Smart Mouth Waitress

Chapter 1 February 2012, Vancouver, BC, Canada I'm Perry and my superpower is knowing how people like their eggs. Other people have perfect singing pitch or the ability to get homework done ahead of time, but me, I can tell if someone likes their eggs scrambled, poached, or sunny-side up. The guy at the table was a sunny-side up type, and when he asked what types of bread we offered at The Whistle, I listed them off for his girlfriend's benefit, since he and I both knew he was going to choose the white toast. If my best friend, Courtney, had actually shown up for her shift that day, she would have pointed at him and said, “You're Chinese. You get runny yolks and white bread,” but she can do that because she's second or third-generation Chinese-Canadian herself. Courtney's funny, and she introduced me to the world of banana humor, banana being the term for Asians who feel white on the inside, whatever that means. Her favorite internet memes are Tiger Mom and High Expectations Asian Father—the one who says in broken English, I am disappoint.

Courtney will look at me whenever I'm doing something stupid, which is often, and say “I am disappoint.” That Sunday brunch at The Whistle, I was the one disappointed in my best friend for dumping me with the whole restaurant to serve. I had Toph, from the kitchen, helping me, but he kept hovering too close, getting in my personal girl space. We bumped hips a few times and I suspected our collisions were intentional on his part. The atmosphere was noisy that day, with all the diners shouting to be heard over the others. My ears were ringing, but I only had another hour before reinforcements arrived and I'd be able to sit and eat something besides lady fingers. At the table, notepad in hand, I shifted back and forth like a sapling in the wind to prompt the couple I was serving to stop being so cute and order already. They guy was Asian and adorable, wearing a Hans Shot First t-shirt. She was Caucasian, with a round face and big brown eyes, and she was familiar-looking. I tapped my notepad and said to her, “Either I went to school with you, or you're from TV, or both.” “Bakery Confidential,” the girl said. “That's the show I'm on. I'm Maddie Bird.” I pretended to wipe sweat from my brow. “Phew, that means you're not a Scientologist!” Her boyfriend looked back and forth between me and her. “What?” She gave him the most adoring look. “Give the nice waitress your order,” she said. The cute girl gave me a wink, as if to say, “Men!”

I nodded back, as if to say, “Don't I know it!” but the truth was I'd never had a boyfriend, even though I was eighteen. Foot movement drew my gaze to under the table. They were wearing matching sneakers. Cuteness overload! Maybe it was the stress of having to serve fourteen tables practically by myself, or the tearful goodbye I'd had with my mother earlier that morning. Maybe Saturn was in retrograde, or some bizarre climate-change thing was happening with the drizzly February weather, but a strange feeling came over me. The cute couple did not make me feel like barfing. I'm not saying I wanted to have a threesome with them, but I felt that thing they had between them. Love, I guess. And I wanted it. I wanted to reach out and grab off a big chunk of what they had and take it for myself. I'd suck up their love and put it in a shallow bowl and dip my fingers in it, then lick my fingers. I was thinking about all those things when I should have been jotting down their order. Like a fool—like some silly girl on her first day on the job, which, for me, it was not—I had to ask them to repeat their order. He said, “I love having love with bacon love and love over easy love bread.” She said, “Love love love, I cherish the love.” In place of their words, my brain heard the word love. When I asked, for the third time, for the cute couple to repeat their order, I swear every person in the tiny restaurant turned to stare, the vast majority of them through their hipster glasses. The art-student paintings of spotted dogs plastering the diner's walls also turned to stare with their doggy eyes.

“Love,” they barked. Despite the cacophony of noises, I managed to hear their brunch order. “Lovely,” I said, writing the order down. I can memorize everything for a table of ten, but I write the orders down because it makes people feel more confident. I squeezed past Toph, who was refilling coffee cups, and punched in the order for the kitchen, silently cursing my best friend. She should have been there and had cute-couple's table, since she was also newly in love and thus already infected. As far as couples went, I could handle the awkward first dates and the even more awkward morning-after, breakfast-of-shame couples, plus the long-term couples and the assorted it's-complicated friends with benefits, but capital TL True Love had unleashed something in me. Right there, at my workplace, I got that same mysterious longing I'd started getting when I was thirteen or so, when I'd lie awake in bed at night, imagining putting on my pajamas and hugging other boys from my class, also in their pajamas. When the whistle blew, I brought the hot plates to the cute couple's table, stopped, and tapped my foot impatiently. “Super,” I said, my voice flat with sarcasm. “If you could spread your various mugs, cutlery and digital devices out a little more evenly, I can set these plates on top of everything and have a somewhat level surface.” They froze, their eyes wide. The love was still thick as syrup between them, but chilled with fear, like maple syrup poured over snow to make chewy taffy. “Our tables are small because it discourages riff-raff like

you from lingering,” I said. “Come on, chop chop. Put your iPhone in the middle, honey, I'll balance the plate right on top.” A silence spread out around us, like the hesitant muting of conversation that happens to a group of friends walking outside when everyone feels moisture, but they're not yet sure if it's raining or a bird is pooping on them. Some tourist-types at the next table laughed, and Little Miss Hard-Poached two tables over pointed her phone's camera lens my way to capture the magic. The cute couple, blushing, put away their phones and some folded paper things—origami, perhaps—into her purse, clearing table space for the plates. For a second, I felt simultaneously giddy and ashamed. I was in the right, but it felt wrong. We're not supposed to tell people the gimmick and ruin the fun for people who know, but I leaned in and whispered, “At The Whistle, the attitude is all part of the experience. Feel free to whistle or snap your fingers if you need anything, or if you want the abuse to escalate.” She did a cute eye roll. “Right! I knew that, but I totally forgot. We don't get over to Main Street much.” “West siders,” I said with pretend disgust, as though that explained everything. “There's a dollar surcharge for you having crossed over Ontario Street into the exotic East, but I'll waive it because it's your first time and you're not wearing Lululemon.” “We don't do yoga,” she said. “You were very convincing,” the guy said as I slammed their meals down in front of them.

“Clean off those plates,” I said, and left them to their breakfast. A big table of six made their way out the door, and I squeezed back to the kitchen without rubbing my bum on anyone's shoulders, which is a special kind of relief for me. My bum's not a bad size now, but it used to be bigger until this year, and I'm still self-conscious about its heft and firmness. I wouldn't mind bumping into our dining customers if my bum felt like a grapefruit, but it's more like two scoops of mashed potatoes. With no diners needing my immediate attention, I snuck into the kitchen and grabbed a seat on a bucket of pickles. I gobbled down a day-old brioche, which is basically a bun, but with more egg and butter. We put some extra sugar in ours, so it's nearly cake but not cake, which is an important distinction if you're trying to keep down the size of your bum. As I savored the soft, yeasty-smelling brioche, symbols jumped out at me. The cook, Donny, had a heart-shaped birthmark on the back of his neck. A postcard tacked to the staff corkboard showed two people holding hands on the beach. One of the potatoes Toph had left on the counter top was shaped like a heart. Even the root vegetables were taunting me. Love was everywhere but in my life. When I went back out to bus tables and take the last orders for brunch, the restaurant was an orgy of love. Good-looking people in jaunty fedoras and skinny jeans smooched and groped each other contentedly. Gazes smoldered. Two guys as well as one girl knelt next to tables and offered engagement rings while the recipients bawled happy tears. Okay, the last part probably didn't happen, but that's how I remember it. When I got a short break from serving, I sat outside the

back door, facing the alley, with a little bowl of white sugar, dipping my index finger in and licking the grainy sugar off— a trick I learned from my mother. We call it lady fingers, as in, “I'm starving for a hot meal because I've had nothing but lady fingers all day.” Mom says licking food off your fingers gets you in touch with your gaia spirit. There's comfort, not in the food itself, but in the connection to your physical self, and in the carnal licking of the fingers. I finished my empty calories just as Opera Man came walking down the alley, singing one of his songs for the whole neighborhood. I don't understand Italian, let alone opera Italian, but the song seemed to be about love. ~ After my shift, I walked home in the drizzly rain, and the hill leading up to my house seemed steeper than usual. My umbrella was back at the restaurant, and I could have doubled back to get it, but the rain suited my mood. Sometimes it feels therapeutic to have a really good, miserable sulk. I passed a catering van and a string of huge, white trucks. Thick power cables criss-crossed the sidewalk in front of me, and pretty soon, a woman in a fluorescent-hued safety vest stopped me and talked on her walkie talkie for a moment before waving me through. We get a lot of movies shot here in Vancouver, and TV series too, including Supernatural, and that JJ Abrams show with the parallel universes, Fringe. The big, round, Roman-empire-looking building the Fringe Division is located in is actually our downtown public library. Oh, and a little vampire series you may have heard of—Twilight—was shot here, much to the delight of everyone who spotted the stars around town. Vancouver's so popular for filming, it can make the moviegoing experience surreal. I went to watch the Tron remake

downtown during the Christmas break before last, and while the motorbike-chase intro was playing, the people around me wouldn't stop talking about exactly which downtown streets the chase segment was filmed on. Okay, it wasn't the other people talking, it was me. Attention, people: I talk in the movie theater. Don't hate me. At least I keep my voice down and at least I don't use my phone for texting, drawing everyone's attention to my little blue screen. My favorite shot-in-Vancouver movie is The Butterfly Effect, which, despite having Ashton Kutcher in it, is a seriously creeptastic sci-fi thriller. Sometimes when I see a little boy with haunted eyes, I think he's going to start talking to me with the authoritative voice of an adult, like the character in the movie, and it scares me. Or maybe little kids scare me. After I got past the movie set, a gray squirrel dashed across the sidewalk in front of me and jumped on a black squirrel, big fluffy tails twitching and flying. I thought they were fighting to the death, but they were actually making sweet squirrel-love to each other. I got out my phone and took a video, thinking I might be capturing inter-species mating, which would lead me to YouTube viral video fame. Later, I would get home and discover they were the same breed, and black squirrels are simply the melanistic offspring of our local gray squirrels. After a few seconds of filming, I put the phone away, feeling like a lonely pervert. Why did I feel so unhappy? Wild animals getting it on is one of my favorite funny things.

This must be a delayed response to Valentine's Day, I decided. I walked slowly, getting thoroughly soaked by the drizzling rain.

At home, I hung my damp clothes by the heater vent, then started reading the note my mother left—actually, it was more like an instructional manual than a note. She'd used a binder. With divider tabs. I checked that Sunday's meal instructions and took out the corresponding recipe card for spaghetti sauce. Dad loves mushrooms and my brother likes zucchini, and Mom gave me express permission to omit the usual carrots, as she wouldn't be there and she knows we don't like them in the sauce. Mom wouldn't be at dinner for five whole weeks. I thought I was fine with her being gone, but I found myself crying pitifully and chopping up carrots anyways. ~ Dad and my brother either didn't notice the carrots, or were smart enough to not insult the person who would be cooking for them for the next five weeks. My brother's name is Garnet, and he's three years younger than me. His name seems normal enough to me, but I grew up with it, and my own name is Peridot. Some people pronounce it pear-i-dough and others pear-i-dot, with a T on the end. Either is correct, and fine by me, though most people call me Perry. My mother's name is Jade, so as you may have deduced, my parents went with a precious-gem theme for the family. My father's name is Dale, which is not a gemstone. Peridot is a gem-quality mineral, with a chemical composition of (Mg, Fe)2SiO4. Right about now you're wondering why I'm telling you that, right? Don't worry, it doesn't have anything to do with my story about finding my first love. Also, it won't be on the test. Peridot only comes in

green, though the name sounds like it should be blue, doesn't it? Peridot can be light olive or dark, sometimes confused with emerald. When I was a little girl, my parents called me Dottie for short. When I turned twelve, I put a stop to that and began signing all my school papers with Peridot and refusing to answer to Dottie. The truth is, if you called me Dottie from across a crowded room, I'd still turn. Garnet is simply Garnet. Our last name is Martin, and a couple of the guys on Garnet's soccer team call him Martin, since that's what's on his jersey. It's funny how boys call each other by their last names but girls never do. Dad and Garnet were gobbling down the spaghetti like it was a contest, and while they didn't complain about the carrots, neither of them complimented me on what a great job I'd done, cooking my first official family dinner. They were talking away about soccer, as though I wasn't even there. They weren't going to ignore me. “I'm ready to lose my virginity,” I announced.

Chapter 2 After I announced to my father and my fifteen-year-old brother that I was ready to lose my virginity, they got the same shocked, mystified expressions they get when Mom yanks the TV plug out of the wall. Yes, I got their attention. My father said, “I didn't even know you had a boyfriend.” “Who'd screw you?” Garnet said with a laugh. Dad gave him a dirty look and he quickly recanted with, “I'm sure you'll make some weird guy very happy. Don't do it to any of my friends.” I threw a celery stalk at him. “I'm not going to do it to any of your disgusting friends.” And I wouldn't have done it with any of his friends, except for maybe Jesse. But that was beside the point, because Garnet always hung out with Kyle, and I never got to see Jesse. My father rubbed his hairline, probably checking to see if my bombshell had made his fair, reddish hair recede further. “Let's hold off until your mother gets back from LA,” he said.

“That'll be weeks!” I said. “You must be really horny,” Garnet said. “I may have spoke too soon on the virginity issue,” I said. “What I would like is to fall in love, and then, if everything's right, lose my virginity.” Garnet put down his fork and studied me. “If you wanna get a boyfriend, you have to cut the ropes out of your hair.” I reflexively grabbed my dreadlocks, which were tied back in a loose ponytail. I'd had them for nearly four years, and the longest ones reached my waist. My dreads were as much a part of me as my arms and legs. My father didn't speak up to agree with Garnet, but neither did he disagree. One of his eyes twitched. My mother had the same dreads as me, though hers were blonder, and understandably, my father couldn't exactly say anything against mine, or it would also be against hers. “The ropes are gross,” Garnet said in his usually-eloquent manner. “Don't be racist,” I said. “You're white,” he said. “Exactly.” He put his chin on his hand and gave me another good stare. “This isn't about all people with dreads, just you,” he said. “People get weird ideas about you.” “Weird? Like that I listen to Counting Crows?” I said, getting angry, but scooping a forkful of spaghetti into my mouth to cover my feelings. Garnet's pretty much the best little brother a girl could have, but he's still a little brother. If he thinks he's getting under your skin, he won't stop until

there's blood or tears. “Like you'd know where to buy pot,” he said. “And you don't shave your legs.” Indignantly, I said, “I shave my legs.” “I'm just tellin' it how it is, bro.” “Are you just guessing what people think, or do you know this for a fact?” I asked. He looked up at the ceiling and counted to himself, holding out seven fingers. “This many times, people have asked me to ask you to get them some pot. It's true, bro.” Garnet always calls me bro, because neither of us like the sound of sis. When he calls me by that term of endearment, I know he's being honest in his own loving way, which he doesn't mean to be brutal. I grabbed some more garlic bread and thought about what he'd just said, about the impression I made. “Would people think those things about Mom?” I asked. “No, that's different. She's older, and she wears nice clothes that look expensive. And besides, she's famous. People don't think those things about famous people. They're allowed to be weird.” “Dad? Did you swallow your tongue? No opinion, huh?” My father was arranging his remaining spaghetti in a three by three grid on his plate. “Dad.” I snapped my fingers in front of his face. “Should I lose the dreadlocks? Do you think I'll be able to find a nice boyfriend if I do?” Diplomatically, he said, “Perry, I support whatever decision you make.” He scooped a portion of food into his mouth

and looked at me intently, like I was one of his diagrams of water pipes for his job at the City's Department of Engineering. I'd had the dreadlocks so long, I'd almost forgotten why. No, it wasn't to support the Rastafarian movement. It wasn't political at all. Nor was it about becoming a clone of my mother. See, I was sensitive about the size of my bum. And my legs. And my whole body, really, and I thought having bigger hair would sorta balance me out, like how chunky shoes make your calves look smaller. Over the last year, I'd lost my so-called baby fat, thanks to portion control and avoidance of cake, so maybe I didn't need the dreads, but I had gotten used to them. Sometimes black people with dreads would give me a thumbs-up and a nice smile. Three people back in my high school had dreads, and whenever we crossed paths, we'd nod, even though our social circles didn't overlap. The best part about dreads is you never have a bad hair day. No, scratch that. The best part is confusing the heck out of senior citizens who don't know if they should give you money to keep you from sleeping on the street that night, or run screaming. “It's down to you, Dad,” I said. “Garnet says the dreads need to go. You're the other man in my life, and I need your opinion. It took nearly a minute for my father to go through his methodical engineer's thought process. Finally, he said, “I don't know if you have to cut them out or what other methods you would use. I don't suppose the hair would be in a healthy-looking state, having sustained some damage. You could always regrow the dreadlocks, but hair only grows at a rate of half an inch per month.”

Garnet held his hands up, framing my face. “You're not ugly,” he said. My voice clotted with sarcasm, I said, “Thanks. You two have been really supportive. Mom will be relieved I'm in such good hands.” “We're not supposed to be taking care of you,” Garnet said. “You're taking care of us. You're the mother while Mom's gone. That was the deal, bro.” “Dad!” My father shrugged. “He's not wrong. You're the one who wanted to have a year off before college. This was the deal you cut. You made your bed, now lie in it.” “I made my bed?” “And speaking of beds and linens, I'm nearly out of dress shirts, so you'd better get a load or two of laundry started tonight.” In his Little Shithead voice, Garnet said, “Ha ha! You have to wash my dirty gonchies!” “I hate my life.” My father said, “Once you get into the swing of things, it won't be so bad. Plus we still have Jay.” “Jay!” He was scheduled to come that night, too. Jay is our gay housekeeper. Not that being gay has anything to do with housekeeping, but Jay does fit the stereotype of being meticulous and a master interior stylist. I suppose even positive stereotypes are still pre-judging, and I was starting to see how unfair pre-judging was. Before I could grill my brother more about which friends had said what, Dad craftily changed the topic to a discussion about the diameter of a water pipe, and something he was

doing to make maintenance work safer. Garnet excitedly asked more questions, fascinated by the idea of pressurized water having enough force to decapitate a person. Neither of them noticed me quietly slip off to my room, upstairs. In my own private space, I closed the door and crashed on my bed. Daylight Savings Time hadn't kicked in yet, so the sky was already dark. Winter, you're the worst, I thought as I turned on my lamp and grabbed some magazines from my side table. I leafed through page after page of pretty girls in cute outfits, yet there were no models, neither black nor white, with dreadlocks in my magazines. I'd had a number of plans for things to do while Mom was down in LA, but a hair makeover had not been one of them. Painting my room had been at the top of my list. Buried deep in my closet were two metal pails: pale blue paint and soft peridot-green paint I bought cheap from Home Depot's mis-tints section. My devious plan was to repaint my room when there was nobody around to stop me. In my heart of hearts, I would have loved to paint my bedroom a deep red, but I knew she'd make me paint over. Mom has a thing against red rooms. She says it makes her heart beat faster and she doesn't like that. As simple as repainting seemed in my head, now that the time had come, it seemed like an awful lot of effort. A new hairstyle, on the other hand, would still offer makeover excitement, with less effort. Plus it might help with the love department, if Garnet's opinion was representative of the male population. I leafed through a third magazine, trying hard not to obsess

over the models' bodies, but focusing on what I could have —the hairstyles. Would I give myself bangs? Would I give myself faceframing fringe? It was all so overwhelming. Maybe I'd just shave it all off. You can comb out dreads, but lots of people opt for the close-crop to start fresh. What would I look like with ultra-short hair? I put my head down on my forearm and tried to think of a non-dreadlocks hairstyle that wasn't boring. ~ I must have nodded off, because I woke up at 7:38pm to the sound of Wicked, the musical, and our housekeeper, Jay, singing along to Defying Gravity. I'm not trying to make him sound like a gay stereotype, that's just how he is. His partner, Dean, is less so. Dean's a shy computer animator with a mouth full of silver braces he got for his thirtieth birthday. According to Jay, Dean only wears t-shirts he gets for free from video game companies. I've only met Dean a couple of times when he's dropped Jay off, and he was always wearing enormous black t-shirts over his skinny frame. He seemed like a nice boyfriend. I wanted a nice boyfriend. The door to my room popped open quickly and Jay yelped. I yelped in response. Holding one hand to his chest, he said, “I'm sorry, I thought everyone was out.” “The boys are out, but you're stuck with me, snake hair.” “Pretend I'm not even here.” Jay buzzed around my room, wiping down all the surfaces and shaking my wireless computer keyboard upside-down to release the cookie crumbs and other cooties.

“I saw two girls today,” he said. “About your age. They were both playing games on their iPhones while also having a conversation.” “I do that.” He shook my keyboard harder and even more fluff came out. “I would love to do that. People my age think it's rude. Different generation.” “It's not rude, it's just double the fun.” “I agree,” he said, zipping from corner to corner of my bedroom with his cloth and bucket. “I'm considering a makeover.” Jay, whose immaculately-trimmed brown hair makes him look like he gets a haircut daily, stopped cleaning and stood still. “Tell me more.” “I'd like to soften my look.” I held up the open magazine I'd been drooling on a few minutes earlier. “Something like this. Like I'm the naughty-but-innocent farmer's daughter and I've just finished milking the cows, and now my hands are bored.” “Uh-huh.” He held his hands up framing my face, the exact same way my little brother had. Yes, he did. And right then, it happened. That second framing in one day convinced me. The dreads had to go. Nobody had been honest enough to tell me to my face before that night, but I could take a hint this strong.

