Tempestuous (4 page)

“Well, well, well.” He pocketed his cell and turned his attention to me. “If it isn’t my enterprising former girlfriend. The one who cost me the Ivy League in addition to landing me in detention for the rest of the school year.” The fact that Brian had needed to pay a proxy to write up a no-brainer, three-page paper on
The Scarlet Letter
was pretty strong evidence that he was never Yale material in the first place, but I refrained from pointing that out. I stared unflinchingly at my onetime love interest, wondering what I ever saw in him. In my peripheral vision, a fidgety Ariel waited nervously.

“Can I take your order?” I said, causing Rachel and the Itneys to erupt with laughter again.

“Miranda, why don’t you, um, go get some mustard from the back?” Ariel suggested, a grim look on her normally cherubic face. Despite her bravado she resembled a playful kitten approaching a hungry pride of lions. I loved her for trying to spare me any further angst, but wasn’t about to let her face this band of brigands alone.

“Thanks, Ariel, but I’ve got it.”

“We didn’t come by to order anything,” Brian said. “We just wanted to say goodbye.”

I looked at him quizzically. No goodbyes were necessary as far as I was concerned.

“We’re leaving tomorrow for Aspen,” Rachel leaned in faux confidingly. “And we’d invite you but—”

“You have to work.” Britney and Whitney cackled in unison as if they were the evil stepsisters in some sort of low-budget adaptation of Cinderella.

“C’mon, guys—it smells like butt down here. Let’s go ridicule Grady some more.” Saying this, Rachel threw a possessive arm around Brian’s shoulder. They turned away and headed toward the lower level’s main thoroughfare: Main Street, as we employees called it. Only then did I let myself feel a twinge of jealousy. Whatever. I just had to make it through the rest of high school and then I could forget that these people ever existed.

“Miranda—” Ariel began.

“Thanks, but I don’t want to talk about it.” I held up my hand—palm out—in the universal symbol for
shut it
.

She and I spent the next hour-and-a-half twiddling our thumbs, for the most part. The clock seemed stuck on slo-mo thanks to our woeful lack of corn dog consumers. I finally sighed and untied my apron, tossing it to Ariel as if she were my valet.

“I’m going on my break.”

I reached under the cash register for my copy of Jane Austen’s
Emma
and prepared to head over to my “reserved” table on the far side of the food court hidden behind a strategically placed palm tree, part of the cafeteria’s hokey tropical island–themed decor. (On a cold day like today the seashell-mosaic wall art and piped-in steel drum Calypso music seemed especially oxymoronic.) Right on cue, Derek from Fro-Yo-Yo approached the counter with the “Miranda Special,” a vanilla frozen yogurt shake blended with fresh mint, honey, and chocolate chips.

“Here you go, Miranda,” he said, blushing as he handed me the concoction. “Hope I put enough fresh mint in there this time.”

“I’m sure it’s delicious, Derek.”

“Thanks. See you, um, later….” He backed away, stumbling over his own feet in the process.

“You forgot to call her ‘Your Highness,’” Ariel said under her breath. As I mentioned before, she wasn’t afraid to call me on my shit. Okay, sure, maybe some of the mall employees tended to genuflect in my presence—at least the ones who didn’t attend my school, like most of these food court geeks who hadn’t heard about my recent scandal. It was only a matter of time before the gossip spread, but in the meantime, was it my fault if people took an instant liking to me? The evening was starting to look up. I smirked in Ariel’s direction and made my way over to my table. I always looked forward to this part of the day. Not just because it was a break, but because it was when I felt most like I used to before everything fell apart.

I settled into my corner and opened my battered paperback, an old copy Mom had marked up in the margins during her college years. I was having a vacuum-cheeked, botched-facelift-victim moment trying to suck through a straw the thick shake Derek had brought me, so I set it aside to thaw for a bit. Most of the surrounding tables stood empty, detritus-covered red plastic trays dotting a few. It was almost time for the dinner rush but there was no sign of life in the fluorescent-lit food court. Two workers at Paisano’s were perched on the counter playing rock-paper-scissors, and the dude that dished up stir-fry at Wok ’Dis Way looked pretty much catatonic. Come to think of it, we hadn’t had any real customers all day. The mall was now dead.

Not that that was a bad thing. Like I said, most of the teenagers working at the mall attended surrounding public schools and were oblivious to my “crime of the century.” On a slow night like this, I figured I wasn’t likely to suffer any further oh-how-the-mighty-have-fallen moments.

