Getting Over Garrett Delaney(12)
Author: Abby McDonald

“Whoops.” LuAnn grimaces, already reaching for the machine. “Bad breakup? Sorry. I have foot-in-mouth disease — can’t help it.”

She bustles off to make my order, leaving me with a fresh pang of loneliness. See? Even complete strangers think that Garrett and I belong together.

I linger at the back table all afternoon, watching the buzz of activity as morning Mommy & Me groups shift to a stream of junior-high gigglers in search of ice-blended sugar hits. I start and then discard half a dozen letters to Garrett — from the simple What’s up at camp? to I love you I love you I love you, but none of them seems right. What am I supposed to do now? Sure, he said he’d call when he’s settled in, but how long does it take to throw five T-shirts in a drawer and line up his volumes of Proust?

I slump lower in my seat. He’s probably off having the most fun of his life, while I’m stuck exactly where I have been for years. Not moving at all.

“You have got to be kidding me!”

I — and everyone in the place — look up. One of the waitresses, an angular blonde in a plaid shirt and skinny jeans, is staring outside, where a skeezy hipster dude is smoking a cigarette — and flirting with a couple of sophomore girls. They twist their hair and giggle while he leans in close, playing it up.

The waitress turns an interesting shade of pink and dumps the tray of dirty dishes on the nearest table — right next to some poor businessman’s half-eaten BLT.

“Hey!” he cries, but she ignores him, already stalking toward the doors. The sophomores see her and flee.

I watch, fascinated. Through the window, their yells are muffled, but she’s gesturing angrily, and he’s shrugging, sullen. It’s a knock-down, drag-out fight, right in the middle of Main Street for everyone to see — the most excitement this town has seen since Becca Larsen had an “accidental” wardrobe malfunction in the middle of the Founders’ Day parade (which earned her the few dozen extra votes necessary to clinch the homecoming crown. Coincidence?)

“How about some muffin samples?” LuAnn calls brightly, but everyone stays riveted to the drama unfolding outside. With a final yell, Crazy Blonde Waitress turns away, then Skeezy Hipster grabs her arm, and just like that, they leap on each other, kissing furiously. Well, not so much kissing as swallowing each other whole. Her back is pressed up against the window so hard, it rattles with every new wave of passion.

As LuAnn strides outside to try and break up the amorous couple, for the sake of onlooking children (or, more to the point, public decency laws), I can’t help but let out a wistful sigh. OK, so I don’t want a boyfriend with nicotine stains, commitment issues, and a high risk of communicable diseases, but something about the way they’re pressed up against each other, oblivious to the entire world . . . Even when LuAnn taps them on the shoulder, they keep necking until she’s practically yanking Crazy Blonde Waitress away from him.

Oh, to be young and in (requited) love!

Crazy Blonde Waitress clearly thinks it’s the most important thing in her life, because without even a moment’s pause, she strips off her green apron and shoves it at LuAnn’s chest. Then she takes Skeezy Dude’s hand, and off they saunter to their blissful world of skinny black denim and graphic PDAs.

“Can you believe her?” LuAnn fumes, banging mugs into a tray as she returns to bus the forgotten tables. “Three days on the job and she just waltzes off. And now I’m stuck on shift alone, and Josh still isn’t back from his lunch, and the espresso machine is this close to crapping out on me. Again!”

“Sorry,” I offer quietly.

She takes a breath. “Thanks, kid. I didn’t mean to rant.” She looks at my long-since-empty cup. “You need a refill? Least we can do after scarring your impressionable young mind with that floor show.”

“No, I’m fine.”

She’s halfway back to the counter before I realize what a shining, golden opportunity has presented itself to me. Salvation, in the form of Crazy Blonde Waitress and Skeezy Hipster Dude!

I leap up and dash after her.

“I can do it!” I say quickly. “I mean, the job. Waitressing. I can replace her.” I put on my best responsible employee face, but LuAnn doesn’t look convinced.

“I don’t know, kid — it can get kind of hectic in here. And we don’t usually hire high-school kids. . . .”

“But I’m seventeen! Practically graduated. And I’ve worked in food service before.” I thank the Gods of Work Experience for those long, dough-filled months manning the sprinkle station. “I could help you out this afternoon, as, like, probation,” I suggest desperately. “You said it yourself, you’re on your own.”

Suddenly, I want this job more than anything in the world. It’s my only chance for a summer of non-suckiness — I just know it. Never mind what my mom will dream up if I don’t manage to find honest employment; this gig would change everything for me. I wouldn’t be Sad Sack Sadie, stuck pining for her true love during the long, empty days of summer. No, I’d be Badass Barista Sadie, casually dishing out pastries and eavesdropping on conversations to use in that novel Garrett is always saying I should write.

I want to be that girl. The world wants me to be that girl! And I could, if LuAnn would just give me a chance.

“Please? Pretty please?” I beg, crossing my fingers behind my back for luck.

She looks around. And at that moment — like messengers from the Gods of Excellent Timing — the door swings open and a stream of elderly customers enters the café. Ten or twelve of them maybe: wrinkled and blue-rinsed and wearing matching yellow Doolittle Falls Walking Club sweatshirts. They bustle around the space, prodding at the notice board, peering at the cake stands, deliberating whether to get a pot of tea to share or individual cups.

Ding! goes the bell as more of them arrive. Ding, ding, ding!

I’ve never heard a sweeter sound.

“Fine!” LuAnn relents, in the face of divine intervention — and a host of fussy customers. She plucks CBW’s apron from the counter and tosses it to me. “You take register and bus tables. But no promises. This is just for today, OK?”

“Yes!” I cry, bouncing on the spot. “I won’t let you down — I promise!”

I’ve never been so thrilled to clear dirty dishes in my life.

6

And there I was thinking that flair, wit, and diligence would be my tickets to greatness. Sure, that’s what they tell us in school, but in the end, it’s my ability to bus tables without running off with the nearest dirty hipster dude that seals my fate. After an afternoon’s probation, in which I demonstrate my superior table-wiping skills (not to mention that all-important “Do you want that muffin warmed?” delivery), LuAnn agrees to make me a real live member of the Totally Wired team.