“Might be nice for a change,” he said carefully. “Be honest.” “I don't want to hurt your feelings.” “I guess I'll be spending the evening combing out my dreads,” I said. “I have just what you need.” Jay disappeared for a few minutes and returned, breathing heavily, with an enormous, Costco-sized bottle of conditioner. He explained he didn't normally carry hair product around, but he'd been at his hairdresser that day (I knew it!) and didn't like the smell of their stuff. “I'll pay you back for what I use,” I said. He waved the notion of repayment away. “May I?” He reached out and held one of my dreads for examination. The end was pretty ratty, as it was one of my favorite dreads for chewing. “Cut them around chin-length first,” he said. “The hair below there probably fell out of your scalp years ago, so you'll be losing it regardless. That should lighten your workload.” I thanked him, but he continued to hang out at the foot of my bed expectantly. I got up and stepped into my en suite bathroom. “I guess I'll get started right now.” “Okay.” He didn't move. “Do you want to help?” He pulled some scissors out of his back pocket. “I thought you'd never ask.”

Chapter 3 And so, I found myself sitting on my toilet with the lid down, getting my beloved dreads chopped off by our housekeeper. The scissors hacking through the first one made a shockingly-loud rending sound. KRRRIIISSSCCHH. “You can breathe now,” Jay said. He was right about me holding my breath, though I hadn't noticed. Lack of oxygen explained the blackout feeling I had. “Thanks,” I said, breathing in deeply, but keeping my eyes clenched shut. “Hmm,” Jay said. “That's odd, it's actually bleeding.” My eyes flew open. Of course my dreadlock wasn't bleeding, but I'd fallen for it, and Jay was so amused, he laughed until he cried. Laughing made the weight lift off my own chest, and for a moment, even though I missed my mother terribly, I felt like everything was going to be just

fine. He cut the rest of them off with the same loud rending noises as the dreads wailed in protest. Next, we worked the conditioner in. After about an hour of alternating between conditioning and combing out my hair, each of us on one side, his enthusiasm waned. He kept commenting on how much of the hair was dead, as in not attached to my scalp—all hair except the root is technically not alive—and all the talk of dead hair was making me feel unclean. I suggested he go off to clean the house while I worked away on my own. I said not to worry about finishing the housework, since he should still get an hour's credit for the hairdressing, but he assured me he could get our three-hour cleaning done in two hours easily. “You're not supposed to tell me that,” I said. “What do you normally do with the extra hour?” “I try on all your clothes. Kidding! Of course not. I do extra organizing things, like sort out your Tupperware cupboard. You Martins have no sense of organization.” “That's you? Mom and I thought Garnet was going through a secret OCD phase.” He slowly backed away. “Being organized is healthy. There's something wrong with our society that we put a mental illness label on a person who plans out his wardrobe a week in advance.” “You always look sharp,” I said. “I would steal that belt of yours.” Jay's tight black jeans were held up by a black belt with all sorts of metal studs, like a dog collar. He'd managed to avoid getting any conditioner or hair on himself, but I looked rather pathetic, in my soaked, gooey tshirt, covered in loose hairs.

He patted me on the head before leaving the bathroom. “Keep combing. Just keep on combing.” My arms ached, but I couldn't go to work with half a head of dreads, so I kept going, though I could certainly see why people opt to shave off their dreads. ~ At nearly ten, Dad and Garnet returned home, yelling that they'd bought me pistachio gelato from La Casa Gelato. Jay, who had just put away the vacuum cleaner, rushed into my room and found me in the bathroom. “That won't do,” he said. “But I'm done!” I'd just finished combing out the final one, and my scalp was aching with discomfort from being pulled. Every one of my little hair follicles hurt. “You're all bedraggled. Let me give you a quick trim,” he said. The idea of more hair-yanking made me grumpy, but I agreed, and the haircut Jay gave me was mercifully quick. The long part ended just below my shoulders, and he put in some layers to remove the more damaged ends, but no bangs. I'd already removed all my makeup when I was letting my arms have a break from being up in the air, and with my soft, wet hair combed smoothly down the sides of my face, I looked as innocent as a little baby deer. My hair was much finer than I expected, and had almost no volume. “Is that farm-girl-wholesome enough for ya?” Jay asked. I smiled at my reflection. “I totally look like I could chop off a bunch of chicken heads.”

“You can do anything,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. “Ah, the love of my life is waiting in a warm vehicle out front.” “That sounds really nice,” I said. “You have no idea,” he said, and while I was pretty sure he wasn't meaning to rub in my boyfriend-less status, I did feel a twinge of jealousy. After Jay left, I changed into a dry shirt and ran down the stairs to show my family. My brother, Garnet, was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter by the sink, picking his nose. When he saw me, he whipped his hand down quickly. “Oh, hi. I didn't know Perry had someone over.” “Very funny.” His eyes grew bigger, and for several seconds, he said nothing but a string of swear words. “Be careful what you wish for,” I said, doing a quick twirl, my damp hair swinging out lightly. “You wanted me dreadlocksfree, and now I'm ready to take over the world.” Finally out of swear words, he gave me a big hug. “You look pretty, bro.” “Don't make me cry.” “Don't tell Mom, but I'm really glad the hair ropes are gone.” “Thanks, bro,” I said. He finally let me out of the hug and I went to find my father, at his computer. His reaction was more painstakingly neutral than Jay's or my brother's, but I could tell he was pleased.

“You'll have to tie it back at work,” he said. “You don't want loose hairs getting into the food.” “I'm glad you love it,” I said. “You're the spitting image of your mother when we first met,” he said. “I'm not her.” “I know, sweetie. Go eat your gelato.” Back in the kitchen, stooping down to pull open the freezer drawer of our refrigerator seemed like too much effort, so I left my gelato for another day. My stomach didn't seem that eager, anyway, and one of my rules for keeping my weight down is I don't snack unless I'm a little hungry. You'll still catch me nibbling out of boredom at times, but I try to alternate between baby carrots and high-calorie items. I had work in the morning, so I took my Magnesium and Vitamin D pill and started getting ready for bed. Up in my room, I sent a text message to Courtney, telling her I had a surprise for her the next day and she'd better not call in “sick” like she had that day. She didn't send a message back. Courtney doesn't like it when you call her on her bullshit, and that was what her being “sick” that day was. We both knew she'd taken the day to spend with her new girlfriend, but she was too chicken to just be honest with me. I tried to push away my annoyance and accept my best friend for being imperfect, but the new girlfriend had been nothing but trouble, and I hadn't even met her yet. Once in bed, I couldn't get my pillow quite right. Without my dreads, I was missing something. My head was naked. I wondered how the people at work would react. I wondered

if guys would suddenly start flirting with me. ~ The next morning, shampooing was pretty delightful. So delightful, I did it twice. When you have dreadlocks, you still shampoo and condition your hair, mostly the scalp, but you have to do it gently so you don't unravel the dreads. That morning, I gave myself the most wonderful scalp massage. With a big grin on my face, I felt like one of those ridiculously happy girls in a shampoo commercial. The only problem was the amount of hair that came off in my hands disturbed me. After all the shedding I'd done the night before, still more was coming out? I didn't want it to go down the drain and mess up the ancient pipes in our house, so I plastered a clump of my hair against the tile wall in the shower, to be retrieved later. The clump looked like a furry little monster, so I made him a smaller clump as a friend. I spent so long in the shower, I didn't have any time to put on my usual makeup, which for the last couple of years had been a thick, black, liquid eyeliner that covered the entire below-fold eyelid, plus gobs of mascara on top and bottom. If I'd had time, I would have penciled in my pale eyebrows— they're quite sparse at the outside edges, thanks to my Scottish-English heritage—to give my face more balance. Most white girls my age with dreadlocks wear flowing skirts and no makeup, going for that hippie look, but I liked my black jeans and big boots, the more buckles the better. You might say my look was Edward Scissorhands, except female, and with lighter hair. If I got a good dose of pale streaks, I could almost call myself a blonde. My hair looked more colorful out of the dreads, which by comparison had a gray cast. The ends Jay had chopped off were in my garbage can, and looking at them in there with garbage and wrappers gave me an ick feeling. I was already late for work, though, so I had to skip makeup

entirely, for the first time in forever. I dashed down to the front door with my wet hair falling to my shoulders in light waves. Mom hadn't taken all her shoes and clothes with her, and she wasn't around to say no, so I helped myself to a pair of her light brown, suede pirate boots and her matching jacket. They went well with the ivory-colored gypsy dress I'd also liberated from her closet. As I opened the front door, my brother's alarm clock went off upstairs, which meant I was two minutes late leaving. As I stepped out the front door, I felt several pounds lighter —even though the dreadlocks couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces—and like an entirely new person. When I reached my hand into Mom's jacket pocket, I found a pink, sparkly lipstick. Just for kicks, I put on the lipstick before I walked in the back door of The Whistle. “You can't use that door,” one of our cooks, Donny, said. “Try and stop me, hamster biceps,” I said. He did an honest-to-goodness double-take. He literally looked at me, looked away, then his head went BOING and he looked back at me, mouth open and everything. It was priceless. “Smokin' hot!” he said. After that, my mood was really great for all of five seconds, until I saw the heart-shaped birthmark on the back of Donny's neck and remembered I was down a set of dreadlocks but not up by a boyfriend yet. “You're a guy,” I said to Donny, whose age I hadn't been able to pin down, but was likely somewhere between thirty and forty. “Was it the sideburns that tipped you off?” he replied as he rearranged a row of sizzling bacon.

Behind me, Toph laughed. He normally worked as a prep cook, and had only helped me serve tables the day before when Courtney had called in “sick.” Toph is about my age, but a good twenty pounds lighter, so I always thought of him as a kid. He laughed at the cooks' jokes like it was a job requirement. Toph didn't find me very funny, but at least I had the customers to abuse. “Donny, how do girls flirt? Teach me how to flirt,” I said. “Don't play games,” he said, flashing me his customdesigned black and titanium wedding band. “If you like a guy, tell him you like him.” “Ugh, you're so old. Hey, kid.” I poked Toph in the arm. “In your fantasies, when a girl flirts with you, what does she do?” “She calls me by name,” he said. “You guys are not helping.” “Your hair looks pretty,” Toph said. “You look softer.” “Ew, are you flirting with me?” Donny made a horrible buzzer sound. “Wrong. Bad Perry. Bad. Why don't you try again. Try flirting with young Toph here.” “Your name is Toph?” I held my hands up to my face, pretending I hadn't known. “Oh, God, I think I just threw up in my mouth.” Again, Donny made the buzzer sound. As much as I didn't want to flirt with Toph, I wanted to hear the buzzer sound even less, so I tried again. I stepped a little closer to Toph and straightened out my posture, which thrust my chest ahead. “You really know your

way around a potato peeler,” I said. Donny made the buzzer sound. “Do you come here often?” I asked. Buzzer sound. “You actually have really nice eyes,” I said to Toph, who was being very quiet. “They're, like, not green and not brown, but in between. They're kinda … smoldering.” I braced myself for Donny's buzzer sound, but it didn't happen. Young Toph blushed and dropped the potato he was peeling into the peels bucket. “That's it?” I said to Donny. “You got it,” he said. I gave Donny a coy look. “You have really nice sideburns. I like how they frame your face.” “Aw, thanks, I like to shape them—hey, are you doing it? Are you flirting with me?” “I'm on fire,” I said. Donny wagged a finger at me. “Never say that phrase in a kitchen.” I hung my borrowed brown jacket up on the wall. Usually, I wore a loose cardigan over my shirt so guys wouldn't eyegrope my boobs, but I was turning over a new leaf in my quest for love, and they could eye-grope away, within reason. The ivory dress I'd borrowed had shirring at the top, so it wasn't too clingy. I felt like a Roman goddess, or at least like someone playing one on HBO.

I stepped out to the dining area and was greeted by an appreciative wolf whistle, courtesy of my best friend, Courtney. I can whistle a pretty good tune, mostly on-pitch, but I can't do the big, loud whistle with my fingers in my mouth, like Courtney can. It's one of the many, many awesome things about her. Another awesome thing about Courtney is she came out as a lesbian when she was sixteen, and she'd been so cool about it. For example, if someone at our high school called someone gay in a mocking way, Courtney wouldn't make a big scene and embarrass them if it was their first offense. She would gently take them aside and explain how insensitive it was, unless you were genuinely saying it as a compliment and you were also an out gay person. If it was a person's second offense, though, Courtney would let them have it. I saw her punch a big guy in the face once, and while I know it's wrong to use violence to support a cause, it was still pretty damn cool. Courtney is Chinese-Canadian and barely over five feet tall, so she can get away with stuff like that, like how tiny chihuahuas can bite people or hump their legs and not get put down for public safety and decency. The Whistle was still empty, with the first of the Monday morning breakfast customers not there yet, and Courtney was filling the ketchups, using a funnel. “Stay back,” she called out in warning. “I just crop-dusted over here.” I kept a safe distance from her morning fart zone, on the other side of the bar, where I rolled up sets of utensils in napkins. “I take it by the wolf whistle, you like my new hair?” “I thought you were joking when you texted me. Give me a minute and I want to come over there and pet you like a llama.” She made a face. “Too much broccoli.”

For the record, Courtney doesn't look like someone who would be so proud of the power of her methane production. She always has perfect hair—a chin-length bob—and her makeup is magazine-perfect. The girl wears false eyelashes, and not just for special events, but every single day. The eyelashes are pretty, and they change the fold of her upper eyelids, giving her a more Western eye. She'd alternate between moaning about Asian girls who had eyelid-fold surgery done, berating them, and talking about getting it done herself. Like most people, she was a study in contradiction. After Courtney was done with the ketchup, she ran over to me at the bar and admired my hair close up. “It's darker than I remember. Must be because you're older now.” “I'm eighteen, not nineteen like you, old lady.” My hair had air-dried and was fluffy and soft around my face. “What do you think? Is this boy-friendly hair? I want to get some dates, like, immediately.” “Who are you, and what have you done to Perry?” “I've had an attack of the boy crazies.” She tilted her head and looked wistful. “I miss your hair snakes. Did you keep them? I'm doing some found-art pieces and I could use something disturbing. Ooh, can I have your old dreads? Can I?” Before I could tell her they were in my bathroom garbage bin, we both turned to look at the front door, still closed. This happens all the time, and my best guess, other than we're psychic, is that a human body in front of the restaurant's doorway absorbs both street noise and sunlight—not dramatically, but just enough that you can always tell when you're about to get the first customer of the day. A familiar-looking guy reached for the door.

“There's your future boyfriend,” Courtney said. I chortled. “Crossword Guy? No way.” She ran to greet him and quickly escorted him to one of my tables, by the window on my side. Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I whirled around, surprised to find Donny outside of his kitchen cave. “Practice your flirting on that guy.” “I take back what I said about your sideburns. They're too pointy.” “He wants coffee,” Courtney said, gliding by. I rolled my eyes so hard I worried I may have hurt myself. “My wish is his command,” I said in my robot voice. “I am the Waitress Two Thousand, I live to service.” Crossword Guy was, surprise-surprise, doing the crossword puzzle when I brought him his coffee and white ceramic mini-pitcher of cream. He wasn't doing just any crossword puzzle, but the New York Times crossword puzzle, as he'd mentioned to me on several occasions. I felt the buzz of knowing Courtney and Donny were observing me.

Turn on the charm, said the troublemaker voice in my head. Charm practice wasn't a terrible idea. If I could flirt with Crossword Guy, I could flirt with anyone. I was about to get my Bachelor's Degree in Flirting. Instead of my usual opening, something along the lines of, “Well? What do you want?” I smiled wide, revealing many teeth. I couldn't think of anything remotely flirty, so I didn't say a word. After what felt like an eternity, he looked up from his just-

started crossword puzzle, surprised. “You're stealthy,” he said. I smiled wider. “What's the special today?” he asked. Was he serious? The muscles around my eyes tensed, wanting to narrow to little straight lines of are-you-kiddingme while I pointed to the clearly visible specials chalkboard, but instead, I recited Donny's special for the day: eggs benny with fresh spinach and turkey bacon. Crossword Guy always had hard-poached eggs on dry toast, and I resented him dicking with me by asking about the special when he and I both knew he was going to order the same thing he had every Monday, but I was in Flirt Mode, and as I understood it, that meant I had to be nice, and not a smart mouth. “Spinach and turkey bacon sounds great,” he said. “I'll have that.” You could have tipped me over like a sleeping cow of urban legend—that's how surprised I was. “Terrific!” I said. “Thank you!” he said, and he did something I'd never witnessed Crossword Guy do before. I'd assumed he was missing the crucial muscles to do so, but he actually smiled. Just then, the sun came out from behind a cloud. The nearly-empty restaurant filled up with light and kindness. Crossword Guy had a nice smile. A handsome face. Sparkly brown eyes. Soft brown hair with not too much hair product. Tortoiseshell glasses that complemented his bone structure. And surrounding him was a light odor that wasn't horrible—not the Axe Body Spray the boys in my old high school masked their overactive sweat glands with, but

something that smelled like an adult, and yet not quite Dadterritory. He picked up his blue pen and returned to the crossword puzzle. That was it? We were having a moment; didn't he know? In a daze, I meandered back to the pass-through window that opened to the kitchen. “Sock it to me,” Donny said. “I'm crushing on Crossword Guy.” “Are you high? Give me the order. He's having the hardpoached eggs, right?” “No, he's having the special.” Donny dropped his mouth open in mock horror, then said, “He's ordered the same thing every Monday for a year, and today he's having the special? Courtney, come quick!” Courtney looked up from the radishes she was carving on the prep counter. “Our little Perry is all grown-up,” Donny said. Courtney, who was messing around with the garnishes, held up a thumb-shaped radish. “Does this look phallic to you guys?” Toph came over to examine the long radish and Donny threw the pink slab of turkey bacon on the grill. Everybody was going about their regular business, but inside, I felt like I was standing still and twirling at the same time. I had a crush on someone, for the first time in years. Not since Scott Weaver had I allowed myself to have flippyfloppy feelings for a guy who wasn't completely unavailable due to being a member of a cute boy band, or a famous actor playing a TV vampire that was pure evil some

seasons and the good guy other seasons. More customers came in and I sat them in my section, feeling the sensation of Crossword Guy's gaze on me. As I took the next table's order, my consciousness left my body, and I saw myself from the perspective of an outside observer. My mouth got dry from nerves, like I was on stage performing. Crossword Guy could hear what I was saying. He was listening, I just knew it, and assessing me. Analyzing me. Trying to figure me out. Dread washed over me as I remembered why I don't like having crushes on non-celebs. I don't like losing control and acting like a loser. An hour later, Crossword Guy was still at his table, though the puzzle was surely finished. I thought about withholding coffee refills so he wouldn't stay as long, but instead I found myself smiling like an idiot and refilling his mug every time the level went down by more than an inch. He looked up at me, the light speckles in his mottled glasses picking up the same highlights that were in his eyes. He said, “Sheesh, if you keep filling my coffee, I'll never leave and do my studying. Seems like you want to keep me here all day.” “Maybe I do, cutie,” I said. Yeah, I called him cutie. Right to his face. The thing about my smart mouth is I have zero control over it. Some people's words pass through a filter before they talk—you can see it on their faces as they rehearse their sentences quickly before speaking. While they're figuring out what to say, I've already said three things, two of them socially inappropriate. Apparently, when I'm in flirt mode, it's no different. To follow up, I giggled, which was quickly echoed by

Courtney, who stood nearby, refilling water glasses. When I looked up and caught her attention, she crossed her eyes and gave me a stupid look, making fun of me. Eventually, I stopped refilling Crossword Guy's coffee and dropped off his bill. Finally, he left. I slumped over in relief. I'd been holding my stomach in and maintaining perfect posture, with my shoulders back and everything, for well over an hour. My head felt light whenever I turned around, but that could have been partly due to the lack of heavy dreadlocks. Courtney cleared Crossword Guy's table and handed me the tip. “Generous today,” she said, passing me some cash and a colored postcard. “He left this?” I asked, but before Courtney answered, I'd flipped the card over and seen his note, in the same blue pen he'd used to solve his crossword puzzle.

This is my friend's art show. You should drop by. -Marc. Crossword Guy asked me out!

Chapter 4 I examined the card in my hands, the casual maybe-date invite from Crossword Guy, a.k.a. Marc. The art on the front was abstract, all swirls and swooshes that looked like something anyone can do, but probably takes years of training to get just right. Courtney tugged me down so she could put her chin on my shoulder and read the postcard. “You should go. Tomorrow night? I'll go with you,” Courtney said. “Is there free wine? Do we have to buy anything?” “Courtney, you have exactly as much information as I do. How would I know if there's free wine?” “Sometimes the wine is by donation, so bring some five dollar bills.” “I'm not going! I acted like a total loser serving him breakfast, and I'm on my home turf here.” We stood together by the kitchen window and Courtney petted my hair down on both sides of my face. “There, there, puppy. Hey, your makeup is all different. You look pretty. Give me some of that lipstick.”