Smoothing out a dog-eared fold in
Emma
, I sighed. My time would probably be better spent studying for chem class. I had an exam next Wednesday, but with all the drama I’d been wrapped up in over the past several weeks, schoolwork had not exactly been at the top of my priority list—especially since that’s what had landed me in such deep shit in the first place. I felt my stomach churn as these unwelcome thoughts resurfaced from where I’d been trying to stow them away. It felt like herding errant cats: As much as I tried to rein them in, they wanted to escape and slink about my conscience, making mischief.

I tried hard to focus on the words in my book but it was no use. I was all at sea. How was I ever going to earn back all the money that was lost? How could such a good idea have gone so terribly wrong? Okay, so maybe what I’d done was not
technically
on the up-and-up, but my intentions had been one-hundred-percent pure! It seemed like such a win-win arrangement at the time, and after all, isn’t arranging things what I did best? I was the girl who got things done: the “go-to” girl … wheeler-dealer … champion matchmaker, not to mention former homecoming queen. Now I was a first-class pariah with only a few out-of-the-loop, D-list mall employees for loyal subjects. I longed for the emotional equivalent of a life preserver like the ones that, alongside the fishing nets and anchors, festooned the food court’s bright blue walls.

My restless thoughts kept pulling me back to the same infuriating question: What
had
I seen in Brian? Things had changed so much in the last few weeks that it was difficult to remember exactly what it had been like when we were together. Sure, I knew now that he’d double-crossed me, but there were moments when we’d really been in sync. Or so I’d thought! That’s what hurt so much. I’d let down my guard in a way I hadn’t with anyone since my mom died. Self-sufficiency was my creed, and I grew up fast, not just because she was gone, but because I knew my dad needed me to be strong for both of us. Brian had been the one to point out that my numerous do-gooder schemes and entrepreneurial ventures were likely prompted by a desire to wrest back control of my own destiny—and maybe to distract myself from the pain of losing her. I’d given him access to my previously impenetrable defenses. He’d made me trust him, then used it against me. How
could
I have been so stupid?

Managing, through sheer force of will, to keep my tears at bay, I suddenly spied at eye level a pair of too-tight black polyester shorts. I glanced up and saw a black-and-white-striped ref’s jersey covering a vast swath of pectoral muscles. A blonde, blue-eyed chiseled face sat perched on a thick linebacker neck, around which hung a whistle. I didn’t know this guy from Adam, but common sense told me he hailed from the Cleat Locker athletic apparel store on the other end of the mall, a location we food courtesans referred to as “Siberia.”

I gazed up at this visitor quizzically, letting the words “jock strap” and “strapping jock” tumble playfully about my brain.

“Miranda, right?” the bronzed beefcake said with a stammer.

“Uh. Yeah?”

“Hi. You don’t know me,” he said, reaching for my right hand, which he proceeded to shake vigorously. “I’m Chad. Chad Mathers. I work down at the Cleat Locker.”

“So I gathered.” I eyed his white tube socks and black cross-trainers, hoping to god this was mandatory dress code and not the result of some ill-advised stylistic leanings. Not that I could talk with a hot dog perched on my head, but still.

“What can I do for you, Chad?” I sighed. He clearly wanted something. Guys like him always did.

“Well, I’ve been seeing you pass by the store and well, I was just curious….” Of course. So, even though he must go to Marshall, he had heard all about the infamous Miranda Prospero and her scandalous blacklisting.

“Curious about what, Chad?” I was starting to get irritated. He flushed from the tip of his ears to his muscular knees.

“Just, I don’t know, curious about who you are, I guess.” For a varsity-type, he seemed less than stalwart in his approach. “I know you’re friends with Ariel. She talks about you a lot. I guess I was just wondering, well, that is, if maybe one of these nights after work…. God, I’m really bad at this sort of thing….” This was worse than I had imagined. Not only was he asking me out, but he was genuinely nervous! I could tell any cocky, rocks-for-brains jock to take his business elsewhere, but this guy was more like an overstuffed teddy bear with shaky self-confidence. Delicate maneuvering was in order here. I took a sip from my now-liquified milkshake before responding.

“Sorry, Chad,” I smiled, “but with the snowstorm, you know, I think everyone’s just going to have to head straight home tonight. But it’s so nice to meet you! I’m sure we’ll all see each other around.”

