Life Skills course and how dumb it was so I had nothing to offer her, but I could tell her what an idiot I was during my speech, and she could relate, what with the Von Dragens being her ancestors, too.

“But who's Tom Delaney?” she asked.

I forgot how totally out of it Alison could be. Her social circle was more like a semicircle. Shaped exactly like an orchestra.

By the time we hung up she seemed much better. I guess she just misses us.

8:45
A.M.

I WON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

10:01
A.M.

The euphoria has worn off. The reality has set in.

I have to be vice president with Tom Delaney, the boy who has scored with every single member of the senior class. Or at least everyone on the student council. And probably some of them in the student council office. On the student council desk. Gross.

Should I wear garlic around my neck? Or pepper spray?

“Don't you see what's so perfect about this? You're the only one who can resist him,” Beth said. (I'm in study hall now. Studying. Just look at me go.) “Because you're not even into good-looking guys. You have, like, no effect on them.”

“Excuse me?” This was my best friend talking?

“I mean—they don't affect you,” Beth said, laughing.

“No. Not nearly as much as I'd like them to,” I said.

“Shut up. You could go out with any guy you wanted,” Beth said. “Forget about Dave. Start looking!”

“I told you, Beth—I'm not dating anyone this year,” I said.

“Okay, okay. How about just … you know. A
fling
?”

I raised my right eyebrow. “And those always work out so well for you.”

“They do,” she argued. “At the time, anyway.” Then we both laughed.

Okay, so: Beth and I were at Truth or Dairy for our dreaded/favorite Saturday shift. We like it because we work together. We hate it because everyone from school comes in, and Gerry's always there, hovering, telling us to “scoop now and chat later.”

Then all of a sudden at about five o'clock she dropped her scoop and said, “Oh my God. Courtney. Look who just walked in.”

I figured it was her Crush Du Jour. But it was Dave. Walking through the door with that saunter of his. Wearing jeans and a new T-shirt.

“What is he doing here?” she asked, as he made his way toward the counter. “Don't they make smoothies in Boulder? So why does he come here?”

“Because we're the best,” I said. “We use organic fruit and—”

“Shut up with that promotional crap!” Beth practically screamed at me. “It's because of you, stupid.”

When he looked at me, I ran into the storeroom to get a fresh tub of frozen yogurt out of the freezer. But after I picked it up, I didn't feel like going back out there. What would I say? What would he say? My hands were getting all sweaty. What if I dropped his smoothie? What if—

“Courtney, what are you doing back here? We have a
line
.” Gerry had his hands on his hips, doing his outraged stance. He's big on not having lines.

“We needed more nonfat plain.”

“We did?”

“There's going to be a run on it,” I said.

He shook his head. “Never mind predicting what people want, Courtney. Go take their actual
orders
.”

I shuffled back out to the front. Beth was standing right under the giant arrow that said, P
LACE
O
RDER
H
ERE
. And Dave was standing across from her, gazing up at the menu on the chalkboard. Like he doesn't know all the drinks already. He came here a hundred times to pick me up or hang out with me.

I tried to step in front of Beth and take his order. She wouldn't let me. She's only 5'1” but when she gets her stance going, you can't move her. I guess she thought she was protecting me. “What can I get you?” she mumbled in this sort of angry voice.

“Hi, Beth.” He smiled at her. My knees kind of buckled. It could have been the giant tub of yogurt, so I set it down on the counter by the minifridge we have up front. Dave was all by himself. That was weird. I tried not to read too much into it as I rearranged spoons in all the fixins' bins.

“Hey. I got your letter,” he said, looking at me.

“You wrote him a
letter
?” Beth almost shrieked.

“So, do you want the usual?” I took the opportunity to move in front of Beth. I tried to smile at Dave, but I was having a really hard time looking him in the eye. It was impossible. I was afraid I'd see something in there I didn't want to see.

“Um. Yeah. Coconut Fantasy Dream,” he said. “Extra—”

“Fantasy?” I asked.

He laughed. “Coconut.” Like I didn't know.

“I'll make it,” Beth said.

“No, I'll
make
it,” I said, pushing her aside by the fruit bin. Did she really think she could step in and steal my ex-boyfriend just like that? Just because I
dreamt
it?

“It's a smoothie. I'm Truth today,” Beth said, very self-importantly. “See this apron?”