“Kiss, kiss!” Donny called out from the kitchen side. We girls tended to think of that zone behind the bar as private space, because it was away from the dining customers, but the sound funneled right into the kitchen. I shook my head at Courtney. “You totally say those double entendre things for his benefit, don't you?” Courtney winked and did her crooked smile. “He's married with kids, so we're all he's got. It's practically charity.” Someone whistled for service, so we broke away from our window grouping and went back to work. At the end of my shift, after the other serving staff came in to relieve us, Courtney and I sat in the back by the tiny window facing the alley and counted up our tips. The weather was nice, so we had the window cracked open for fresh air. “Did you steal some of my money?” I asked Courtney. “Like for a joke? I have almost no tips. I made way less than usual.” “Tough break,” she said. “Need a loan? No interest.” “I don't understand. I was so nice to people, all day. Like, SO nice. I listened, and I didn't tell people what eggs they wanted, or make fun of their hats, and there were some seriously weird hats today. Did you see the guy who looked like a sailor? I totally let that go.” “Let me think,” Courtney said, tugging at her thick row of false eyelashes and then smoothing them out. I'd worn falsies once before, and they're not comfortable, so I could only imagine how vain you had to be to wear them every day. But … if they made Courtney happy, who was I to interfere? “You were too nice,” Courtney said. “You were ingratiating,

which doesn't fly, and doesn't get you tips. You have to act like you hate them, so they buy your approval.” “The world shouldn't work like that.” She patted me on the knee. “Your youthful idealism is totes adorbs. The real world will crush that out of you soon enough. Now what are you going to wear to this art show date?” “It's not a date and I'm not going.” “You like Crossword Guy. What's his name again?” “I forget,” I lied. His name was Marc, with a C at the end instead of a K, and I desperately wanted to google it and see if that meant he was French or what. “You'll go. You like him,” she said. “I don't like him. I never liked him.” Courtney went back to counting her money, setting aside the portion for the kitchen staff. I peeked again at the postcard and tried to push the idea out of my mind. I didn't really like him. I'd simply been thrown off by the sudden, unexpected friendliness. My head was light that day, and it was making me act like an airhead. I didn't really like him. Now, you're probably wondering what type of idiot I am for disliking an attractive, nice-smelling man who gave me my only generous tip of the day, plus invited me to an art opening. Contrary to how it may appear, I'm not one of those girls who can't tell when a good guy likes her. I don't hate myself like that. The thing is, up until that particular Monday, Crossword Guy —Marc—had never been anything but rude to me. Because

he didn't like me. He even used the crossword puzzles to antagonize me, I swear. When I came by, he'd give me a clue, like, “Seven letter word for a ditzy girl. Starts with A.” “Airhead,” I'd say, because who can resist solving an easy puzzle? “I knew you would know that one,” he'd say smugly. “Yeah? Well, if your face were the clue, it would be a completely different word starting with A.” He'd tap his coffee cup. “Why, yes, I would like a top-up.” Most of our interactions went pretty much like that. “Fourletter word for grouchy waitress,” or “Eight-letter word for lemon cat … I'm thinking sourpuss, what do you say about that?” I didn't think he was teasing me in that oh-he's-doing-itbecause-he-likes-you, schoolyard way, which—incidentally —is utter bullshit. No, he really didn't care for my particular flavor of personal expression, and antagonizing me seemed to give him enjoyment. Perhaps it was subconscious on his part that he only asked me to help him solve negative, insulting words. He didn't seem like a mean or cruel person, just thoughtless. Hate is too strong, but I'd say I disliked him. And then, on that Monday morning when he smiled at me, things changed, and something had gotten over the chainlink fence around my heart. He'd scaled the razor wire with some tiny gestures of kindness. After that day's shift, I'd gone from disliking him to being open to the possibility of liking him. Despite saying I wouldn't go to the art show, I had a feeling I might. I could

get some of Courtney's false eyelashes, all the better for batting at him. ~ Let's fast-forward to Tuesday. Not the art show—not yet— but the morning at work and what happened that kicked me in the teeth and changed everything. The morning walk in was windy, and my newly-fluffy hair kept flying in my face, making me consider shaving it off. I'd raided my mother's closet again, choosing a pretty flowerpatterned dress, paired with my black leggings and my least-mannish boots. I'd had the time to put on proper makeup, but with a twist. I'd followed the instructions from one of my favorite YouTube girls: base all over, pale gold on the eyelids, and smudgy brown eyeliner instead of my usual thick, black liquid eyeliner. I never used blush, so I didn't own any, but I used a dab of lipstick to put some red on my cheeks. On the way to work that morning, I stopped approximately three hundred times to admire the pretty girl in various reflective surfaces—the pretty girl who had a kinda-sorta date that night. When I got to The Whistle, Courtney was already there, rolling up utensils in napkins, and the first thing she said was, “Are you sure I can't get you to switch teams? You are foxy, sweetcheeks!” The funny thing about gay people—or at least the ones I know—is that even as they insist they were born that way, they will still make tons of jokes about converting you, as if it's a choice. It's kind of a cute double standard, if you consider it flattering that they'd want you on their team. Nobody wants to be the last one picked for teams, after all. “I'm not going gay,” I said. “Furthermore, don't think I've forgotten all those times when we were kids and you got

me into the bathtub with you, pervert.” “I swear, I wasn't checking you out, and I didn't know I was lez.” “Like hell.” “I love that little birthmark on your hip.” I dipped my hand into the water in the bar sink and spritzed her. “Stop flirting with me. Don't you have a girlfriend?” Courtney stammered and looked down at her feet. “You can meet her tonight. If that's okay. Oh, I hope you like her, but I know you will. She's ah-mah-zing.” “I hate her name. I want to punch her in the face.” “What's wrong with her name?” “What isn't wrong? It's the name of a country. Her parents are clearly pretentious douchebags, and she probably is too.” Courtney slammed a handful of silverware down. “And you wonder why I'm afraid to introduce you both. Honestly!” She pushed past me out of the space behind the bar, marching in the direction of the ladies' room. “Courtney, I'm just joking! You love my comedic stylings!” The door slammed. Making fun of her girlfriend's name was probably too far, but how could I stop myself? The chick's named Britain. Our favorite comedian, Margaret Cho, is against bullying, but I suspect she would have approved of my making fun of someone named Britain. I have a dumb name too, so it's fair game, like how a person of one ethnic group can make fun of their own, and they beg for more. Speaking of comedians, I went to a Russell Peters show with Courtney, and I swear I was the only white person in there. I didn't get all the jokes, but I love when he does the

Stern Indian Dad voice and says, “Someone gonna get-ahurt real bad!” Comedy makes life better. Comedy would help me get through meeting someone named Britain, I hoped. I finished filling up the mini creamer pitchers and did a once-over around the tables, picking up some stray crumpled receipts left behind from the previous night's closing shift. The sound of the traffic outside muted ominously, and seconds later our first group of the day walked in: three guys with paint-flecked overalls, probably doing a renovation in the neighborhood. When it comes to tips, a group of all guys is the best you can get, provided the group's not big enough to hide one scammer who offers to throw in last and uses the tip money to cover his own lunch. There's a special place in Hell for people like that. A group of women with fake Luis Vuitton purses and ridiculous manicures is going to be the worst for tips, especially if they get a shared bill, because if one is a generous tipper, surely another will insist she take some money back, as though she's doing her friend some special favor, and not taking my hard-earned cash out of my hands. I know some waitresses who aren't very cute, and they don't do well with tips from guys, but the women are a little more charitable with them. Gorgeous waitresses, however, have it the worst, because despite the good tips, guys are constantly hitting on them and the guys' girlfriends are always giving them the dagger eyes. If you're stunning, you should probably be working in a club, where you can get the bigger tips, and not wasting your time in a diner with people like me and Courtney. By the way the three painters were looking around, I knew

they hadn't been in before, so I was charitable and gave them the lowdown. “Welcome to The Whistle, guys, where bad behavior is not just tolerated, but encouraged. If you want something and can't catch my attention, feel free to whistle and someone will be at your side to change your diaper in a hot minute. The cook doesn't whistle because it's unhygienic over the food, so he pushes a doorbell that makes a sound like a locomotive engine. If you don't like our coffee, which is dumped and fresh-brewed once a week, minimum, you can bring your own in paper cups from down the street, but I'll warn you there is a dollar surcharge, a dollar twenty-five if it's Starbucks.” The three painters stared at me with frozen grins, their brains processing all the information. That particular moment, before the light of understanding blinked on, always gave me a sense of compassion for my high school teachers and how it must have felt to stare into similarly confused eyes, day after day. “Are there menus?” the oldest of the group asked. Oh, but I was ready for him. My previous day of being nice and flirty to everyone, and the subsequent poor batch of tips, had taught me a lesson—no more nice waitress today. I tossed three laminated menus on the table in front of them. “That's what these rectangles with the squiggly lines are. If you get stuck, sound the words out letter by letter. Now, who's brave enough for coffee?” They looked back and forth at each other until one of them guffawed, breaking the awkwardness. “I'll try some of that coffee,” the big guy declared, beaming, and the other two asked for some as well. In a minute, they were all laughing. The ice had been broken, and we were all going to have a nice time, with them enjoying the entertainment and me

enjoying their adulation. Our relationship would be reciprocal. More things in life should be reciprocal. I put the order in to the kitchen and got comfortable behind the bar counter, parking the edge of my bum on the lower counter. We waitresses aren't supposed to congregate in the area, but we do. There's a feng shui to workplaces. If you walk into any restaurant or retail store, you can spot the most comfortable area for staff, usually behind the barrier of a counter. Groups of staff will congregate there with relaxed posture, drinking their waters and gossiping, as though they're invisible in their little home base. Feng shui people could probably be brought in to make sure a new restaurant doesn't have one of those spaces, but the staff would be miserable and not stay long. We don't have a lot of turnover at The Whistle, and you can't say it's due to the wages. Courtney came out of the bathroom and walked straight into me for a hug, pinning me to the counter. “I'm sorry,” she said, her little honey-shampoo-scented head nestled near my armpit. “Don't you apologize. I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have made fun of England's name. I mean Scotland. I mean Great Britain.” She let out a big sigh. The traffic sound muted and someone else came in the front door. Crossword Guy. Marc. “He never comes in Tuesday,” Courtney said. My knees got weak and I crouched down, pretending to pick something up off the floor. “Please take him in your section. I can't go all tongue-tied and nice again today.” “His feelings will be hurt.”

“I'll still drop by to say hi.” She ran her fingers over a lank of perfectly-straight, perfectly-black hair. “You owe me. Remember this tonight when you're meeting Britain.” I agreed and, still crouching, patted her on the leg. I slowly rose, peeking over the edge of the bar counter. True to her word, she did seat Marc on her side, but not before they both turned to look at me, with her pointing my way. Once spotted, I had to stand. As Marc peered in my direction, I got that sensation you get in middle-grade, when you have a crush on someone and your best friend immediately goes and tells the guy that somebody she knows likes him, but she won't say who, and then she looks right at you. Then Scott Weaver knows you like-him like him, and he uses that information for humiliation. Why is it so embarrassing to admit you like someone? It should be a compliment to them, and even if they don't like you back, they should at least commend you on your refined taste. You should be allowed to bond over your mutual love of their dreamy eyes, you from afar, and them by staring at their webcam screen or searching out their face in every group shot uploaded to Facebook. Instead, admitting you're attracted to someone is this horrifying thing you must endure on the path to love. It's so … public. Them knowing is equivalent to you saying, Hi there cutie,

I've been fantasizing about rubbing my private parts on yours. Ugh. Just shoot me. Courtney returned to the waitress station and put a cup of coffee on a tray, then doubled over. “Cramps. Oh the

humanity. Oh, crampy-cramps. Can you take that coffee out to my table? I'm about to have a tampon emergency.” I was pretty sure she'd used that excuse the week before, but I figured I could check on my three house-painter guys on the way back, and it would be rude to not even say hello to Marc, who was so nice. At his table, I set down his coffee and said, “What brings you here on a Tuesday? Did your regular Tuesday place get closed down due to health violations?” He itched his nose and gave me a perplexed look. “It's Tuesday,” I said. “You normally only come in on Mondays.” As the words cannon-balled out of my mouth, I knew I was saying the wrong thing. He probably came by to see me, to be friendly, and now I was going to force him to admit it? Smooth move, Perry. Why didn't I just bring out a medical diagram of a naked woman and ask him to point to the parts he'd been thinking about touching? “It really is Tuesday,” he said. “That's what my underpants say.” “You were my waitress yesterday.” “Yes, but I was having an off day and I didn't verbally abuse you. You only got partial service, and for that, I apologize.” He tilted his head and rubbed his ear, his voice squeaky as he asked, “How long have you worked here, exactly?” “Since last summer. You know that.” “Right,” he said, nodding. “And you used to have dreadlocks, but now you don't.” I fluffed my hair. “That is a fact. And my name is Perry, short for Peridot.”

“Perry. The smart mouth waitress.” The train whistle blew—the one that means there's a food order up. I didn't have to look to know it was the breakfast burgers for my three painters. “Thar she blows,” I said, and I turned to walk to the kitchen window, leaving a surprisingly flummoxed Marc behind me with his coffee. Now, you're probably way ahead of me here, and you've figured out exactly what went horribly wrong on Tuesday, besides Courtney getting ticked at me. Let's review the facts: I'd just had a rather dramatic hairstyle change, and I'd been wearing no makeup the day before. Coincidentally, Marc had gone from treating me rudely to suddenly being sweet and nice, as though I were a completely different person. The world filled up with water and I moved in slow motion, my feet thudding on the brown and black checkered floor. The skin of my face felt like it was trying to slide off my cheekbones in horror. As I reached the kitchen window, it all locked together. Marc had been friendly to me the day before because he thought I was a different person. He fell for a mirage, a character. As I loaded all three plates on my left arm and grabbed the ketchup with my right hand, I felt a flicker of anger in my belly. How dare he like a version of me that wasn't the real Perry? I peeked over at him, with his cute face and even cuter glasses. He had really good lips—not too thick or thin. They were the kind of lips you could imagine kissing, and, girls,

you know what I mean. I dropped off the food for the three house painters, who were so hungry, they began grabbing for fries before the plates were even on the table. Normally, I would have said something about their manners, but my mind was elsewhere. Marc may have confused me for someone completely different, but now I wanted to be that girl. I wanted to kiss him. And what's more, I wanted to take off his glasses and invite him to touch me on my bathing-suit areas, where I'd never been touched before. You know how sometimes you don't realize how hungry you are and you order a Diet Coke, but when your friend's cheeseburger arrives, you are suddenly famished? That sweet look Marc had given me on Monday had been like … well, a whiff of cheeseburger. And I'd been hungry a long time. More people came in the front door—some singles for seating at the bar, as well as some four-tops. I got busy seating, serving, and sassing, relieved the morning rush was starting and I could lose myself in my work, not thinking about my personal life. Courtney worked her side, and soon we were deep in the magical flow of foodservice, trading off tasks and working as a team, dancing and weaving between the chairs, as graceful and entertaining as The Cirque du Soleil, except with airborne salt shakers instead of flaming sticks. I did not let my gaze pass anywhere near Marc, much less make eye contact with him. My solution to unwanted feelings for Marc was this: I wouldn't go to the art show that night, and he'd find a new Monday breakfast place, and that would be it for our torrid twenty-four-hour imagined affair.

As for my pent-up feelings, one of the painter boys left me his business card with his cell phone number written on the back. I did have other options.

Chapter 5 After our shift, Courtney and I sat at the back, counting our tips, and discussing what may have happened. She wasn't as sure about the identity mix-up as I was. She handed me a bag of red cinnamon hearts, which had been a Valentine's day gift from Britain, and told me to help myself as a favor to her, so she wouldn't eat them all. With the candies in my mouth, my appetite—for food, not boys—flared up with a vengeance. When you work in a restaurant, constantly smelling food, it messes with your head. You get so used to telling your hunger to shush now, because the fresh-strawberry-laden fruit salad is for a customer, and the bacon-flecked hash browns are not for you, that your hunger eventually gives up. When you sit down for a meal, you have to choo-choo that first spoon or forkful of food into your mouth as if you're a little baby, until your tongue can learn that's good, sending the signal to your brain to turn on the hungry feeling for real. I poured a big handful of cinnamon hearts into my palm and gobbled them before they stuck to my sweaty hand. “You can make a whole new first impression on him

tonight,” Courtney said cheerfully. “I'll still be me,” I said, pouting. “Unless I can borrow something of yours to wear?” “Something he's never seen you in, sure.” “Wait, no,” I said. “All your dresses would be mega short on me.” “Exactly.” She grinned and nodded. “Marc hates me, though. I'm not one of those idiot girls who likes a guy who hates her. I have good self esteem! My mother and father raised me to make healthy decisions. Or so they say.” “Tonight's not even a date,” she said. “It's just a thing. Honestly, he's cute, but you can get anyone you want. You have to go tonight because you're the one who got invited and I really want to go.” I finally clued in to why she was so excited. “Right, because it's art people. And you can talk to them about your monsters.” “My sculptures. They're not all monsters.” “I like how they have big bodies, but tiny hands. They seem really angry about the hands.” I counted through my stack of tips again, just to be sure. Surprisingly, I'd made more money than I'd ever gotten on a Tuesday. “Fine, I'll go tonight, but I'm going to lurk in the corner like a weirdo, and if anyone talks to me, I'll say I don't speak English. And I'll say it perfectly, with no accent, like this: I'm sorry, I do not speak English.” Courtney batted her false eyelashes. “Do you still want to come to my house for makeover madness?”

“Are you kidding? Did I just grow a dick?” I patted my crotch. “Nope, I'm a girl. Of course I'll come over for a makeover.” ~ When I got to Courtney's family's house that night, I was surprised when a girl who was not Asian opened the heavy wooden front door. I turned to make sure I was at the right place. I'd just passed through a pair of lion statues on brick columns, set within a fence of cinder blocks. The house, with no front-yard landscaping except a patch of grass, was a boxy 1970s Vancouver Special, with a low-pitched roof and a narrow balcony above the front door. In other words, it looked exactly like every other house in that particular neighborhood. “I'm Britain,” she chirped. I reached my hand out and introduced myself. Britain had apple cheeks—round and red—and short brown hair, more pixie than butch. In my head, I'd imagined her as a female Austin Powers, but she was actually pretty, and tall. And model-thin. Her gaze traveled slowly down, down my body, up again, then down once more, her expression becoming increasingly more sneering. Maybe that was how her face always looked, but she was giving me serious attitude, and I hadn't even given her a dose of my personality. “You're not how I imagined,” she said. “Same.” “Come on in,” she said, waving me in like she owned the place, which only made me despise her more. I'd been best

friends with Courtney for years. If anyone should have been granting people entry, it should have been me. “I have my own key,” I said. She looked at me the way one would look at a small child with a snot trail connecting nostril and mouth. “A key for what?” she asked chirpily. “Never mind.” I pushed past her and ran up the steps yelling, “Ha-ro! Court! I'm here.” I found Courtney in her walk-in closet, swallowed up in her massive clothing collection. The thing about Courtney's wardrobe is it spans nearly a decade and includes things like the chunky-knit sweater Courtney wore for school photo day when she was twelve. The sweater still fits. She also has everything cute I've ever owned but grown out of. The wardrobe-sharing is not very reciprocal, because I can never wear her button-down blouses or jeans, but sometimes, if she has loose-fitting jackets or anything stretchy, I'm in luck. She held up something pink and fluffy. “Crumpled ballerina?” “Too sweet.” Next was a black dress with a high neckline and long sleeves. “Elegant,” she said, offering it to me. “I'm not breaking into a bank vault.” She shook her head and pulled out a green dress—a peridot-green dress. “I don't know if you could pull this off with your skin tone,” she said, smirking. That little stinker! The first two dresses had been decoys to soften me up, and the green dress was, of course, the real one she wanted me to wear.

I snatched it from her hands. “You've been holding out on me. How long have you had this?” “Since the Aritzia warehouse sale in September. I had to get undressed in a group changing room to get this dress. You'd better appreciate it.” Britain pushed past me into the closet to loom over Courtney, draping one possessive arm over my friend. “That's not all you picked up at the warehouse sale.” “I gave this one my phone number,” Courtney said, pointing to Britain's big, white teeth. I clutched the green dress to my chest, saying, “That was your meet-cute? But that was months ago. I thought you just started dating a few weeks ago.” Britain rested her pointy chin on top of Courtney's head. “We were just hanging out as friends for a bit.” “She's not out to her family,” Courtney said. “Secrets and lies and porkie pies,” I said. Britain narrowed her eyes, her nose flaring with fireballs being shot in my direction. I left the two of them in the closet and got changed at the foot of Courtney's bed. The dress was really tight going on across my shoulders, so I went slow to avoid pulling the seam. Getting it off again would be a chore for later, but as I smoothed down the bodice, I was pleased to see it fit well enough, although the waistline was about an inch high for my liking. “Why didn't you use the zipper?” Britain asked. I whirled around. Had she been watching me the whole time? “I like a challenge.”

“You looked ridiculous.” “Where's Courtney?” Britain perched her spider-like body on the edge of the bed and grinned like she'd just devoured Courtney whole. “She's getting us some pre-party snacks.” I tugged at the tight waistline of the dress. “No snacks for me or I'll burst.” “You're not exactly petite. Maybe you shouldn't wreck Courtney's clothes by wearing them.” “Yeah? You're not petite either,” I said, knowing full-well that despite her height, she probably was just as narrow as tiny Courtney. Her eyes got small and mean. “You don't know me.” “I guess I don't.” I pulled open the drawers where Courtney kept her costume jewelry and started digging through, playing up the digging aspect to assert my presence in Courtney's room and life. “Courtney's not your little sidekick,” she said. “Don't draw her in to your freak show drama.” “Beg pardon?” That's what I say when I'm too surprised for a snappy comeback. I'd never had a girl speak to me in that tone before. My first thought was it had to be a prank Courtney was playing. She'd leave the room and then her new girlfriend would be a jerk to me, and wouldn't that be funny? But there was no humor in Britain's cold, blue eyes. The front of my throat felt painfully hot, and I'd gone from slightly uncomfortable to fight-or-flight mode in two seconds. Slowly, I said, “I'm not sure if my ears are working, could you repeat what you said?”

“I'm just saying maybe it is time for you to get a boyfriend. You'll have a lot more free time on your hands now that me and Court are together.” “Is that so?” Just then, Courtney came back into the room with spoons and three containers of Sunrise Peach Mango Dessert, a soy-based product that tastes like custard. “That dress looks sick on you,” Courtney said. “Your guy, Marc, he'll be all over you.” “With any luck,” I said with a smile, accepting the food. Despite what I'd said about not eating, I needed the sugar to balance out the shakes I was starting to get from my minute alone with evil Britain. I don't like confrontation. Yes, I say smart-ass things and little quips, but they rarely lead to actual fights with people. Most girls laugh or look confused at the things that come out of my mouth.