“Actually, I didn’t necessarily mean tonight,
per se
,” he stammered. I just smiled and nodded. I know you didn’t mean tonight, I willed my friendly eyes to say, but that doesn’t change my response: You’re not my type. He got the message—smarter than he looked, thank god—and this time we both reddened. I felt like a bitch, but I knew the more I talked, the more awkward it would be.

“Okay, well, hey, I’ll let you get back to your reading then. I was just on my way to get some grub and thought I’d say ‘hi.’”

“Try a hot dog on a stick. They’re hot-diggity delicious, you know,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Nice meeting you!”

Poor Chad. Plenty of girls would have given their left kidney to date the likes of him, but I wasn’t into players trying to score, either figuratively or literally. I wasn’t into boys at all, at the moment, thanks to being thoroughly betrayed by Brian. Grrrr.

Luckily, the image of he-who-broke-my-heart-into-a-thousand-pieces wasn’t allowed to linger in my mind. No sooner had Chad taken his dejected leave of me than Colin, a waiter at Cheeze Monkey pizzeria, turned up at my table in full clown regalia. God, what was it with this place and the shame-inducing attire?

“Hey, Bozo,” I deadpanned, examining Colin’s exasperated face.

“Yeah, yeah, Weiner Girl, like I haven’t heard that one? I need help, ASAP. I fled Cheeze Monkey because I just can’t take it anymore.”

“Did someone sock you in the groin with the Whack-a-Mole mallet again?”

“No, ughh. And
please
don’t remind me of that.”

“Okay, then what?”

“It’s dead down there with the snow and all … they said we could start closing up once everyone leaves.”

“So, that sounds like a good thing.”

“Tell that to the one remaining family in the restaurant—some yuppie couple with
seven
—oh yes, you heard me—
SEVEN
kids. Children is too benign a word to describe them. Snot-nosed, pants-pooping, spawns of Satan is more accurate.”

“Sorry, Colin, but that’s the nature of the beast in your line of work.”

“But it’s been hours, Miranda! Hours! And they won’t leave already! My lungs might actually give out if I have to make them one more stupid balloon animal. It’s like
Sesame Street
on a bad acid trip over there, and now they just ordered dessert and plunked down another fifty bucks on tokens for Skee-ball!”

“Sounds like they’re having a good time!”

“I’m not so sure judging by the number of temper tantrums I’ve witnessed, and that doesn’t even begin to describe the parents. The dad was actually clipping his fingernails at the table about an hour ago.”

“Oh, the humanity!” I said. “Tough break, I guess.”

“You’re not supposed to say
tough break
,” Colin said, pouting.

“Say what?”

“You’re supposed to offer me solutions. Magically make my problem go away. Isn’t that what you do?”

“Breeders and their maladjusted three-year-olds aren’t exactly my specialty. Hell, maladjusted seventeen-year-olds aren’t my specialty these days. It sounds like a really annoying family, but they’ve got to call it quits soon, right? Can’t you hold out a little longer?”

“Oh, c’mon Miranda. Throw me a lifeline!”

“Ritalin-laced lollipops?”

“I’m serious!” Colin said with a laugh, but he truly looked like he was about to blow a gasket.

“Okay, okay,” I said, grabbing his hand in both of mine to calm him. “Just give me a second to think.”

Across the food court, I heard someone sneeze loudly. One of those shower-of-spit beauties that make everyone in the near vicinity run screaming for the nearest anti-bacterial hand gel.

“That might work.” I glanced up at Colin.

“What?”

“The sneeze.”

“So.”

“So, I don’t know much about screaming kids, but I do know how to make them disappear.”

“Go on….”

“You’ve got to get sick.” Colin eyed me warily.

“You heard me. Just fake sneeze and fake cough and fake almost-die long enough to scare the living crap out of those parents.”

“You mean …”

“Acting, my friend,” I said. “Channel the most raging bout of airborne illness your deranged little mind can muster. But you’ve got to make it look like something way worse than your garden variety sniffles. I’m talking Ebola virus, dengue fever, TB….”

“Mad cow disease!”

“Well, that’s pushing it, but you get my meaning. God, if only you had a surgical mask. That would really seal the deal. Here.” I dabbed my milkshake cup to his temple and cheeks, letting the condensation dampen his skin. “That makes you look kind of feverish.”