“But the Coconut Fantasy Dream has yogurt in it, so technically, it's Dairy.” We have arguments like this a lot. Usually only when good-looking guys come in. “It's both, and in case of a tie we look to the possession arrow.” I stared at the dangling arrow above our heads. “Oh, look at that—it's pointing at me.”

“Courtney.
Don't
make him a drink—after the way he treated you?” Beth said. “Unless you're going to make it really bad—” We sort of started shoving each other. It was like we were seven years old again and fighting over who got to ride the teeter-totter.

“Girls? Is there a problem?” Gerry materialized at my elbow like a housefly. “Does it really take two of you to make one smoothie? Courtney—help the next person in line.”

I mindlessly scooped pralines and cream into sugar cones for an older couple. Dave hovered in front of the ice-cream tubs.

“So I heard you got caught in that hailstorm.” He sipped his Beth-made CFD. “Where were you going?”

“Um … that new mall complex thing. In Broomfield? With the new shoe pavilion wing?”

“Oh.” He seemed sort of disappointed.

“Yeah. Got some great deals,” I told him.

“Grant says you're the new vice president. Is that true?” Dave asked.

I nodded as I started putting together a Hot Fudge Fudgorama. “True. I just started a couple of days ago.”

“
Why?
” he said in this really snotty tone. “You never cared about that stuff before.”

I ladled about an extra pint of hot fudge sauce onto the sundae. “Why are you even
here
?” I said.

“Courtney. Don't be like that,” he said with this soulful soul-patch look. Wait a second. Isn't that what he said the last time we spoke? “I came to apologize. I came to talk to you. I came—”

“To get a Coconut Fantasy Dream. And in case you haven't noticed, they do make smoothies in Boulder. Maybe not as good as ours, because they're all chains. But there's a place on the Hill, I think, and they have bagels, too, I went there once with my dad when he visited—”

“Courtney! I came here today because of your letter,” Dave said. “Didn't you
want
me to?”

“Courtney? Is there a problem?” Gerry asked, pausing in front of me, holding a wet dishrag in his hand. “I need you to clear some tables.” He shoved the clammy dishrag at me.

Just then Bryan walked in. He said he was there to catch a ride home with me and Beth. When he saw Dave standing there talking to me, he started glaring at him. As if he was creating this force field or something.

“So I should probably go. I have a lot of studying to do,” Dave said, backing away. “Hey, Bryan.”

“Yeah. You should go,” Bryan said angrily.

My little brother had never stood up for me before. And I hated him for it. Instantly.

I ran over to the window and pretended to be cleaning off tables as I watched Dave get into his cute red Jeep and drive away.

“Hey, Bryan, what you did just now? That was really nice,” Beth told him.

“Nice? You were totally rude!” I said.

“Give me a break. You've been moping around the house for almost two months. You've been completely miserable. And now when you're starting to feel better? He shows up here for a smoothie? Come on!” Bryan scoffed. “He probably didn't even pay.”

“He did, too,” I said.

“Okay. But did he
tip
?” Bryan asked. “I bet he didn't appreciate the service. Just like he didn't appreciate you.” He dropped a dollar in the tip jar. “Thanks, Beth. This is great.” Then he turned to me. “That's how it's done, okay?”

“What do you know?” I said. As if Bryan knows anything about romance.

So we were all standing in the parking lot, about to get into Beth's car, when Dave drove up again. He pulled into the spot beside us and looked at me. I could tell it was time for The Talk. Or
a
talk, anyway.

“Beth?” I said. “Go ahead and give Bryan a ride home. This might sort of take a while.”

I'll write the rest later. My fingers are starting to cramp.

So Dave drove us to my house and we sat in the parked car, beside the curb. I didn't think I should ask him to come in. That would be like revisiting a major crime scene. Mr. Novotny was outside his house raking leaves—or, rather, “leaf.” He's completely obsessive about his lawn. When a leaf falls, he runs outside to rake it—unless there's a Broncos game on.

So Dave started out by saying
again
how ridiculous it was that I was on student council.

Finally, he admitted that it was all about the Tom. “I can't think about you and Tom,” he said. Is that why he drove down to Truth or Dairy? Because he's jealous?

“What are you talking about? You don't have to,” I said. “There is no me and Tom. It's not like we'll be dating.”

“I
know
Tom. You guys will be dating within a week.”

“No way,” I said. Anyway, weren't we sitting there having this Talk so that
we
could get back together? Or what was the point?