I miss my dreadlocks, I thought, which was an odd thing to think about. Or perhaps not. Maybe the dreads had held some power, and people had been afraid to mess with me when I had them. If I'd had them, I could have whipped my head around, smacking Britain in her evil face with the twisty ends. Instead, I meekly sat with my plastic box of dessert and agreed to whatever hair and makeup Courtney suggested. She parted my hair down the middle and tied it up in two high pigtails, then twisted them around to make two buns. Britain said I looked like an anime character, and she asked if she could do my makeup. There was no way I was

letting that girl poke pointy things near my eyes, so I asked if Courtney would give me her exact look, with the false eyelashes and the rosebud mouth. The two of them exchanged a meaningful look, but didn't say anything. Courtney brought out her makeup kit and got started. When I had my eyes closed for the eyelash application, I thought I could hear whispering, and I got the awful feeling they were making fun of me. After the eyes, when Courtney moved on to my lips, Britain stood by with her arms crossed. “They're a little crooked, but you can even them out,” Britain said. “Try to camouflage some of the mass on the bottom with cover-up.” “Mass?” I repeated. Courtney gave me a stern look. “Don't talk. You'll ruin this mouth with your talking.” “I ruin everything with my talking,” I said. Instead of disagreeing with me or reassuring me, she said, “That's your choice.” I stopped talking and tried to relax, though being in the same room as Britain made everything clench up. When Adele's Someone Like You came on the stereo, that flutter came up my chest and I nearly lost it. My heart was empty. I missed my mother. And even with her standing right in front of me, I missed my best friend. ~ The art opening for Marc's artist friend wasn't at one of the fancy galleries downtown or on Granville Street, but in the back of a restaurant on Commercial Drive. The three of us

drove over in Britain's car, an expensive-looking SAAB, with me folded up in the back. I wondered if Britain's family was loaded, or if they lived high on the lease, as my father would say. My father drives a Ford Taurus, but my mother has a Land Rover, which is definitely on the high end for our East Van neighborhood, but they had it from before, when we lived on the west side. Dad had been trying for years to get my mother to trade the big SUV in for something more economical, but the truck was, as she said, her “last luxury item.” She also claimed that without the rear view video display—a camera on the back bumper displays an image on a screen for the driver—she'd back into vehicles and posts in parkades, negating any fuel savings. Dad tried to get her to test drive one of those little Smart cars and she just laughed and laughed. My father is all about economic responsibility. At his office, all they talk about on their lunch breaks are investments, the price of real estate, and what age they're going to retire. I've always been responsible with my money, putting a portion away to savings, starting with every allowance, and now with every paycheck. At times I wonder if that was the best strategy, because Courtney spends every dollar she gets and then begs her parents for more, and they always give it to her. I wondered if Britain was a saver or a spend-now-whine-formore-later type. When we got to Commercial Drive, which is just a tenminute drive from where Courtney lives, Britain proved to be not great at parallel parking. Her ineptitude gave me joy, because I rock at parking. I opened the back door on the passenger side and said to Courtney, “Hey can you google map me to the sidewalk from here? I'm a little lost.”

“Everyone's a critic,” Britain said, slamming her door. “It was a joke,” I said. “No, it wasn't. Jokes are funny. You're just acting like Whitney Cummings.” “Thank you!” “That wasn't a compliment,” Britain said, angrily shoving toonies—two dollar coins—into the parking meter. I was perplexed by Britain. She was tall, thin, pretty, and drove a SAAB. What made her such a hater? Why do people who already have so much get bitter about those who have a little more? Honestly, you don't have to think Whitney Cummings is the greatest comedian in the world, but you have to respect her for trying, and she did create one of the most wonderfully brilliant-slash-awful shows in TV history with her 2 Broke Girls. The show is about two sassy waitresses, so you can guess who's a huge fan and watches every episode twice. Actually, don't even get me started about that show, or I'll never get to the next part of what happened that Tuesday night, once we got inside the art show. First of all, the art was nothing to talk about. The paintings were all inoffensive swooshes of color on mostly-neutral backgrounds—the kind of art that looks fabulous in a photograph of a room, or in a condo sales center. I found one swirly mess that seemed to suggest a pair of big breasts and stationed myself in front of it, looking around casually for Marc. Marc had invaded my thoughts and taken up residence on the boundary line between good and bad. Actually, he was on the good side and over on the bad was his identical twin, Crossword Guy, who didn't smile.

When I finally spotted Marc, standing with a group of silverhaired people, all holding wine and nodding in front of a five-foot-wide canvas with three stripes, my heart got a swelling feeling. And by my heart, I don't mean my heart at all. I got that same feeling I get watching Dirty Dancing, and sometimes A Walk to Remember. Marc's gaze swept across me casually, and I felt it like a touch. For a moment, I was back in junior high, being looked at by Scott Weaver, before the Ne-ne Ne-ne

Incident. Courtney and Britain were together at the bar, getting those square-looking plastic glasses of wine while talking to some older professor-looking guys. As people glanced over at me, I tried to look like I belonged to someone.

Chapter 6 The gallery was pretty big for being at the back of a restaurant—over a thousand square feet—and quickly filling up with people and their various perfumes as well as body heat. “How do you like the painting?” a male voice asked. In a rare moment of self-restraint, I did not make a comment about the thousand-dollar price tag, nor the fact I could smear paint on a canvas just as nicely using only my feet. The presence of Marc had made me cautious, and my speech bubbles were routing through my brain for a change. “Love it. I'm going to buy this one,” I said. The fair-haired, athletic-looking guy pointed to the red dot sticker on the card next to the painting. “You can't, it's already been sold. That's what the red dots mean.” “Oh, I thought that meant the painting was Hindu.” Surprise and amusement crossed his blue eyes. “Actually, bindis are worn by women in other cultures as well. Muslim women in Bangladesh also wear the red dot.”

As he talked, I admired the young man's stubbly jawline, light hair, and overall wholesomeness. He could sell cereal.

He could sell diet cereal. He seemed to be waiting for a response from me, so I said, “What's the connection between bindis and red dots on sold paintings?” “There is no connection. One of life's great mysteries. I'm Cooper.” He shook my little hand in his big, warm hand. “Cooper. You're one of those last-name guys.” His eyebrows went up. “Yes, I am. My first name is Chris, but every classroom was fifty-percent Chris, boys and girls, so Cooper stuck. And you're Peridot. Am I saying it right?” “You can call me Per or Perry.” Someone took a flash photo, blinding me, and simultaneously, I realized Cooper was Christopher W. Cooper, the artist, and Marc's friend. “I'm a friend of Marc's,” I said, embarrassed to be telling him what he already knew. He tipped back his tiny plastic cup of white wine, drinking half, then said, “Oh, I heard all about you. You're the smart mouth waitress.” “I'm not just a waitress. I do other things. I can sorta juggle, but only with three things, and they have to be soft.” I leaned to the side to look around the wall of Cooper, to see Marc talking to an attractive girl with blue hair and multiple butterfly tattoos across her exposed back. She kept touching his arm and laughing. “That would be Marc's ex-girlfriend,” Cooper said. “No kidding.” Suddenly I was feeling very bland and regretting wearing a pearl-button cardigan over my

borrowed green dress instead of my puffy army jacket. “He dates girls with blue hair?” I asked. Cooper turned to study them, rubbing his eyebrow. “The exact opposite, actually. He doesn't like the weird hair and tattoos. She didn't look that way a year ago. She was sweet and innocent-looking.” He took another sip of his wine. “Sounds like you're pretty hard-up for her yourself.” He spat wine out of his mouth in a spray. “She's my sister.” “She's a lovely girl. Ah, I see it now, a bit. Do you both have some of that quality Scottish DNA?” “Not that I know of.” His mouth twisted with amusement, which made my head feel light and my smile grow wider. I turned back to the canvas, which truly was growing on me. “I'm actually digging the art now,” I said. “Don't get your hopes up—I'm not buying any, but I like what you're doing here.” “If you're not buying, I'd better go chat up some rich ladies who are.” “You should.” He continued to stand in front of me, so I grabbed him by the elbows and rotated him to face the crowd of people who'd just walked in. He turned his face toward me, ducking his chin to his shoulder, and said, “I'm scared, Peridot. Give me a push.” Standing behind him, I looped my arms under his and waved my hands in front of him, like they were his. “Don't be scared, I'll be your hands. We'll do it together.” Cooper transferred his empty wine glass to my left hand, then tucked his hands behind his back and pressed his

arms down, gripping my arms firmly, so I was stuck with him, being his arms. I rested my face between his shoulder blades and enjoyed the contact. He walked us up to a lady and said, “Hello, I'm Cooper. Shake my little girlie hand.” The lady went along with it and shook my hand like a champ. “No wonder your work shows such sensitivity,” she said. “All in my magic hands,” he said. Someone tapped me on the shoulder—Marc, looking embarrassed on my behalf. “I didn't think you'd come,” he said. “Try and stop me.” I withdrew my arms, and Cooper carried on without missing a beat, talking to the interested lady about the relative light temperature of rooms facing north versus rooms facing west. Marc said something else as we walked toward an empty corner to talk, but I couldn't hear him over the noise. The gallery had filled up—there must have been a hundred people—and the bare concrete floors and white walls did nothing to buffer the noise. Back at The Whistle, we have an acoustic-tile ceiling, painted teal, to help keep the din of conversation pleasant in such a crammed space. Marc repeated himself for the third time, nearly shouting, “I like your buns!” I had forgotten my hair was twisted up in two buns and thought he was being extremely cheeky, so I said, “You can grab them if you want.” He reached up gingerly and touched my hair, to my

disappointment. “This look is so much better for you than the dirty mats.” “They're not mats, they're called dreads. And they weren't dirty. I washed them once a week.” “Well, I'm glad they're gone.” He wasn't looking at me, but near me, over my shoulder. “You look nice.” I turned to see his ex nearby, the one with the blue hair and the butterfly tattoos. “Marc, do you have really rigid ideas about how a woman should look?” With that, I had his full attention. He looked deep into me with his gold-flecked, light brown eyes that matched his tortoiseshell-framed glasses. I had a crush on him, and a separate but equally strong crush on those glasses. I wanted to put them in my mouth. “I'm a fan of authenticity,” he said. “Truth. Honesty. Not artifice.” “I'm down with authenticity.” “Says the girl with the false eyelashes,” he said. I'd forgotten I was wearing those, courtesy of Courtney's supply. They weren't so uncomfortable after all, once you got used to them. “What's wrong with a little window dressing?” He tugged at his shirt collar, and I realized he was wearing an actual tie, along with pants and a jacket that could have come from my father's closet. I was used to seeing him in more casual clothes, but I liked him in a suit. The tie, however, could have been more interesting. “The art's great,” I said. Behind Marc, Courtney passed by, giving me a subtle thumbs-up.

Brightly, he said, “Thanks for coming by. These events always go better when there's a crowd.” He reached his hand out and shook mine, which seemed formal, but appropriate enough for the sophisticated atmosphere. I turned to look for Courtney, to re-introduce them now that we were outside the restaurant, but she'd disappeared on me. When I turned back, Marc had also disappeared into the crowd. I couldn't see Blue Hair in the gallery, and I had a feeling Marc was off somewhere with her. Later on, after I left the art show, I would become angry at him for inviting me out and then not paying attention to me, but, in the moment, in the crowd, I was simply confused. I was lost. The first time I'd walked home from school by myself, as a little kid, I took a wrong turn and ended up on a street that looked like the one I lived on, complete with a house that looked like mine, but wasn't mine. I couldn't figure out what to do next, and feared if I kept walking, I'd only get more lost, so I sat down on the sidewalk and waited for my mother to come find me. The problem with being lost at the art show was nobody would be coming for me. A waiter passed by with a tray of something aromatic. “Yes, please,” I said to get his attention. He tilted the tray my way, displaying crumbs and prawn tails. “I'm afraid that's the last of them.” “No kidding. All the good ones are taken. Isn't that always the way.” He gave me a quick nod and disappeared as well.

Courtney and Britain were engrossed in conversation with some other girls who looked a little familiar. I stood near a wall, as forlorn as a dog turd in the middle of the sidewalk, and mumbled to myself, “I do not speak any English.” I'd really worked myself up to a good pout by the time Courtney came by to see if I wanted to go for dinner with her and Britain. “No. She's the devil,” I said. Courtney laughed. “I'm dead serious. You left me alone in your room with her for a minute and she threatened to eat my future babies. She has it in for me.” Courtney shook her head and laughed again. Her cheeks were really flushed from the wine. “That's her sense of humor, silly. She's just teasing you.” “Like hell.” Courtney pouted her lips. “Don't be a lawn-pooper.” “I'm going to record her with a nanny cam and show you. She was really mean to me.” “I told her all about you,” Courtney said. “You guys just need to spend more time together.” “What do you mean, you told her? Did she say something about me?” “No,” she lied. Courtney is a terrible liar—her whole face practically twitches—so I knew she was lying. If Britain had been talking about me, that meant she was threatening me to my

face as well as sabotaging me behind my back. “You two young lovers have fun,” I said. “I've got bus tickets that'll get me home.” She didn't make any effort to convince me to stay, and Marc was nowhere to be seen, so I headed for the exit before my night could get worse. Outside, I caught a B-Line full of every creepy, smelly weirdo within Metro Vancouver. At least the bright interior lights mercifully dimmed once we got rolling, and the B-Line is pretty fast, because it zips along Broadway with minimal stops. I'd be at my home near Main Street in no time. To pass the time, I read all the back-lit advertisements for exciting careers in tourism or dentistry, as well as a disturbing but almost-pretty ad for donating your lungs. I turned back to the career ads, wondering if the models were people in those careers, or simply models. They weren't good-looking enough to be fashion models, but they weren't quite average-looking either. Could I get a job as a slightly-better-looking-than-average model for career ads? When I was in high school, I thought I'd have things figured out by graduation. So many other kids knew exactly what they wanted to be, from veterinarians to hockey players. A lot of their career goals were ridiculous and unlikely, but still, I envied them their dreams. The only thing I'd always known about my future life was I didn't want to be like either of my parents. I didn't want to diagram water pipes and talk about retirement, nor would I choose to be chewed up and spat out by the entertainment industry. Done with the ads, and wanting to avoid conversation with the guy who'd just sat next to me, I pulled out my phone. The guy had light brown dreadlocks and wore sandals that highlighted his gnarly yellow toenails. He was maybe

twenty, but had the toenails of a much older person. Minutes passed, and he still hadn't said anything to me. I nearly started a conversation myself, just to make things normal, when I realized he wasn't talking to me because I didn't have my dreadlocks anymore. We were no longer in the same club, insta-buddies. That gave me mixed feelings: relief tinged with loneliness. On my phone, I scrolled through my emails, looking for messages from my mother. A new one from her came in as I was looking at the screen. We do have a psychic connection at times—one that mystifies my father. The text read check out this arm candy, and she was standing next to that skinny guy who's in Maroon 5 and also on that singing show, The Voice. He's got that androgynous, sexy look: Adam Levine. He had the Moves Like Jagger, and his arm around my mother. While you might think it's cool to meet rock stars, or hear about meeting them from a family member, it's tempered by that uneasiness you might get from seeing a dude—a hot one who always has his shirt off in music videos— touching your mom. She's a person in her own right, but she's still your mom. I showed the photo to the guy sitting next to me—the guy with the dreadlocks, and tried to explain the whole situation, but he was not very chatty. He said, “I'm German, no English.” “Sure you are,” I said, returning my attention to my phone. It wasn't the worst bus ride of my life, but things were not right in the universe that night, and I was in a strange emotional state—kind of a full-moon feeling. I wanted to go to the country and bay at all the stars you can't see in the

city. I wanted to row a boat out into English Bay and be alone. Instead, I went home, washed up the dinner dishes, and did laundry. Like a good little housewife.

Chapter 7 Wednesday at work, I was off my game. “Scrambled,” I said to the grown woman with the stuffed-toy octopus on her lap. “No,” she said, gagging like she was going to throw up. “Don't be revolting. Over easy.” “That's how I'll have mine too,” her husband said. As I put the order in to Donny in the kitchen, I wondered if I was normally wrong that often, or if I was having an exceptionally bad day. When I told you my superpower was knowing how people like their eggs, that wasn't exactly true. There are four main ways to get your eggs: poached, scrambled, over, and sunny-side up. Poached people have a look. Imagine someone who is opposed to fun—generally against enjoyment. Picture that person with their little wire-rimmed glasses or their permed hair. That's the poached look. Poached is the only style with no oil, salt, pepper, or fun.

Foodies and most Asian people go for sunny-side up, and the rest of humanity gets either scrambled or flipped. Over easy is by far the most popular, at about sixty percent popularity, and I think it's because people like the label for themselves: I'll have mine over easy because I'm cool like

that. What I do to make it seem like I'm psychic is I guess. The key is to make it sound like you're offering an option, so if they don't jump on your suggestion, you can move down to the next on the list. Fortune tellers do the same thing, more or less, naming off a letter of the alphabet and fishing for a reaction. So, when it comes to the eggs, I simply take an educated guess, and when I'm right, I smile and say, “I knew it.” However, on that Wednesday, I wasn't right once, if you don't count the regulars, whose preferences I'd memorized. At two o'clock, I was relieved to wipe the breakfast specials off the board and switch over to the lunch menu, which didn't have eggs. I was bummed that I'd gotten dressed up the night before, only to get ignored by Marc. Dating seemed like a lot of effort. My all-too-willing prep cook, Toph, was starting to look better and better. As I was thinking about him, he brought a tray of glasses up for us, his biceps showing under his thin shirt. I felt dirty for even looking, because while Toph and I were only a month apart in age, there was something little-brother-y about the guy. Apparently, I was into guys a couple of years older than me, like Marc. I wanted to talk to Courtney about my boy crushes, as well as about her girlfriend, but the lunch rush went on forever. Near the end of my shift, I cornered her by the coffee machines.

I said, “I have some concerns about your girlfriend.” She put one paper coffee filter in the machine and one on top of my head. “I won't get her pregnant, Mom.” I left the coffee filter crown on my head. “I think she's jealous of me.” “Of course she is. You're my best friend. Deal with it.” “You know?” She measured out the coffee grounds, which smelled so good. I don't drink coffee, but sometimes when I grind the beans, I get the urge to shovel them into my mouth. “Perry, if you're picking up on a vibe, you're probably not wrong. She's a smidge insecure now because she's going through some stuff. It's only natural.” “It's not a vibe, Courtney. She threatened me.” “With what? How, exactly? Did she say she was going to punch you out?” “It was implied.” Courtney pressed the red button and the machine began huffing and gurgling. “She's just teasing you. Brit really likes you, I swear. She thinks it's cool you're taking care of your family while your mom's out of town. Very responsible.” “Whatever.” I took off my paper hat and crumpled it into the garbage. “Consider her on warning, from me.” “How did it go with your guy, Marc? I saw you chatting up his friend, the artist. Marc's eyeballs practically fell out of his head when you were hugging his friend.” I squealed. “Really?” I hadn't been hugging his friend, but I

had been pretty close to Cooper when I let him use my arms as his for a gag. Furthermore, I had not minded the close, physical contact with him. He was much more fit than you'd expect an artist to be. Thinking about pressing my face in the spot between his shoulder blades put a Mona Lisa smile on my lips and a tilt to my head. Courtney asked, “What's your next move?” “Marc likes girls who look normal, so I'm going to be normal.” “Normal?” “He called it something else. Authentic.” Courtney frowned as she pulled at her row of false eyelashes and adjusted the edge. “Don't ever change for a guy.” “Easy for you to say.” The train whistle blew with an order for a table on Courtney's side. While she was finishing up with her table, I got my phone out and googled Marc to see what else I could find out. With just his first name, however, that proved impossible. His friend, Chris Cooper, was far easier to find. I located Cooper on Facebook, where he had a completely unsecured profile. Through his friend list, I found Marc, but I didn't send a friend request to either. Marc only had one photo visible to the public, but it was a good one. I went back to Cooper's page, hunting for more photos of his friends. I guessed he kept it open for his art career, as there were a lot of posts about his paintings. His abstract, large-scale art was growing on me. None of the paintings were of anything in particular, but they were enjoyable to

look at and admire, like the mountains, or the ocean, or your own freshly-manicured fingernails. The blue-haired girl was in many of the pictures, and her name was revealed to be … Sunshine Cooper. A wave of nausea washed over me. Speaking as someone with a weird name, I have to say people with odd names are so much more trouble than people with normal names. Maybe they're spoiled rotten growing up, or maybe their parents are narcissists and it's genetic, or maybe the whole world treats them like one-of-a-kinds and it goes to their heads. I know I'm not an easy person. I try to be good, and kind, and moral, but I am not easy.

Sunshine, how easy are you? I was imagining blue-haired Sunshine with her little paws all over Marc when Courtney came by and laughed at the wretched look on my face. Courtney said, “You must be looking at that photo of your mom with Adam Levine.” “How did you know about that?” “It was on a bunch of blogs. I'm sure it's nothing. From what I read, she was just down at a taping for The Voice and went backstage to meet some people.” I grumpily put my phone away. “She could have told her own daughter the whole story.” Donny, who was listening at the window, stuck his head through and said, “I have a man-crush on Adam Levine.” “He's a handsome man,” Courtney said. “Does that make me bisexual?” Donny asked Courtney.

“If you have to ask, it means yes, you are.” Courtney grabbed a clean butter knife from the utensil bin and gently touched it to Donny's left shoulder, then his right. “I hereby knight you a bisexual,” she said. They carried on for a few more minutes, making jokes about different grades of bi-curiosity, but I wasn't paying attention. Courtney waved her hand in front of my face and asked me why I was so quiet. I told her I was thinking about my overdue library books, but the truth was, I'd been having a little fantasy about Adam Levine, Marc, and Cooper fighting over me, all of them wearing nothing but pajama bottoms. What can I say? I'm a sick girl. ~ At home, my family was not impressed with dinner that night. We were out of peanut sauce for the stir-fry, so I made my own, using peanut butter and the other things typically listed on the side of salad dressing: oil, vinegar, mustard, sugar, and salt. Garnet pushed his still-full plate away. “Bro, I'm not gonna say it's the worst thing I ever ate, because at least there's no eggplant in here.” My father grabbed the salt shaker and gave his plate a liberal coat. “It's fine for tonight, but I think I'll buy my lunch tomorrow. I do applaud your effort and ingenuity, though.” I finished chewing my broccoli and swallowed. The sauce was on the sweet side, but teriyaki is sweet, and both of them loved teriyaki. They're just scared of trying new things, I told myself.

“What does authentic mean to you guys?” I asked. They stared back blankly. “This guy I like, he's into authentic girls. What does that mean?” “No padded bra,” Garnet said, grabbing some bread and buttering two slices. “Be yourself, Perry,” Dad said. “Be your own lovely self.” Garnet laughed hard, chunks of bread flying out of his mouth. “Dad. I'm always myself. I was just thinking … it's like on American Idol when the judges tell the contestants to just have fun with it. What they really mean, according to Mom, is to rehearse your butt off until you have every note and move in your muscle memory, then smile while you're doing it and make it look easy. They're not having fun so much as they're crazy prepared.” “How does this relate to dating?” Dad asked. “I think I have to act like myself, but toned down, so I don't seem to be trying so hard. In reality, I'll be trying harder than ever, because I'll have to not say whatever pops into my brain. Plus I'll smile a lot and that'll make it look easy.” “Maybe you should get a padded bra,” Garnet said. “All's fair in love and war.” “My boobs aren't okay? I thought I had nice boobs.” I squished them together, much to my brother's horror. My father smacked the palm of his hand on his forehead. “Is this really appropriate for a normal family dinner?” “We're not babies,” Garnet said. “Besides, we're not a

normal family. Our mother's all over the internet with halfnaked rock stars.” I kicked Garnet under the table. “Bro!” Garnet said angrily. “He's going to see the photos eventually.” Dad's face looked even worse than when he'd first tasted the stir-fry. “She was at the taping of a TV show,” I told my father. “So she posed with some music industry people. She sent a picture to me last night.” Dad got up from the table without a word and went to the fridge. “Don't you have homework, Garnet?” he called back. “You're so lucky you're done school,” Garnet said to me, getting up from the table with two more slices of buttered bread. “Hey, enjoy yourself,” I told Garnet. “You don't realize it when you're there, but life's a lot simpler in high school.” “Yeah? If high school's so great, why don't people stay in it forever and ever?” Dad's beer made a psht noise as he cracked it open. “We do stay,” my father said. “We are in high school forever and ever. The pretty girls are always flirting with the jocks, and the nerds are at the bottom of the heap, socially irrelevant.” Garnet gave me a wide-eyed look and then scurried out of the room. We try to avoid my father when he's in one of his poor-me moods. “Dad, I'm sure it's nothing. You should call her. We're in the same time zone, right?” He sat at the kitchen island counter across from me, letting

out an oof sound when his bum hit the bar stool chair heavily. “You're eighteen. You're practically an adult. I'm not going to sugarcoat it.” He took a long drink, swallowing half of his beer. “Your mother and I aren't doing so well.” My pulse rushed in my ears, trying to block out his words. “Dad, did you take your pills today?” “It's not your job to pester me about my damn pills.” “So, that's a no then.” “I forget.” “Do you wanna watch a movie with me? Get an early night and see how things look tomorrow?” He guzzled more of the beer. “You don't have to look after me. That's your mother's job.” “Dad. Don't be like this.” “You know, at your age, you have so much hope. You think things are going to get better. You think people are actually capable of change.” “People can change.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the granite counter, and looked unwaveringly into my eyes. “Nobody changes for shit.” I tensed my legs, shifting ahead on my chair so I could rub my big toe back and forth on the floor, searching for the gap in the floorboards. My father takes a pill for his Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) and a pill for his anxiety. My mother can tell by the timbre of his voice alone whether or not he's taken the pills. I don't pay that much attention, but when he starts talking

about people changing, that's a pretty clear sign something's wrong. “We can watch that awful Adam Sandler movie, where he plays a female twin of himself,” I said. “Jack and Jill. I think it's his lowest-rated poopfest to date. It's like a parody of a bad Adam Sandler movie.” My father rubbed his hairline, his face looking like mine before I cry. Seeing him like that made my own throat close up. “All this restructuring at work is no fun,” he said. Repeating the phrase he'd used on me so often, I said, “If it was fun, it wouldn't be called work.” I stood and cleared away the plates. “Come on, I'll get the popcorn started. You could probably use a few more calories for your dinner.” “Do we have any chocolate?” he asked. I was already getting the step stool to reach the top cupboard, where Mom kept our junk stash. ~ Ten minutes later, we were stretched out on the sectional in the TV den. Garnet wandered in to tell us how stupid the movie was and paced back and forth for a bit before caving in and joining us on the sofa. My father fell asleep before the movie was even half-over, confirming that he had definitely not taken his pills that day. He's a night-owl, often up until at least one in the morning, but when he doesn't take his ADD pill, he crashes right after dinner. With Dad snoring away lightly, Garnet and I kept watching the movie. Garnet whispered to me, “Are Mom and Dad going to get

divorced?” “Don't be silly. This is normal stuff. Relationships are hard sometimes, and people go through rough patches.” “This is normal?” “Completely normal.” He nodded and shoved more M&Ms into his mouth. Even though I'd never had a relationship of my own, and was only three years older than Garnet, he seemed satisfied with my expertise. I guess we all hear what we want to hear. ~ Before I went to bed, I sent Mom a quick email update, telling her about Dad not taking his pills that day and being grumpy. I suggested she send him an edible arrangement or a food basket to his workplace to show she was thinking about him. In the email, I even included some links to things he might enjoy, like chocolate-covered pretzels. Like me, Dad loves things that are both salty and sweet—my weird peanut-butter stir fry being an exception. When Garnet was ten, around the time of my father's ADD diagnosis, they worried he might have it too, because it often runs in families. The psychiatrist met with the three of them and determined that Garnet might benefit from medication as he got older, but his grades were fine and his teachers weren't having behavioral problems with him, so he probably didn't have it. Unlike something like high blood pressure or thyroid disease, there's no physical test for ADD. I wondered for a bit if I might have it, because apparently saying whatever you want without filtering is a sign, but my parents didn't bring me in to the psychiatrist, so I didn't mention it.

I took one of my father's ADD pills once. I knew it was wrong, but I was studying for final exams and lots of the other kids at school take each others' pills during finals. I know I'm making our school sound like Drug Poppin' High, but most of the kids didn't do much more than smoke a bit of pot. At the time, I'd convinced myself I definitely had ADD and that was why I couldn't study. I took one of his pills and sat down to get to work, expecting it to help me the way a Starbucks Mochachino does, but it didn't help at all. Instead, I had an irresistible urge to be chatty. I got on my phone and started calling people—not just texting, but actually phoning. I talked to people all night long. The next day, I found out increased sociability is a sideeffect of the pills. It really helped me understand why my dad is so pleasant when he's on the pills and grouchy when he's off. His anti-anxiety pill probably makes a big difference too. I immediately confessed to my mother that I'd taken one of Dad's pills and swore I'd never do it again. She didn't tell him, that I know of, but said I could go visit the psychiatrist and get my own prescription if I wanted. I chose not to go, because I was afraid of changing. I worried I might become a completely different person if I took mood-altering drugs. Say what you will about the benefits of modern medication, but you can't deny it changes how a person acts, which means it changes your personality. Funny how the way we act comes down to chemistry, isn't it? And it isn't just drugs that change the way we act, but food and water too. At the restaurant, I've seen people come in miserable and hungry, only to light up after a cup of coffee, then become the Happiest People on Earth after a big meal. Which version of them was the truth? When I crawled into bed on Wednesday night, the day after the art show, I was still chewing over the concept of

authenticity, as Marc had called it. My father took two pills that radically changed how he interacted with others. You could say they changed his entire personality, since that's basically what personality is. Was he being authentic? Was the real him the guy who honked impatiently at people in traffic or the guy who waved everyone into his lane ahead of him? Dad on medication was certainly a lot happier and more pleasant to be around. My mother said when he first got treatment, the fighting stopped. I didn't have to take her word for it, because much of the fighting they did was around us. It wasn't ugly stuff, with name-calling, but he did raise his voice, and he wouldn't let stuff go. She'd go quiet to let him get the last word, and he'd become irritated by the silence and keep arguing, even though it was onesided. According to the book Dad's psychiatrist recommended the whole family read, people with ADD actually enjoy confrontation with others, because it stimulates their minds and makes them feel better. Arguing makes them feel normal. How someone can feel better when people are ticked off at them, I'll never know. I had a hard time falling asleep that night, and I had a series of upsetting dreams where everyone was yelling at me to be more authentic and to be more like myself, but not how I usually am, because everything I did was wrong. ~ In the morning, my eyes looked tiny and beady. Using the giant box full of eyeshadows my aunt gave me for Christmas from Sephora, I searched for colors that would make me look fun and authentic. Until then, I'd avoided shades of green, especially peridot green, because it seemed self-centered to match my

name. However, what could be more authentic? I went for the green—three shades—and wore the matching dress I'd borrowed from Courtney, figuring it had at least another wear in it before dry cleaning. This time, I remembered to use the zipper, getting angry as I remembered Britain laughing at me. What if Courtney didn't smarten up and realize she was dating a total douche? I'd be stuck with Britain forever. I stuffed my overdue library books in my bag and rushed down the hall to the big bathroom, the one my parents and Garnet use. Dad was in the shower, so I knocked and asked if I could come in. “How did the movie end?” he asked from behind the shower curtain. “How do all movies end?” I replied, opening up the medicine cabinet door to cover the mirror and expose his medication. “Don't forget to take your pills today.” “Yes, dear,” he said, the way he does to my mother, which made me feel both proud and uncomfortable. When I agreed to looking after the family in Mom's absence, I didn't know it would be like this. On the way out of the house, I raided Mom's closet again for one of her Anthropologie scarves, which I tied around my head as a hairband. The feeling of the tassels on my back reminded me pleasantly of my dreadlocks. ~ When I got to work, Toph looked up from his half-peeled bowl of potatoes and told me I looked hot. “Hot? Toph, are you flirting with me? Do you think you could handle all of this?”

He blushed at his potatoes. Donny, who was oiling up his grill station, said, “Don't lord your unfair womanly advantage over him.” “What advantage is that, exactly? The ability to do more work for less pay?” “Have you been on those feminist blogs again?” Donny asked. I grabbed some blueberries from a nearby crate and sampled them for quality. “Maybe. Seriously, though, do I look nice today? Do I look authentic?” Donny came over to the island to stir the pancake batter and said to Toph, “Should I tell her she has blueberry skins all over her teeth?” Toph laughed at me as I gave them both a proud grin. After I rubbed my teeth with a napkin, I said, “Donny, what are your wife's best qualities?” “That she doesn't request foreplay.” Toph laughed like a hyena. “How about when you first met? What did you like about her? What made her different from all the other girls?” “She liked me, and she was easy.” “You're a pig. I'm going to tell her you said that.” He shrugged. Toph said, “My brother likes insecure girls because they get so jealous, and they try harder.” “What about you?” I asked.

“I'd say my type is Megan Fox.” I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my own saliva. “Really. Why am I not surprised? If Megan Fox is your type, then good luck.”

Drop it, I told myself, but I couldn't. I said to Toph, “Why is it guys like you, who look the way you do, think you deserve someone who looks like Megan Fox?” Toph frowned at his potatoes. “I have a lot to offer.” “Toph, honey, tens don't go out with ...” I paused because Donny was giving me a stern look, so I added two points to my assessment of Toph's date-ability. “Sevens.” “If the kid here is a seven, what am I?” Donny asked. “You're also a seven, seven and a half.” “So are you,” Donny said to me. “Six and a half,” Toph said. I put my hands on my hips, playing up being mock-offended to cover the fact I really was hurt. “Toph, I'm half a point less attractive than you? How can you say that with a straight look on your face?” “I'm being generous,” he said. “Courtney's an eight, that's why she always gets better tips than you.” “You don't have to rub it in my face,” I said. Donny ducked his head to peek out the window-opening to the dining room. “You have a customer, Little Miss Seven.” “Call me that again and I'll tell everyone about how you had plantar warts on your hands and spread them to everyone

in the kitchen via the utensils.” Toph threw the potato peeler on the floor and jumped back. “They're cured now,” Donny said to Toph. “We all had them burned off last summer. You're safe.” I giggled as I went around the dividing wall to the dining area. Courtney was running late that morning, as she did about half her shifts, so I sat the first few tables on my side.

Be authentic, I told myself as I was telling the customers about the specials. “What would you recommend?” the gentleman asked. Typically, I would quip something about the place across the street, but instead, I said, “Today's special, with the french toast, is the best thing we offer. I tried to get it put on the permanent menu, but the price of fresh strawberries fluctuates too much. If you see it on our specials board, you should go for it.” “That sounds terrific!” he said. His friend, another gentleman in a sporty polar fleece zipup, asked me about a hundred questions about ingredients, all of which I answered dutifully and authentically. As I walked back to the kitchen with their order, I could feel my face frowning. Sure, I'd answered all their questions, but I felt used, cheap. Subservient. How dare they act so delighted at my answers and keep pressing for more, more, more? They weren't the bosses of me. I wasn't going to drool and jump around like a performing walrus in the hopes of getting a $4.50 tip instead of $3.00.

When the whistle blew with their order, I brought them their french toast and sides of crispy bacon, saying, “I want to see clean plates next time I come back.” They completely ignored me and carried on with their conversation. Courtney finally showed up, just as I was sweating over sitting four tables at once, and she took three of them. She'd done something new to her hair—feather extensions. Feathers! I had to touch them. As we crossed paths over the next hour, she told me all about how wonderful and exciting her new girlfriend Britain was, and how they'd had a shopping spree the day before, after work, including a trip to Anthropologie. I adjusted my mother's scarf I was wearing as a headband and tried not to show my shock over the betrayal. The betrayal! Anthropologie was our store; since it had opened the previous year, we always went together to look at the clothes to get ideas, while promising ourselves we'd go on a big thrift-store or H&M hunt for similar (but cheaper) items, then we'd cave and buy stuff like eighty-dollar blouses. Courtney showed me the cute cords she'd bought at Anthropologie and said she'd gotten the feather extensions just up Granville Street. “My hair's too normal now,” I said, wiping down the tables as she cleared. “I'm going to get some feathers. What did you say was the name of that place?” “You can't copy me. This is my look.” Her face was expressionless, her thickly-lashed eyes inscrutable. “Pluck a duck, you're kidding me, right?” “I quack you not. Get your own look.”

I faked a stomach cramp and went to the staff washroom before I said something I would regret. With her being small and Asian and me not, I didn't think feather extensions would make us look like twins. I wondered if she'd deny Britain the same, or if Britain already had feathers in her short, brown hair. In the bathroom, I removed the scarf from my head, because it looked like I was trying too hard. I put some water on my hands to smooth out my hair. The fluffy stuff kept getting in my face, ever since I'd lost the dreadlocks, and I hadn't gotten used to the tickly feeling of it on my cheeks. I had figured out that the hair product stuff other people used wasn't simply optional, but that if you wanted to have nice-looking hair, you had to use something. I'd raided my brother's stash and tried something called wax that day, but the tiny dab they recommended wasn't doing much to tame my fly-aways. Fly-aways! You don't have those when you wear dreadlocks. I grabbed some of the hair from the top and front and quickly gave myself three messy little braids, then fastened them with some twist-ties borrowed from the kitchen. I looked ridiculous, but I figured it would get a laugh from Courtney at the very least. Out in the dining area, I was surprised to find a new person sitting in my section. He had broad shoulders and blond hair, cut short on the sides and spiking up high in the middle. From the side, he had an appealing profile, with a really nice jawline. It wasn't until he looked up at me with dazzling blue eyes I realized he was Cooper, Marc's artist friend.

Chapter 8 When I approached the table, Cooper said, “Don't spare the smart mouth on account of knowing me.” “Don't spare the tip on account of my new hairdo. Trust me, it looks funny, but the braids will reduce the amount of hair content in your meal by fifty percent.” I shook my twist-tiefastened braids. “I'm a bad boy,” he said. “Tell me about it.” “I brought my Starbucks,” he said, lifting his paper cup. “Oh goody! I get to charge you a dollar twenty-five.” “And I don't have to drink the coffee you guys brew here. Totally worth it. What exactly is the secret to your coffee?” “I put the new grinds on top of the old ones,” I said, which wasn't true at all. Our coffee was decent for a diner, but we liked to play it up for laughs. His light-brown eyebrows shot up, so either he was surprised or good at faking it. “Do you add banana peels

too?” “Only on Fridays. And it's Thursday today, so you might be safe.” “My lucky day,” he said. “These laminated rectangles contain words about food,” I said, handing him a menu. “No need to look. I'll have the clubhouse,” he said. Taking a stab at flirting, I let my voice get bubbly as I said, “How do you know we have a clubhouse sandwich? We might not.” Still grinning, he said, “Don't you have a little message pad you should be writing this down on?” “Only if I care about getting the orders right.” “What time are you off?” Behind me, a guy said, “I think that's enough, now.” I jumped, startled, and turned to find Marc, standing by the door and looking bewildered. “Thank you for helping me fend off untoward advances,” I said to Marc. “Not him, you,” he said, pointing at me. “You leave him alone, you beast.” Marc grinned as he took the chair across from his friend. My jaw dropped. It literally dropped right open, leaving my mouth open and speechless. But not for long. “Do you know what you want?” I asked impatiently. “Or are

you going to deliberate over the menu for ten minutes then order the same boring thing you always have?” “Burn,” Cooper said to me. “Keep 'em coming. Make him cry and I'll add a zero to your tip.” The way Marc pursed his lips at the teasing melted my heart. “I'm sorry,” I said. “You did have the special that one time. We have a great one today with fresh strawberries and french toast. Or I could get you a menu.” “I'll have the special,” he said, turning his head just enough to meet my gaze. Softening, I said, “I think you'll enjoy it.” He swallowed. “Thank you. I've had a stressful day.” I reached down and squeezed his shoulder. He jerked a little, but didn't push me away. “I'll take good care of you,” I said. “Starting with coffee, right?” “Yes, thank you, Perry.” When he said my name, electricity shot through me. As I walked away, I wondered what had just happened. I had squeezed a customer's shoulder? What was next? Calling everyone honey and sweetie, like some truckstopdiner mom-substitute? I punched the order into the computer. Sometimes, if we just have a couple of tables, we'll tell the kitchen the orders, but most of the time we use our Squirrel software, which puts the order into the kitchen and also does up the bill. I tapped away at the buttons, messing up the simplest things, like hitting hot chocolate instead of coffee.

Every time I looked up, Marc was staring my way. He'd quickly turn away again, but I knew he was watching me. This went on for an uncomfortable forty minutes; I could feel his gaze on me the whole time he and Cooper were there. When they finally left, even though I was surrounded by people, I felt strangely alone. They'd both been so sweet to me, almost competitive about getting my attention whenever I'd gone by their table. Marc had asked if he could feel one of my braids, and Cooper had insisted on pulling on the other one. Never before had I wished so much to sit at a table and be a customer instead of a waitress. As of Thursday, Marc had come in three days that week. That had to mean something. “He likes you,” Courtney said by the waitress station. Smirking and giddy, I said, “You may be right.” “What's your next move?” she asked. Courtney was all about moves, apparently. “Next time I see him, I'll ask him out,” I said. “Unless he asks you first.” I jumped up and down on the spot, saying, “Eee!” My head felt twirly and light. Just the idea of asking a guy out on a date made me crazy nervous. I had to drink a big glass of orange juice to get my legs to stop shaking. ~ I kept hoping I'd see Marc again, but I had my days off on Friday and Saturday, and to my disappointment, he didn't

come in on Sunday. He'd never come in on a Sunday before, so I decided he had to have other regular things that day, or he wanted to stay away from the busy weekend crowd. Surely he would come in on his regular day, I thought. I was so nervous by the time Monday morning rolled around, even more because he didn't show up until half an hour after his usual time. For a full twenty-nine minutes, I'd overreacted and was miserable at the thought of not seeing him. I'd worn special shoes for him, too. They had laces down the front and spiky little high heels—not high in a clubbing context, but high for waitressing. I fully planned to change into my regular comfy pirate boots after I saw him for the day, but I wanted to show off how nice my legs looked in the heels. My calves had such a great, compact curve in those boots, and the height made me feel sexy. Even Toph and Donny in the kitchen had agreed I was “almost an eight” in those shoes, as well as the short, black dress I'd borrowed from my mother's closet. I'd accessorized with feather earrings, and I wore my hair parted down the middle, in soft, wavy layers with no flyaways thanks to a liberal coating of various gunk from the drugstore. The weather was quite rainy that Monday, so we had our rented floor mats—the black ones, not the tacky red ones— down the center aisle of the restaurant. What I didn't realize was Courtney had already tripped once on the rug where it overlapped another one, and what I thought was a shadow on the floor wasn't a shadow so much as it was a carpetcave, waiting to catch my toe. Unsteady on my brand-new heels, I tripped a little as I left the safety of the waitress station behind the bar, then I teetered at the halfway point. Marc stood just inside the door, waiting to be seated.

His face changed expression, his attention moving to my legs. They tingled, from knees to ankles, under his gaze. I heard Tyra Banks and her cohorts in my head, telling me to work it, girl, work that walk. You won't be surprised to hear that I tripped and fell, my foot catching on the shadowy edge of the floor mat. All five-footseven of me, and all one hundred and mumble-mumble pounds became a projectile, launched right at Marc. Bless his reflexes, the guy caught me as easily as one of those Frisbee-catching dogs grabs a practice throw. And he dipped me, as easily as Johnny Castle dipped Baby in Dirty Dancing. The restaurant, which was about a third full, erupted with cheers and clapping. Held in his strong arms, I melted as Marc gave me a deep, passionate, tasty kiss. Actually, that last part didn't happen. Still, our physical encounter was rather intimate, because it involved exchanging bodily fluids. After catching me, a few people did clap, and Marc made a funny, wincing expression, then sneezed right in my face. We were both so surprised, I screamed and he dropped me. Hard. Hands grabbed at my clothes—Courtney's hands, pulling the hem of my black dress down to cover my underpants. I was wearing one of my boy-shorts pairs that my brother had given me as a joke for my last birthday. They were gray with red piping, in a Y shape down the front, just like a men's pair of gonchies. They gave good coverage of the bikini area, but were not the sort of thing you want a cute boy to see you in. As Courtney and Marc helped me to my feet, I could think of nothing but my underwear and how horrible they were. I would go home that afternoon and immediately throw them in the garbage, but for the moment, I was trapped in my

humiliation. With a disapproving tone, Marc said, “Those carpets are a hazard.” I said, “So are tile floors that are all wet from people like you tracking in rainwater.” We stared at each other for a moment while the diners around us went back to their breakfasts, satisfied with the entertainment value received. Marc started to laugh. “I'm so sorry I sneezed on you.” “It was refreshing.” He took off his glasses and wiped at his eye, still laughing. “It's just a bit of allergies, I don't have a cold, I swear.” “If I get a cold next week, I'm blaming you.” “I'll bring you chicken soup,” he said. “For real?” “Yes. I keep my word.” “I'm sorry you had to see my horrible underpants. Most of them are much better. By which I mean my underpants.” He pressed his lips together tightly, the edges of his mouth curving up. I said, “Try not to think about my underpants.” “I'll try,” he said. I showed him to his favorite seat by the window. “Do you like peaches? Donny's been trying something, and it's not on the menu. Perhaps you'd like to sample it, be our first guinea pig.”

“I'll devour whatever you bring me,” he said. Even though it was pouring rain outside, somehow a tiny shaft of sunlight came in and glinted off his tortoiseshell glasses frames and brown eyes. I was in love. I mean, I was in crush, which feels a lot like love. Barely a week earlier, I'd decided to give dating a try, casually, and maybe mess around with some fumbling boy my age. What I hadn't expected was that I'd fall madly in crush—like look-at-his-Facebook-profile-photo-ten-timesa-day-madly—with an older guy I barely knew. Back in the kitchen, I begged Donny to make the magical dish that could potentially make Marc fall in love, or in crush, with me. “I don't just make it for anyone,” he said. “Fine. What do you want?” “You babysit my kids one night.” “Fine. Done deal.” “On New Year's Eve.” “That's almost a year away!” I said. “What if I have plans? What if my boyfriend wants to take me out dancing?” “He can come over and you two can dry hump on my couch after the kids are in bed.” “You'll be home by two?” “I'll be home when I'm ready to come home. You know this dish has magical qualities. You know it can make people fall in love. Now do you want it or not?”

I leaned over to the pass-through window and peeked at Marc, framed in the front window. “Make it,” I said, shaking Donny's hand.

Chapter 9 The dish began with Donny's home-style bananachocolate-chip loaf. He cut it into thick slabs and dipped it in a mixture of egg and cream, then threw the sizzling slices on the grill, along with a chunk of salted butter. The smell of cinnamon infused the air. Once grilled to golden-brown perfection, he arranged the slices on a white plate and topped them with a mixture of lightly-stewed peaches and candied pecans. He garnished the plate with a single ripe gooseberry in its paper lantern leaves. Careful not to fall again, I walked the plate out to Marc. Conversations stopped as people turned to see what they were smelling. I set it before Marc without a word. “I don't know if that's edible,” he said, pointing to the gooseberry. “There's an orange berry inside. Really sweet and good.” “I don't know if I can eat all this food,” he said.

I pictured myself being jumped on by Donny's kids on New Year's Eve and momentarily regretted the deal I'd made. Marc grinned. “But I'll sure try!” He grabbed his fork and knife and dug right in. My own stomach growled, but he didn't seem to notice. I scurried off to fill the water pitchers with fresh ice and water. Courtney snuck up on me at the bar sink and said, “Marc and Perry, sittin' in a tree.” The music playing over The Whistle's old speakers wasn't up very loud, so I told her to shush and not embarrass me. “Remember, you have to ask him out,” she said. Using her fake Chinese accent, she said, “You ask out nice boy or I am disappoint.” I giggled. “I like the speed things are going. He can just come in Mondays and I'll feed him two thousand calories each time, and pretty soon he won't be able to get away from me if he tries, because he won't fit out the door.” “Bad plan. Ask him out.” “He's the guy. The guy should ask the girl.” “He's a smart one,” she said. “He knows it's your job to be somewhat nice to people at your job. He doesn't want to be yet another pervert hitting on you at work.” “I've never been asked out at work. I'm not you. I don't laugh nervously at everyone's jokes and get three phone numbers a day.” “Exactly. But you found a hottie who's interested, so make the most of it. He asked you to the art show, so the ball's in your court. Your move.” “What do I say? Shall I ask him if he wants to fornicate with

me in the back of my mom's Land Rover?” “Dummy. Start with a walk or something.” “Outside, with all the bugs?” “Yes.” She waved her hand excitedly. “Get him to walk around Stanley Park with you.” I scrunched my nose. “That's a couple of miles at least. We'll be too exhausted to fornicate.” Courtney giggled. “You have to stop talking like that.” “I'm being authentic. This is how I talk.” Someone on Courtney's side of the restaurant whistled for service, so she took off like a rocket. She showed up late fairly regularly, but she was always responsive to her customers when she was on-shift, which kept her from getting fired. That, and the owner rarely fired people. When Courtney came back, she looked at me solemnly and said, “I've been a terrible influence on you. Before I came out as a lesbian, I did a lot of things to hide my secret. I kept people away.” “You didn't keep me away.” I did not understand where she was going with this. “With other people, I did. I'd make up strange things so people would think I was weird, not gay. When we were at slumber parties, talking about our crushes, who did I say was my crush?” “You'd always say something gross, like an inanimate object, or Ryan Seacrest. Then later, you'd agree with someone else's crush.” “Exactly. The weird stuff was to buy me time. I was so deathly afraid I might say a girl's name that I practiced

saying anything but what I felt.” All the water pitchers were filled, and I was starting to get that waitress sixth sense that some tables needed their plates cleared. I grabbed a bar cloth and edged away from the counter. “I'm glad you're more comfortable now, but what's this got to do with me, or cute Marc out there?” “Everything. You said Marc was talking about authenticity. I wasn't being authentic back then. You know, you and I both do this thing, where we keep people away by always tipping them off balance.” “I don't want to keep people away. I've got nothing to hide.” She shook her head. “Never mind. We can talk about it later. Britain explains it way better than I do.” “Britain can eat my sweaty balls.” Courtney pointed at me with one petite finger. “Right there. You're doing it.” I rolled my eyes at her ridiculousness. “Whatever.” After clearing a few tables and wrapping up some bills, I took a stroll by Marc's table with more coffee. He was slowly putting the last morsel in his mouth and moaning for my benefit. I said, “You didn't really have to eat it all.” “Mmm,” he said. “Feel better now?” “Mmm.” He nodded. “So, what was getting you down the other day?” I refilled his

coffee cup and put my left hand on my hip in what I hoped was an adorable waitress pose. My feet in the high-heeled boots were killing me, so I smiled to mask my pain-face. “The usual. Career-choice woes, university dilemmas.” “I wish I could help with that. Maybe you could talk to me about it sometime.” “I'd love to talk to a working Engineer, actually.” Just like that, opportunity fell into my lap. “My dad's an Engineer,” I said. “A big ol' nerdy one. He works for the city, on the pipes. Not the poo pipes, mind you, but the fresh water ones. Not that there's any shame in working sewage treatment, obviously.” “Really,” Marc said. “It sure would be cool to pick his brain.” “You should come for dinner sometime. Like tomorrow night.” “To talk to your dad? That's generous of you, but I couldn't impose.” “Are you kidding? He'd love to talk about pipes. He'll show you his special Engineer's ring and everything. He loves that stuff.” Somebody at a nearby table whistled for service, then someone else commented loudly on having seen a waitress with coffee pass by a moment ago. I did not like to hear so much whistling during a shift. Even though it's acceptable and part of The Whistle experience to whistle for service, I took pride in anticipating people's needs even before they had them. I glanced back, looking for Courtney, but she must have been in the washroom. I didn't want to tear myself away from Marc without completing my task of asking him out.

Marc checked the time on his phone. “I'm late! I have to run.” He threw down a twenty to cover the bill, along with a business card. “Dinner? Yes or no,” I said. He pointed to the business card. “Email me your address and tell me what to bring tomorrow.” “Will do,” I said as he dashed out the door. Someone whistled again and a bunch of people laughed. The crowd was turning on me. I ran around amidst their jeers, refilling coffee cups. “You all think you're a clever lot, don't you!” I yelled jokingly. Someone tapped his cup on his table, chanting, “Coffee, coffee.” I filled it as quickly as I could, but they wouldn't let up with the whistling, enjoying seeing me scramble. One older gentleman gulped down his whole cup and told me I forgot to refill his. Everyone laughed. “You pranksters!” I shouted. “Little do you know, I control the stereo, and you're all about to hear James Blunt sing Beautiful. You'll all be laughing out the other side of your mouths while tears are streaming down your cheeks.” Dodging past me with a tray of food, Courtney said, “Oh dear, not again.” “Oh, yes,” I said. “It's happening.” ~ With my poor feet back in some sensible waitress footwear, my pirate boots with the buckles, I finished the shift without further incident, which left me time to ponder

two huge problems: was the dinner with Marc actually a date, and what was I going to make? Bonus problems included all the potentially horrifying things my family would do. I imagined my brother telling Marc about the time I peed my pants when we were camping because I thought I saw a bear. My father could imbibe in a beer or two then bring up marital problems and all the woes of being wed to a rock star. Anything could happen. I had a date!

Chapter 10 Later that Monday night over dinner, I told my father and Garnet we'd be having a special guest the next evening, and asked what they wanted in exchange for good behavior. I didn't have much to bargain with, but I figured it was worth a shot. Garnet asked, “Are you trying to get him to touch your boobies?” “Not at the dinner table,” I said. My father put his face in his hands. Garnet said, “My friend Kyle, he pushed the fat on his chest up so we could feel it. We all closed our eyes to see what it would be like to feel a girl's boobs.” My father kept his hands over his face and didn't comment on this particular revelation. “How'd you like that?” I asked Garnet. His expression pensive, he said, “When I closed my eyes, I really tried to pretend it was a girl. It felt like a butt. I don't see what the fuss is about.”

“You'll feel differently when it's a girl,” I said. “And she'll touch you, too.” “I've touched myself plenty. Isn't it just the same?” “No,” I said. “Put your finger in your ear and take it out.” He did so. Then, I put my finger in his ear. He giggled. “It tickles!” “Felt different when it was someone else, didn't it?” My father interrupted us with, “You two, that's enough.” Garnet turned to our father. “Dad, how old were you when you touched your first boobs?” “Older than you.” “Were you a virgin when you met Mom?” My father, his cheeks turning red, poked around at his lasagne. “I understand some parents have to drag honest conversation out of their teenaged children. How did I get so lucky?” Garnet and I laughed at our father while he separated his lasagne into distinct layers. “Let's all be on good behavior tomorrow,” I said. My father said, “I look forward to meeting this young man with an interest in engineering.” I said, “If it helps things be less weird, for the record, you should know he's never touched my boobs. We barely shook hands, though earlier today he did sneeze on me.” “Strangely, that does help,” my father said.

“Can I bring Kyle?” Garnet asked, snickering. “For the record, I have touched Kyle's boy-boobs.” “Your mother is missing out on so much,” Dad said. At the mention of my mother, I felt the tension ramp up in the room. I prepared myself for more talk about Mom, but my father changed the subject to Garnet's grades in school, which was a fairly standard dinner-time conversation. Since the previous week, when my father had mentioned they were having troubles, he hadn't brought up my mother much. She hadn't taken my hint about making him feel missed, because he didn't say anything about getting any sort of gift delivered to his office. At least they'd been talking on the phone almost every day. From my room upstairs, I'd heard him pacing around the lower floor, talking. Either because of his ADD or his personality, my father doesn't sit still when he talks on the phone. He paces from room to room in a circuit. It's really annoying when you're watching TV and he keeps passing through the room, but I guess he could have much worse habits. When I'm talking on the phone, I like to lie on my back on the couch or my bed, because it sends all the giggles into the top of my head and makes me laugh more. ~ For my big maybe-date dinner on Tuesday, I got a recipe from Donny at work for a home version of our most popular dinner item: cottage pie. Cottage pie is similar to shepherd's pie. In fact it is commonly mislabeled as shepherd's pie, but it has ground beef under the mashed potato crust, whereas shepherd's pie is made of lamb. A shepherd tends sheep, which is another word for lamb, hence the name. Where the cottage part came from, I had no idea.

Donny told me cottage pie was comfort food and thus the way to a man's heart. Comfort food is hard to pin down, but seems to usually involve potatoes. I was going to make Caesar salad, but wised up at the last minute, since eating a bunch of raw garlic could lead to kissing disasters, and I did hope the dinner would end in some kissing. The meal planning and food shopping was so allconsuming, I nearly forgot to email Marc my address. After half an hour of debating over the wording, I finally sent him my carefully crafted message:

Hey Marc, what's up?! See you for dinner at 8. Just bring your fab self. Dad is looking forward to meeting you. Peridot Martin (Perry, from The Whistle) I ran it past Courtney, who felt the part about my father seemed a tad creepy, but in the end she agreed it sounded fine, especially with the phrase fab self, which was her idea. I attached a google map showing the house, and included my cell phone number in case he got lost. I wondered where he lived. If he ate at The Whistle, on Main Street, that meant he wasn't that snobby. What would he think of our house? My parents bought the ol' homestead when I was twelve or so, which would have made it either 2005 or 2006. The place cost something like four hundred thousand dollars, which I know sounds like a lot of money, but Vancouver real estate has been insanely expensive since before I was born, and houses at that price level are near lot value.

I was lucky to be born into a family that could afford a house, even though it's not a fancy one. Dad makes decent money at his job and Mom had a lot of cash from her first two records—what little her former manager didn't embezzle, but that's a whole 'nother story. Before we moved to our current place, they sold their smaller but more expensive house in Dunbar, on the west side, and paid cash for the new place, so they didn't even have a mortgage. The plan was to take the pressure off Mom to have to make money, so she could relax and recharge her creative battery. They figured they could always sell and move back to Dunbar later, but in the last twelve years, prices have shot up so much that our old house is now worth over a million dollars. You would think that would make my parents happy, but the idea causes them distress, because the gain is only on paper, and one day it might plummet. Whenever people bring up real estate and how much they're making, Dad gets a constipated look. Yes, the house we have now is awesome, but even if we sold it, we'd never be able to get back to our old neighborhood, where my grandparents live and where my dad grew up. The house they sold is worth two million, last I heard. The price of houses here has a way of making everyone feel poor, even if they aren't. My parents both grumble over the cost of artisan cheeses and fancy organic foods, so we shop at the cheaper grocery stores. I'm glad they save on some things, and that they'll help pay for my college tuition, even if it means selling the Land Rover. I'm glad I've never had to worry about money, because it left me so much time to worry about other things, like what to wear when Marc came for dinner. From the vintage side of my closet, I chose a retro 1960s dress that looked like something Betty Draper on Mad Men

would wear. I put on antiperspirant, then stuck folded-up paper towels in the armpits so I wouldn't get stink-pit on the polyester while I was sweating over the dinner prep. To help me in the kitchen, I had not one, but two teenage boys. At my suggestion, Garnet did invite his friend Kyle over. I figured they would cancel each other out, and they could goof around with each other instead of trying to get entertainment from making me squirm. I was rather proud of my cunning plan. Kyle has kind of an androgynous look, with no facial hair, but a bit of rosacea that makes his cheeks flush really red, all the time. I'd feel sorry for the kid, but he's got such a positive attitude and a sunny smile. You can't meet him and not want to grab him in a headlock and rub your fist on his fluffy, baby-chick-like, pale gold hair. When he stands next to Kyle, you can see how grown-up Garnet is getting these days, with my father's solid square jaw, but not the hairline yet. We were nearly done making dinner when Garnet disappeared to the bathroom to “birth Godzilla,” so Kyle and I had some bonding time over dinner preparations. “So, Kyle, what are you going to be when you grow up?” I asked as we tore lettuce together. “Tall,” he said, grinning with dimples so big you could stick quarters in them. “Fair enough. I don't know what I'm doing either.” “Are you any good at singing? Couldn't your mom get you a record deal?” “Can you keep a secret?”

“Yeah.” I belted out the opening of The Sun'll Come out Tomorrow from Annie. “There's always trade school,” Kyle said. As punishment for his sass, I continued with the rest of the song, and Kyle joined in for the ending. What we didn't have in pitch, we made up for with enthusiasm. From behind me, a male voice said, “Nice harmonies.” I whirled around to find Marc, standing in the kitchen doorway with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of spring irises. My father, standing behind him, said, “This young man was knocking on the door for at least a minute. He was about to call the police to report some wild animals in the area.” Garnet returned from the bathroom. “The bathroom, no, the whole back of the house is a biohazard. I didn't light a match, because I thought it might explode.” “Welcome to dinner,” I said, taking the wine from Marc and grabbing the flowers eagerly. “Do you need help?” he asked, surveying the mess all over the kitchen island. Kyle, with his thumb in his mouth, said, “You can help me find my thumbnail and a chunk of skin in the carrot sticks.” I grabbed the bowl of carrot sticks and quickly dumped them in the kitchen garbage. Kyle pulled his thumb out of his mouth, revealing it to be undamaged. “I was joking.” “We didn't need those carrots,” I said.

“Two brothers?” Marc asked. “God, no!” my father practically shouted. “Not that we don't love this one, here, Kyle. We love you, Kyle. This other one, Garnet is the fruit of my loins, along with Peridot.” In unison, Garnet and I said, “Gross! Dad!” He'd been using the fruit of my loins term since The Paternity Incident of 2009, and neither of us cared for it. My father offered to take Marc on a grand tour of the house, and as soon as they disappeared, I allowed myself to jump up and down over the flowers. I'd never gotten flowers from a boy before. “Gimme those,” Garnet said, yanking the folded paper towels that were lodged partially in my armpits, yet hanging out of my cap-sleeved dress. I inhaled sharply. “Do you think he saw them?” “Bro, it doesn't matter. Just play it cool,” Garnet said. Kyle looked me up and down. “You look pretty, but you should put on more face-stuff.” “Blush?” Kyle shrugged. “I dunno. Stuff.” I instructed them to set the plates out and I ran upstairs to check my face.

Showtime, I told myself. Be authentic. I put on one of my mother's lipstick shades, but it was all wrong and made my teeth look yellow. Shoot, were my teeth actually yellow? I didn't have time to do a session with Whitestrips. I rubbed the red lipstick off with some toilet

paper and went over my lips with a sparkly pink. In my vintage dress, I admired my feminine shape and my not-too-shabby cleavage. Damn it, why didn't I own a padded bra? I made a snap decision and stuffed a sports sock into the bottom of my bra cup on each side. Turning sideways to admire my new silhouette, I congratulated myself on my quick thinking. ~ As we ate dinner, I came to regret the socks, because Kyle couldn't keep his eyes off my bosom. Up until that point, I'd all but assumed he was gay, what with his enthusiastic love of Glee and musicals, but there was nothing innocent about the way he looked at my chest. Marc didn't seem to notice, what with my dad talking his ears off about specialties and Engineer stuff. When the conversation died down, I mentioned how people frequently call cottage pie shepherd's pie. “Why cottage, I wonder,” Marc said, taking the bait. “It should be named after the cow.” I grinned broadly. “Because then it would be called COW PIE!” My teen fans, Kyle and Garnet, laughed at the joke, but Marc looked down at his lap, avoiding eye contact with anyone. He wasn't rude, at least I didn't think so, but perhaps he was a bit shy, or socially awkward.

What was his deal? I'd never understood people who don't simply say what they want and ask for what they need, but in a general sense, I did get that people are all different. If everyone in the world

acted like me, movie theaters would have to shut down, because nobody would be able to hear Tom Cruise over all the talking. Finally, after several seconds of me staring and trying to read his mind, Marc looked up at my father, seated next to him, and asked about resumes and summer job postings. The boys finished wolfing their food down and disappeared to play Skyrim in Garnet's room. “Where'd you hide that wine?” my father asked me. “Let's finish that bottle before it oxidizes.” I got up and retrieved the wine from the fridge. Couldn't my father get his own wine? I may have been looking after my family in my mom's absence, but I wasn't their servant. I wasn't the house waitress. As patiently as I could, I waited for them to be finished talking. “That's rude,” my father said when he realized I was playing Cupcakes on my iPhone. It's a silly app where you bake, decorate, and virtually eat cupcakes, and it makes long boring conversations much more tolerable. “I don't want to interrupt you guys, but I have nothing to contribute to this conversation,” I said. “We can talk about something else,” Marc said, which I appreciated. I put on my most winning smile and encouraged them to keep talking, as it was the point of our little get-together, and I switched over to a game of Doodle Jump while they refilled their wine glasses. I don't like the taste of wine, so I didn't even try to get some for myself, though Dad did offer. I was deeply engrossed in Cut the Rope when they got up

from the table and went to my father's office without inviting me along. While you might expect me to be upset about this new development, I was actually pleased. Dinner had turned out well enough and it seemed Marc and my dad loved each other. What girl doesn't want her guy to get along with her family like that? Marc wasn't technically my guy yet, but I figured it was only a matter of time. I ran up to my room to call Courtney with a quick update, then took the socks out of my bra in anticipation of second-base action. My dress top looked empty, so I did a complete outfit change, jumping into a pair of yellow jeans and a flattering shirt with a draped neckline. The outfit said I'm casual; I'm authentic; would you like to

put your hands on my waist and kiss me? Someone knocked on my door. My heart danced as I opened the door to find Marc. “Welcome to my boudoir,” I said, waving him in. He remained just outside the perimeter of the room, surveying the pale pink walls. “I'm probably not allowed in your room.” “You can come in, as long as we leave the door open.” “I have pickles in my car.” “You didn't get enough dinner?” He smiled and kept looking around my bedroom, like he was searching for clues at a crime scene. “Pickles. She's my dog. She's a little Shih Tzu.” “You should have brought her in!” “She's little, but she's tough on hardwood floors when she hasn't had her nails trimmed.” He took one step in and

poked at the decorated piece of driftwood I had on the wall just inside the door. It was a talking stick, a gag gift from one of my parents' vacations, when they used to go on exotic trips together. The instruction card reads that only

(s)he who holds the stick may speak. Also adorning my walls were three shadow boxes, containing the Forgotten Creatures I made back in art class, using only discarded objects. Their stuffed bodies were made from socks and other articles of clothing from the Lost'n'Found at school, and their faces were made from things I found on the beach and sidewalks, plus metal and plastic parts from a bunch of old kids' toys my mother found in the back yard while gardening. My brother Garnet had really loved the Forgotten Creature I made with a red sock and sea glass eyes, so I gave it to him for Christmas last year, leaving me with just three on my wall, which was a more pleasing number for composition. Besides the pale pink paint, I thought my space looked pretty cool and not like a little girl's room. Over the head of my four-poster bed was a circular wreath made of fallen tree branches. “Is my room how you pictured it?” I asked. He let out a short laugh that was half-cough. “I don't think I have pictured your room, but now that I see you here, with your family, things make a little more sense.” “What do you mean sense? You don't even know me, except as your waitress. You've barely asked me anything about myself. All you have to go on is my appearance.” He leaned against the door frame. “You don't know much about me either.” “What's your favorite color?” I asked.

“Not green.” The way he said it, I felt like I'd just been slapped. He'd come to my house, eaten my food, monopolized my father, and then insulted me. “That's mean,” I said. He smacked his forehead. “Oh, right, Peridot is green. I didn't mean you. I don't know why I said that.” I took a big breath and let out an enormous sigh. “Green's okay,” he said, then he yawned. Yawning was not a good sign. There would be no secondbase action that night. “I guess I should walk you out,” I said. “Do you want to come say hi to Pickles?” I grabbed a warm hoodie from my closet. “Sure, why not.”

Chapter 11 Pickles was adorable. She had that little underbite most Shih Tzus have, soft brown ears, and a cream-colored body. When Marc picked her up out of the back of his hatchback, she snorted excitedly and licked his face. He petted her vigorously and said sweet nothings to her, which I'll spare you the verbatim description of. I wished he'd pat my head and talk to me that same sick-sweet way. I'd wag my tail. “Do you want to take her to the park?” I offered. “There's one a block away. It's not an off-leash, technically, but you can let her run around and people don't mind.” “Sure,” he said. “Unless I'm keeping you from something else.” “No, Marc, I invited you over to my house for a date, but secretly I'd rather be doing laundry.” He clipped the leash onto Pickles' collar. “Oh.” “Though I guess it wasn't much of a date, was it? You came over to pick my dad's brain for career advice, which was, after all, what I offered you. Never mind.”

We walked together along the sidewalk, toward the park. The sun had set already, and the night was chilly. Sneaking a quick glance at me, he said, “I'm not very good at this.” “You think?” When he didn't respond, I started to feel terrible. How had things gone so terribly wrong? He'd been so sweet and relaxed on Monday after catching me in his arms, and by Tuesday night, he was back to being Crossword Guy again, quiet and simmering with something unknowable. “I really liked the flowers,” I said. “I guess having dinner with my family was a lot of pressure for a first date.” We got to the park, where Pickles snorted and cavorted in the damp grass. “Sometimes it feels like spring will never come,” Marc said. “And it'll be dark forever.” We sat on a park bench and watched Pickles sniff for treasures. Marc said, “I just got out of a long-term relationship, and I haven't been myself. I don't think I'm ready for dating.” “We'll start with being friends,” I said. “If green's not your favorite color, what is?” “Sometimes I say the opposite of what I really think. I actually do like green, a lot. I almost wore a green shirt tonight, but I didn't want you to think I was sucking up.” “Wait, you say the opposite of what you think?” “Sometimes.”

I tried to imagine what that would be like, but couldn't. “I always say what I think, sometimes even before I think it.” He made a laugh that sounded like heh. I didn't feel cold, not really, but my body was on the verge of shivering. However, I didn't want to get up and leave the park bench, ending the night, so I tensed my muscles to create some warmth and tucked my hands in my kangaroo pocket. I asked Marc some more questions, more personal than favorite colors, and he opened up a bit, telling me about growing up in a small town in Alberta, and how he missed his parents since he'd moved to Vancouver for school. He did not, however, miss the rednecks, the country music, and small-town life, where everybody was into everybody else's business. Pickles came to our feet and put her front paws up on Marc's legs until he picked her up and held her on his lap. “You're Daddy's lap dog tonight. A-wubba-wubba-wubbs.” “Have you had her for long?” I petted her wagging back end while she tried to lick my hands. “What made you pick this one?” “She picked me. I found her behind my apartment building last year, bone-skinny and filthy. I thought she was dark brown, not this pretty light cream.” He leaned down and kissed her ears. “She was a stray? Did you put up posters and stuff?” “First I gave her a bath and a big bowl of food, then I took her to the pound, where they checked her for a microchip, but she didn't have one. They said I could leave her there, but I couldn't. I took her back to my place. Nobody claimed her.” He grabbed her ears and waved them around like propellers. “Wubba-wubba. And that's when Daddy's

troubles started.” “How? Did she chew on all your furniture?” “Nah, just got me evicted. No dogs allowed in my apartment. That's why Pickles and I live in our happy shithole!” “Your what?” “I shouldn't say that. It smells a lot better now. We live in a basement suite below Cooper, my friend that you met. We love Cooper, but he's a very loud walker, isn't he, Pickles? And he stays up too late.” “I'm sure your dog appreciates the sacrifices you've made for her.” “She sure does.” Pickles was getting a little bitey, so he set her back down on the grass to nose around for good smells. “She shows her appreciation by farting in my face.” “My best friend Courtney does the same thing.” Marc laughed loud enough for other people out walking their dogs in the park to stop and stare our way.

This could be our life, I thought. We could take Pickles for walks in this park every night. I wasn't happy, exactly, but I was content. If only he would hold my hand or kiss me, I'd be happy. He said, “Those dolls up in your room were odd.” “My Forgotten Creatures?” “Yeah, the little nightmare teddy bears.” “You should have come into my room and gotten a better look.”

“Right,” he said. “I just had dinner with your father. I wasn't going to barge into his little girl's pink, frilly bedroom.” “My room's not frilly.” “No, you have those demons on your wall,” he teased. I laughed. “They're sort of an ongoing project, but I haven't made one in a while. Whenever I'm out, if I see an interesting washer or kids' toy, I'll pick it up and put it in my pocket to make eyes or teeth or something.” “I collected some stuff as a kid,” he said. “Like animal bones? I found a whole dead bird once, it was pretty cool.” He laughed uncomfortably, his eyebrows tenting up at in a triangle. “No animal bones. Just, like, unusual beer caps.” “I could work with those.” “We have something in common!” He held his hand toward me and I realized—too late—he was holding an imaginary glass for me to clink, but I was already attempting to give him a high-five, wrapping my hand around his and shaking it. “Friends,” he said, and it sounded more like a statement than a question. “Totes,” I said. He yawned and raised his arms over his head, then rested one arm down on the back of the bench, behind me. He said, “That wine I had at dinner is making me feel like kissing you.” That did not sound like something a friend would say to another friend.

Pickles barked, and a second later, Marc stood and shook out his legs. “Best be getting home or Pickles will miss her bedtime,” he said. That was it? What a tease. “See you around,” I said, waving. “Come on, I'll walk you back to your front door.” “That's okay. I'll sit here for a bit, with my thoughts. I'm feeling introspective right now.” “You're sure?” “It's a block. I'm a big girl now and I know my way home.” “Thanks again for dinner, buddy,” he said, walking away with his dog. ~ I sat on the bench for a long time, growing cold enough to shiver. Marc liked me, but as a friend, or so he said. Wasn't that something girls were supposed to do to guys? Put them in the so-called friend zone? Since when did guys do that to girls? I bet most guys think a girl can get a boyfriend any time she wants, just by virtue of being a girl. But what about the homely girls, like me? Yes, as I sat there shivering on the bench, I'd gone from believing I was a seven out of ten to thinking of myself as homely. I usually had a decent sense of my own attractiveness, but I was starting to have doubts. If everyone thinks they're above-average attractive, then where are all the below-average people? Statistics don't allow everyone to be in the upper half.

I must be ugly and not know it, I decided. In the dark park, I watched people in sweatpants and untied shoes without socks taking their dogs for the last pee of the evening. I ran my fingers lightly over my face, trying to visualize my features. I wished my eyes were further apart, and the tip of my nose were smaller. My cheeks felt chubby and huge, my forehead was oily, but my chin was dry and flaked. Classic combination skin. I wondered how much plastic surgery it would take to make me look like Megan Fox. Rumor is, it even took her a few surgeries to look like Megan Fox, though honestly, I've seen older photos of her and she was always stunning, even in high school. Looking down at my body made me depressed. My thighs were spread out and enormous on the bench. Marc must have seen my big, fat, squishy thighs next to him and gotten scared off. An older woman walked past me, lighting her cigarette with a match. My mom used to smoke, but she quit a few years ago. I wondered what she was doing in LA at that very moment … besides hanging out with rock stars and making my father lose his mind. My phone buzzed with a message: Dad wondering where I was, since he'd noticed Marc's car was gone from the front of the house. I texted back: Losing my virginity. Call back later. He replied: Don't be asshole. You have to laugh at a father who tells his daughter to not be an asshole, don't you? He texted again a minute later: I meant “Don't be asinine.”

Damn you, autocorrect!

I giggled like a fool over the text and sent a screencap copy to Courtney. I'd wanted to sit on the bench until I had everything figured out, but instead I got up and went back home to face the mess in the kitchen. ~ So, the date was Wednesday and then Thursday at work was unremarkable, unless you're interested in what I overheard when I walked into the kitchen. Toph was rapt, listening to a story from Donny, who was saying, “There was a piece of corn, right on the end of my dick.” I turned and walked straight out again. Unfortunately, when you work in a restaurant, the group of guys in the kitchen can get crude. What I just told you was not even anywhere near the worst thing I'd heard at work. Here's a little tip for you: if a group of guys in the kitchen tell you to come quick and look at something, just don't. I can tell you from experience, it often involves a scrotum, and it's nothing you want to see. Watch the movie Waiting if you'd like a fairly accurate facsimile of the real-life experience. Actually, simply watch it if you like Ryan Reynolds or funny things, because it's great. At The Whistle, we usually had two, maximum three dudes in the kitchen at once, so luckily things didn't get too outrageous. Donny's stories, however, would put you off food. ~ Friday and Saturday were my days off, as well as Courtney's.

The little monster tricked me into going shopping with her and Britain. How she did it was by offering me a free ticket to see John Carter at the big mall, Metropolis at Metrotown, in Burnaby. I took the Skytrain there, and when I got off at the Metrotown station, I realized I had forgotten that rule of teen couplehood: the new love interest will ALWAYS be there as part of group outings, unless otherwise explicitly noted. Had I learned nothing from the Haylee-Andrew debacle of Spring 2011? I'd been through more than enough of our other friends getting their first boyfriends to know this rule. Little had I known, it also applied to girlfriends. Britain stood like a skinny tree next to my friend, her short brown hair defying gravity and swooping up. “Courtney!” I yelled and gave my friend a huge hug. “Britain!” I held my arms out and dared her. She called my bluff and gave me a hug, complete with a back-pat. Oh, she was good. “Britain wants to get her eyebrow pierced,” Courtney said. “They do that here?” “I can't see why not,” Courtney said. “It'll give us our special mission.” I clapped my hands and jumped enthusiastically. “Eee!” Whenever we go shopping at a mall, before we get there, Courtney and I think of something challenging to hunt down. Our mission could be finding cotton candy, or rainbowstriped toe socks, or day-of-the-week underwear, such as the ones I owned two complete sets of. I didn't like the idea of hanging out with Britain, but having a fun mission would make it bearable. Also, she was going to suffer pain and discomfort, and possibly bleed or cry. I can't say I wasn't

looking forward to that part. Britain said, “Maybe we should save the eyebrow piercing for when we're downtown sometime. Today could be a scouting mission for jewelry.” “No,” Courtney said. “Piercing is our mission. They have a thousand stores here. They have to do piercing.” I said, “Get me something sharp, plus a potato, and I'll do it.” Britain scowled and tugged Courtney's arm, leading her into the mall. I followed along behind them, as a third wheel does. Breathing that sweet, chemical mall interior air got my shopping-adrenaline going. Metrotown doesn't have a thousand stores, as Courtney had said, but it does have over four hundred, spread over three levels. It's the secondbiggest mall in Canada, bested only by West Edmonton Mall, which is a whopping ten times the size and includes a water park. Someone walked by with Beard Papa's cream puffs, and I knew what my secondary mission would be. The girl eating the enormous cream puff wore orange platform boots and matching bright orange hair, impeccably styled. From all my time on Main Street, where people wear a lot of polar fleece and ironic ugly sweaters, I'd almost forgotten how dressed-up people are inside Metrotown. I swear people put on their best clothes to go there and buy more best clothes. My wallet began to jump up and down excitedly inside my purse. In front of me, Courtney and Britain held hands. I opted to continue following behind them rather than walk three

abreast and disrupt traffic, so I was able to observe people's reactions to the couple. People looked their way, noticed the held hands, then glanced back up at their faces. To my surprise, a lot of people smiled, as if to say, ah, young love. I wondered what my friend Marc was up to. I'd requested he add me as a friend on Facebook the night after our dinner, and he still hadn't approved me. I wondered if he was busy, or avoiding me. No, I didn't wonder. I knew he was avoiding me. Britain stopped at one of the mall directory signs, and Courtney squealed and dragged her away. She then explained we didn't use maps. The rules were: no directories, no searches on your phone, and no asking mall staff at the info kiosks. Everything else was fair game, including asking other shoppers and store staff. That was actually the point—to talk to other people and have fun. My father says when people are on vacation, they don't feel the regular social restrictions, and they'll talk to strangers when they're at a resort in a foreign city. He says half the fun of traveling is the people you meet who are from your home country. We went to a resort in Mexico for a week in December and hung out the entire time with another family from Vancouver—people who just happened to be there. After we left the directory, Courtney led us into a candy store, where she bought three colors of Jelly Belly candies, plus a mixed bag for eating. For her current art project, she was working on some mosaics of images made from the bright-hued beans. She asked me, “Do you think that guy Cooper would give me some art pointers?” Before I could answer, Britain said, “Doesn't hurt to ask.” I bought some jawbreakers and gummy frogs—the

delicious ones with marshmallow on one side. Courtney asked me if she should pick up any treats for the guys at the restaurant while we were there, and did I have any ideas? Britain said, “Oh, look. Salted caramel. Everybody loves those. You should get them some.” I gave her a nasty shut up look, but it didn't catch. Over the next hour of wandering and shopping, Britain kept doing the same thing: interrupting and preventing Courtney from talking to me. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore, and when we were looking at some cardigan sweaters on sale at The Gap, Courtney asked me what color she should get, and when Britain answered, I yelled, “Nobody asked you!” Courtney gave me a dirty look, her false-eyelash-fringed eyes narrowing to little dashes. “I was asking both of you, in general. Gah! What's up your butt, Perry?” I mumbled, “I think the orange would be nice.” “I'll look like a pumpkin.” “An adorable pumpkin,” Britain said. Courtney took her armload of clothes and went to the changing rooms. Too late, I realized I'd be stuck waiting with Britain. I considered grabbing some random thing to try on, but instead, put on my metaphorical big girl panties and tried to make nice with Britain. “Have you always had short hair?” I asked. Cagily, she said, “Why?” “I don't know. You have a really long neck. I mean, it's slender, in a good way. Do you ever wear long earrings? Something big and dangly would look sick on you.”

“You don't have to pretend you like me,” she said. “I'm fine with you being a hater.” “You're fine with it, or was that your intention from the start? Because I don't think you've given me a chance to like you.” She turned up her nose and checked the price tag on a jacket with rolled-up sleeves. “I'm used to other girls hating me.” “I don't want to hate you, but you make it so easy.” The tiniest smile played across her lips. Courtney came out of the change room, clad in head-to-toe orange. She still had the purple and blue feather hair extensions in, and she looked like she belonged on a parade float for orange juice. “That's a lot of look,” I said. “I love it.” “I agree with Perry,” Britain said. Courtney put her hands on her hips. “I wouldn't wear it all together, you two dummies.” The three of us laughed together, and for a brief moment, I thought everything would be fine, and Britain would be part of our group and we'd all get along. Oh, silly me. ~ Britain's insanity reappeared when we found a place that did piercings and she wouldn't even set foot in the store because “the people looked freaky.” “You mean the staff?” I asked. “What were you expecting? Doctors in white lab coats?” The people working inside the place, called Human Art,

were a rainbow of bright hair, bright tattoos, and black clothing. Noses, eyebrows, and lips glittered with piercings. Under the clothes, who knew what else. With a new desire blossoming in my heart, I said, “Gimme,” to nobody in particular. Courtney said to Britain, “You don't have to get pierced today, but we could at least look at jewelry and check out prices, right?” “I'm not a freak,” Britain said. “I'm not going in there.” “I am a freak,” I said proudly, walking in.

Chapter 12 As I walked into the body-piercing place, a girl with My Little Pony-style lavender hair smiled at me, I guess because she overheard me declare myself a freak. I turned back and waved, motioning for Britain to follow me. “Come on, Britain, don't be a wuss. They won't bite.” She crossed her arms and made a miserable face.

Whatever, I thought as I grooved on the nice music and the chill atmosphere inside the piercing place. I'd never seriously considered a piercing before, but fate had led me there that day. Without my dreadlocks, people had been treating me differently over the last few weeks. The couple at the convenience store near my house didn't watch me in the round mirrors, assuming I was shoplifting their bruised avocados. People sat next to me on buses and the Skytrain without hesitation. People who would normally talk to me, like the guy with the dreadlocks, didn't, and people who wouldn't, like nice little old ladies, did. My tips at work had been decent, but nowhere near pre-comb-out levels. Perhaps my look could use a little more pizazz, a little more

freak. “You have lovely eyebrows,” the lavender-haired girl said. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” I said, checking out the gleaming sterling silver bars in the glass display case. “I'm Kyle, let me know if you have any questions.” “My brother has a friend named Kyle, a boy, though.” Kyle rolled her eyes theatrically. “So wrong to give a boy a girl's name.” I laughed. I liked Kyle's approach. “Which side should I do?” I asked, pointing to the outside edges of my eyebrows. “I recommend the same side you part your hair, so the front part of your hair doesn't get caught in the piercing.” “Oh my god, that's so smart that you know that. I would not have thought that through.” Sweetly, she raised her skinny shoulders and said, “That's my job.” She wore an 1980s-style black top with a wide neckline, exposing her left shoulder and a black bra strap. Her pale purple hair looked like cotton candy, and she was giving me a lesbian vibe, though I couldn't tell you why. Why did my best friend have to date nasty Britain and not someone nice, like Kyle? Courtney, who had snuck up behind me, put her arm around my waist as she leaned forward, looking into the case. “You're totally getting a piercing, aren't you?” “Maybe.” In her fake Chinese accent, she joked, “Why you put holes in your head? How many boyfriends you have? I know you

try to sex every day!” “Eyebrow, yes?” Courtney said, “A-yah!” “Someone has to get one,” I said. “Where's your ball and chain?” She switched back to normal Courtney mode. “Getting a cell phone charger. Whatever. She can do her own thing for a bit. We still have an hour before the movie.” Purple-haired Kyle said, “You're both over eighteen, right?” Over eighteen? My heart sunk for a moment before I remembered I was, indeed, over eighteen. Funny how you don't know how much you want something until it's taken away as an option. “I'm totally eighteen,” I said. “We could fit you both in right now.” “Oh, not me,” Courtney said. I thought about how much it would annoy Britain if we both got our eyebrows pierced and asked Courtney, “Why not?” “Because my parents would go all disappointed-Asian on me, and not in the comical way.” “Just me, then,” I said to Kyle, who was already handing me some forms to sign. Gosh, was Kyle was on a commission system, or just really eager to punch new holes in people? “That'll be fifty plus tax for the piercing,” Kyle said. Courtney pulled me back by the arm. “Maybe we should think about it,” she said to me.

I knew she wasn't holding back because of the piercing, but because she thought we should shop around for the best price. Courtney can be, uh, frugal at times. “The price includes the jewelry,” I said, which seemed to satisfy Courtney. The next part happened quickly. I'd assumed I would be handed off to some other person, the Head Stabber perhaps, but instead, Kyle walked me to a quiet room at the back of the store and started pointing out the safety equipment. Kyle said, “Promise me, if you ever see someone with a piercing gun, scream and run away.” I laughed. “Seriously, promise me. Guns aren't sterile because they can't go through the autoclave.” “I promise,” I said. “No guns. Besides, I'm sure this piercing will hold me over for a while.” Kyle pulled out a box of gloves. “Allergic to latex?” “I don't know, I'm a virgin.” Courtney laughed at my joke as she sat on one of the orange plastic chairs and picked up a body modification magazine. Kyle gave me a look that said she appreciated my humor and candor, but could I shut the hell up around the pointy things. “No allergies,” I said, sitting in the other orange chair, next to Courtney. Kyle repeated some of the potential risks, as well as the

aftercare instructions. She reminded me of an airline attendant doing the safety message, not even hearing the words coming out of her mouth. I'm like that at work some days, repeating our five types of bread. Sometimes I mix it up and say it with the rhythm of haiku, with five syllables, then seven, then five, like this:

whole wheat, brown, rice flour, oat bran with cinnamon crunch, marble rye, and white As my mind was wandering, a pinchy-looking pair of clamps, like barbecue tongs but dainty, came at my face. “Hey-now. Is there freezing first?” I asked. Kyle smiled and latched onto my eyebrow with the clamps. “For you? Sure. Here comes the freezing. It's going to pinch. When did you say your birthday was?” “August—ow!” “And you're done,” Kyle said. “Hold still while I pull the piercing through and put the end on.” Courtney's face looked remarkably pale and shocked. “It's not even bleeding,” she said. The area around my eyebrow started to feel warm and tingly. Kyle dabbed at the bottom of the piercing with a Q-tip. I could see the white cotton batting turning red, as well as the shiny surgical steel ball. “Hey, I can see it!” “Now you'll know it's there,” Kyle said. “You can check

visually, so you don't have to touch it.” She whacked my hand. “I said don't touch it.” “Can she still make out with boys?” Courtney asked. “Not for three months,” Kyle said. I gasped. “Gotcha,” Kyle said. “Yes, you can kiss boys, but nothing too hot and heavy. You'll get some crusties while the flesh tunnel is forming.” “Flesh Tunnel is the name of my band,” I said. Kyle gave me the shut-up look again and repeated the aftercare instructions, even though she was also sending me home with a pamphlet and a hotline phone number. I was to keep anything chemical away from the piercing, and rinse it with saline water twice a day. She said peroxide and other cleaners would actually break down the new cells trying to form, making the wound hold open longer. As I remembered the crusty mess from when I had my ears pierced when I was twelve, and the gunky crap that came out of there due to the neglect only a twelve year old can commit, I felt grateful to still have earlobes. Not to mention my ears had been done with a dirty, potentially-diseased piercing gun. When I stood up, stars danced in front of my face like pixies. Kyle asked me when I'd last eaten, and when I couldn't remember, she pushed me back down into the chair and pulled a kid-sized apple juice box out of the cupboard. Even warm, it was the best apple juice I'd ever tasted. “Looks good,” Courtney said, staring at my eyebrow. My hand jerked up, because in the time it had taken me to

drink the apple juice, I'd forgotten why I was there, and when I saw the little ball at the edge of my vision, I thought it was a bug coming to get me. Kyle whacked my hand. “No touching.” I admonished my hands. “Stop it, you filthy animals. Stop trying to grope me.” “Is this the same room you do intimate piercings?” Courtney asked. Kyle answered, “No, we have another room with a hospitalstyle bed, for your comfort.” “Good to know,” Courtney said. “Gross!” I yelled out. When I got dirty looks from both of them, I realized I was being judgmental, and besides, Kyle had about six visible piercings in her face, so she probably had a row of studs or rings all around her clitoris. Eeps! Okay, I can barely say that word. You hear penis on the TV all the time, but you never hear the word for the thing that is fun for girls, and I don't mean vagina. No wonder guys don't know where or what it is. (Apparently.) If you don't know, google it, and don't tell anyone you heard it from me. Speaking of fleshy lumps, when we came out of the piercing place and found Britain, she was sitting on a bench, staring up at the skylights, and looking despondent. She opened her mouth to say something, then my adorable new eyebrow piercing caught her attention, and she closed her mouth. “Mission accomplished,” I announced. Britain looked straight through me as she grabbed Courtney's hand. “Sweetie, we'd better get to the theater so

we can grab good seats. I know you like to sit in the optimal spot for sound.” My eyebrow radiated angry heat and the apple juice felt sour in my stomach. I considered excusing myself and going home, but then I gave myself a pep talk about trying to be nice to Britain, and trailed along behind them like an obedient dog. At the mall's theater, called SilverCity Metropolis, Courtney and I both jumped up and down when we saw the Hunger Games poster. The movie was opening soon and we already had our tickets. Britain said, “It's no Battle Royale.” My eye twitched. “Don't be a hive-mind hater,” I said. “Like you even heard of Battle Royale before Hunger Games.” Britain ignored me, scanning the crowd around us. “What do you think?” I asked Courtney. “In Game of Thrones, they have people battle for the entertainment of the King. Is that ripping off Battle Royale? How about roman gladiators?” Courtney gazed at the movie poster. “Jennifer Lawrence is so pretty,” she said. Britain released Courtney's hand. “I'll go save three seats. Get us some popcorn, no butter.” Courtney agreed and stood on her tiptoes to kiss Britain on the cheek. Britain still hadn't said a single word about my piercing, and it was making me crazy, so I said, “Hey, Brit, did you notice anything different about my eyebrow?” Britain said to Courtney, “Some people will do anything for

attention.” After she'd walked away to go save the seats, I said to Courtney, “See? She just did it again. She was totally rude to me. I'm not imagining things.” Courtney wandered in the direction of the food counter, toward the intoxicating smell of popcorn. “Well?” I said. “What? She was just joking around.” I wanted to grab Courtney by the petite shoulders and shake some sense into her. “Jokes should be funny. She's just mean.” “Well, Britain thinks you're smart and funny, and she's really hoping you two will be friends.” “If she said that to you, she's lying,” I said. Courtney ordered her food and made a pain-face over the cost of it all, so I gave her a ten to help cover the popcorn and tub-sized Diet Coke, even though I wasn't thrilled about sharing a straw with Britain and her cooties. I said, “You could have warned me she would be here today.” “Would you have still come?” “Yes,” I lied. With our snacks in hand, we made our way into the theater, which was already quite full, considering the pre-release buzz for John Carter hadn't been that great. Based on some blog posts I'd read, I had low expectations for the film. Britain was sitting just a little to the side of center, the

optimal spot for sound. There was one empty chair on her left and one on her right. I figured she'd move over and have Courtney sit in the middle, but she didn't, so I had to sit right next to her and listen to the trash-compactor noises of her eating all the popcorn and slurping away at the Diet Coke like a horse at a water trough. Worse still, I was seated right behind a tall guy with even taller spiky hair. He must have felt me shooting eye daggers at him, because he turned around and looked right at me. “Smart mouth waitress!” he said. His head was backlit by an advertisement for either phones or tiny cars, but I could tell by the voice it was Cooper, Marc's artist friend. “Perry. And you may remember Courtney and Britney—er, I mean Britain—from the art show.” He turned around and sat up on his knees, on his theater chair, shaking everyone's hands. “Courtney's doing a mosaic thing,” I said. “Maybe you could give her feedback sometime? As an established artist.” “Established. Hah, good one,” he said. Some people nearby shushed us, even though it was just the advertisements playing, not even the trailers. “Is Marc here with you?” I asked, even though I'd already deduced neither of the guys on either side of him were Marc. “Nope. But we should all hang out together soon,” Cooper said. “Sure.”

A few seconds later, he held his phone up, showing me a photo of my own face, from a month ago, when I had dreadlocks. “I'm face-friending you,” he said. “I will accept,” I said. My own phone was in my pocket, turned off, and I fought the urge to take it out and check to see if he really had requested to friend me. Twenty minutes into the movie, after being shushed several times by Britain for my funny comments during the film, my bladder demanded a washroom break. In the relative quiet of the ladies' room, I turned my phone on and accepted Cooper's friend request. A moment later, when I was peeing, a message popped up from him:

You snuck out! Me: Bathroom break. Cooper: We should go get some real food. Me: Right now? Cooper: Meet me outside the doors. Me: Sounds like a plan! Yes. After I came out of the stall, I quickly washed my hands and scrubbed my teeth with my finger. I looked up at the watersplashed mirror to check my face, shocked to see two metal balls framing my right eyebrow.

I really did just get my eyebrow pierced, didn't I? What a weirdo. At least it looked cute. I dried my hands on sandy brown paper towel, then very gingerly touched my fingertip to the end of the piercing. It hurt, but not as much as I expected.

The piercing looked like a good one, for all I could tell. I'd seen home-pierced ones that were too close to the surface, and they seemed to be working their way out of the person's face. This one looked secure. I wondered how it would look with another one next to it. “Admiring yourself?” someone said. I turned to find Cooper, inside the ladies' room, watching me. An older lady washing her hands next to me gave him a wide-eyed look and shook her head. I ran toward him, pushing him away with hand gestures. “Get out of here, ladies' room pervert,” I squealed. Laughing, he said, “I didn't see anything, I swear. Besides, I have a sister and she pees around me all the time. I can't get her to stop.”

Right, his sister was the blue-haired girl, Sunshine, who was also Marc's ex, the one he probably “just got out of something serious” with. Out in the movie theater lobby, I said to Cooper, “Food of many lands?” “You mean the food court? No way. Let's go somewhere. I know a Greek place that does great seafood.” “I don't really do seafood.” “Typical girl, always has to be so difficult,” he said, smiling. “They have other things too. You can have the chicken, or the lamb, or the vegetarian stuff.” “Okay,” I said as I walked toward the movie theater, so I could let Courtney know I was ditching her with Britain.

Cooper said, “Let's just leave them and make them think you were abducted.” I laughed into my hand. “No, bad idea. How would you feel if your sister disappeared mid-movie?” His face got serious. “You're right. My bad. Go tell them.” I crept into the theater and told Courtney I was going off with Cooper. She made a crude blowjob gesture just to horrify me and Britain. “Not like that,” I insisted, but I did feel naughty sneaking off with him. When I came out of the theater, Cooper looked adorable, studying the movie posters in the hallway. Is there anything cuter than a guy by himself, waiting for you? We made our way out of the theater lobby, toward the elevator. Once in the elevator, with some other people, he turned to me and said, “You'll love this Greek restaurant.” “You're a good salesman,” I said, wondering if the other people in the elevator thought he was my boyfriend. He said, “That's a good thing, because I am no painter.” “Don't say that. Your paintings are really nice.” “Yeah, they really are,” he said, grinning widely. An older Asian lady with a wheeled cart smiled at him and then me. We reached our floor, and as we walked through the parkade to find Cooper's car, he told me a bit about some large-scale pieces he was working on for a custom order— a commission, he called it. The way he talked about his work didn't sound like bragging, but it didn't sound weak and insecure, either. When my mother writes a new song, she paces around the

house, talking about how terrible it is—how awful, how pedestrian—then my brother, my dad, and anyone else who pops in for a visit, all have to boost her back up by raving about how talented and luminous she is. She really is a wonderful songwriter and singer, and I'm not just saying that because I'm her daughter. It's easy to be supportive when you believe. The other artist in my life, Courtney, can get uptight about her tiny-handed sculptures, though I'm saved by much of the drama by not living in the same house as her. Before she shows me something, I'll ask her to tell me what she wants: critique or support. She always says critique, but I give her ninety percent praise, because I really do love everything she does. Her work has a tribal sensibility to it, but from the future, like from some post-apocalyptic new civilization. I don't mind being my mother's or my best friend's cheering squad, but it was refreshing to be around Cooper, an artist who was also his own support group. His car was black and sleek, but not flashy. He mentioned he'd had all the brand-identifying features removed when he'd purchased it, which I thought was cool, but also defeated the purpose of buying such a nice car. The interior of the car was spotless, and the electric seat warmers were a pleasant surprise for my bum when he started the engine. There wasn't a lot of foot room, so I put my purse on my lap. “Is that a bowling ball bag?” he asked, reaching over to stroke the top-stitched leather stripes. “Vintage,” I said. “I got it at the same place as my wrestling boots.” He reached down and actually touched my purple and yellow boots, which had been worn by some small-footed wrestler guy before they became mine. There had been some dark stuff staining the laces, and my mother was

concerned I'd catch some blood-borne contamination from the boots, so she'd made me give them an overall bleaching, along with the bowling ball bag. Cooper ran his hands up and down my shins—well, up and down the laces on the outside of the boots. It gave me a shiver, and made me glad I'd put on a cute outfit for the day instead of jeans. On my legs, I wore lace leotards—not the trampy kind, but the ones that look like granny doilies. Because I had a lot of color going on with the purple and yellow boots and the big yellow purse, I wore a dark gray dress paired with a gray trench-style jacket the same length as the dress. My hair was up in a loose bun, so I had to turn my head to the side a bit to rest my head on the headrest of the car. When I faced Cooper, he kept turning to smile back at me. I didn't want to distract him from driving, so I turned to face the window instead. It had been raining when I left the house, but the weather had gone through a typical Vancouver mood change, and the sun was bright gold around us. We drove for a bit in contented silence. Cooper parked the car on a side street, off Kingsway, and ran around to open my door for me. “I haven't been here in ages, I hope they're still in business,” he said. “There's a Mexican place over there, just in case.” “Sheesh, what have you got against Greek food?” he joked. “I don't know if I've ever had it, actually. Besides Greek salad.” “You are missing out,” he said as he held open the restaurant door for me.

Out wafted a scent that removed any doubts I'd had about eating there. My stomach started letting me know it might be interested in this fancy Greek food. The restaurant was huge, maybe five times the size of The Whistle, with seating on several platforms of varying heights. “The waitresses must get a real calf workout,” I commented as a young man showed us to a quiet corner booth. House plants—live ones, not plastic—trailed down from beams over my head. The sun peeked through some clouds and flooded the place through several skylights. My eyebrow tickled and I touched my new piercing before I could stop myself. A little zap of pain shot through me. “Yow!” I said. “That piercing's new,” Cooper said. “I just got it today. At Human Arts.” “That's cool. They did my frenum.” Breathlessly, I said, “What?” “Joking.” “I don't even know what that is.” He grinned at his menu, eyebrows raised. “Maybe I'm joking, maybe I'm not. Who's to say?” I pulled out my phone and looked it up. A frenum piercing makes the penis look like it's wearing a little bow-tie. I was pretty sure Cooper was joking, but he had made me think about his pants-business, which I realized might even be a good portion of the point behind getting piercings in that area.

The menu, with its myriad of strangely-named and hard-topronounce items, did little to take my mind off what might be under Cooper's stylish clothes. He said, “That piercing of yours makes me want to nibble on your eyebrow.” I didn't quite know how to deal with his forwardness, so I said, “What's halloumi, is that the fried cheese? I think I had that once before. I don't know.” “You're thinking of the flaming saganaki.” The waitress had just arrived at our table, so he turned to her and said, “We'll start with the saganaki, and I'll have a Coke.” The waitress wore Uggs, which my boss at The Whistle would never allow. Her jeans and shirt were awfully casual, and I assumed she had to be family, perhaps the daughter or granddaughter of the owners. I ordered an iced tea and asked a few more questions about the menu. “Why don't we have the Greek platter for two,” Cooper said to the waitress. To me, he said, “This way you can nibble a bit of everything. My treat.” The waitress turned to leave, whipping her long, black ponytail. Under the table, Cooper nudged my knees with his, which may have been accidental. I sat up straighter in my chair. Everything was happening so fast. I should have still been back in the theater, watching the end of John Carter. Looking at the cute guy across from me, I got that giggly, giddy feeling, like when you skip out of school and go to McDonalds with your friends, then throw french fries at each other until the manager kicks you out. I wasn't supposed to be there. I was being bad.

“Tell me about your family,” I said. He counted them off on his fingers. “Workaholic, shopaholic, hypochondriac, and just plain crazy. In other words, normal. Tell me about yours.” “Neurotic rock star mom, nerdy city engineer dad, and surprisingly well-adjusted younger brother.” “Does he look like you?” “No, he looks like a boy.” “That's not what I was implying. You're a very attractive girl.” I turned my head to the side and patted my bun, like a girl in a stage play trying to show she's flattered. “I mean it,” he said. “Marc's crazy.” My back tensed. “He told you how he friend-zoned me?” The waitress set our drinks in front of us. I was so eager for a drink, yet so nervous, that I choked on the first sip and spent a minute coughing hard and trying not to make gross choking sounds, but failing. “The friend zone is underrated,” Cooper said. “A lot of nice things can happen there.” A Greek-looking boy about my brother's age, not the one who seated us, set up a folding stand next to our table. A sizzling, popping sound came from nearby. “That's ominous,” I said. Cooper waved out his napkin and spread it across his lap. “Should I be scared?” I asked Cooper as the waitress approached our table, presenting a platter crowned by blue flames.

“Relax and go with it,” he said, grinning. She put the flaming, sizzling, popping platter on the stand and doused the fire by squeezing juice from a lemon over the blocks of breadcrumb-coated cheese. My mouth watered. Cooper cut me off a chunk, but I insisted on only taking a little slice on my plate, not sure if I would like it. The first mouthful was a revelation: salty, gooey, rich, crunchy, and sweet and tangy from the lemon juice. Salty and sweet together! “So good,” Cooper said. “Life is worth living with food like this.” I moaned around the cheese in my mouth. “How do you like me now?” Cooper asked. “I like you a LOT for bringing me here. Oh, man, I don't care about what else is coming. I just want to eat this saggynecky.” He laughed over my pronunciation. “Saganaki. But hey, you call it whatever you like.” The second bite was just as good as the first, and we were both competitively eyeballing the remaining portion on the serving dish. Cooper insisted I take the remainder, saying, “Watching you enjoy the saganaki is almost as good as eating it myself.”

Chapter 13 When the rest of the food came, I almost panicked. There was so much, and I didn't want to look like a pig in front of Marc, but I also didn't want to waste his money. “Do you think they'll wrap the leftovers?” I asked. “Of course! Just try a nibble of everything and I'll be happy.” So, nibble I did. And it was all wonderful, even the potatoes, which looked like nothing fancy, but melted in my mouth like butter. Cooper seemed happier with every bite I took. What is it about a guy who wants you to experience the same things they enjoy that's just so … enjoyable? My friend Haylee's boyfriend, Andrew, actually wrote out a list of things it was important for his girlfriend to experience —and this was before he'd even started dating anyone. Before the girl, he had the list, which I suppose was better than a list of measurements and hair color. Haylee had to watch a bunch of Quentin Tarantino movies, and then they moved on to the movies that had inspired

Quentin Tarantino, including some really bizarre, violent stuff. Nowadays, Haylee says she likes seeing people's severed heads roll around in the snow like bowling balls, but I suspect she may be brainwashed. In my opinion, most girls don't like that decapitation stuff nearly as much as a good makeover or shopping montage. Cooper and I didn't talk about horror movies or much of anything after the big food platter came. When I asked him questions about his life or what he did when he wasn't painting, he insisted it was “too tedious to discuss” and changed the topic back to me. You'd think I'd enjoy talking about myself non-stop, but it gets old. I mean, I've totally heard all my stories before. ~ After dinner, Cooper drove me back to my house. I was looking forward to being able to relax by myself and decompress from our sorta-date, but I offered to show him my house, just to be polite. To my surprise, he accepted. The reason I was surprised was because—and I feel I need to repeat this, in case you've forgotten—Cooper is really, really attractive. You may recall me describing Cooper as so attractive, he could sell diet cereal. He is a ten. I don't have body dysmorphia or anything, but I do know I am not a ten, not even on a good day. As it was a Friday, my father was getting home from work just as we were walking up to the front door. My father shut his car door and gave me a look that indicated he was surprised to see me touring another young man around the house, for the second time in one week, but that he wasn't going to blow my cover. I'll admit, I was delighted by the scandal of it all, innocent though it was. He was so distracted by Cooper, he didn't even notice my eyebrow piercing. Another symptom of his ADD is he fails

to notice things that are changed. My mother could replace all the furniture in the house while he was at work, and he'd come home and sit on a sparkling disco-ball chair, his only confusion being wondering where the remote control was. We all got inside the house, and after a moment to show him our family photos in the front hall, I led Cooper to the kitchen, where my father was finishing a glass of grapefruit juice. “Is your friend staying for dinner?” Dad asked. “No, but I have all this amazing Greek food for you guys to eat.” I put the bag of fragrant take-out on the counter. Cooper opened the kitchen cabinet, located a glass, and poured himself some filtered water from the fridge. “Unless you want to stay?” I asked Cooper. “You seem comfortable.” “You keep your glassware in the most logical place,” Cooper said, tapping the cupboard. “I like this family. The energy's in good harmony here.” “Dad, Cooper is also friends with Marc,” I said, my voice sounding like a Kindergarten teacher. “You met my friend Marc for dinner the other day.” “Right,” Dad said, apparently unsure of how much more to mention. I couldn't blame him for being confused. The situation wasn't exactly clear to me either. Marc had paid for my dinner, which seemed to imply date, yet he'd also talked a few times about the benefits of friendship. There was the gap of our attractiveness differential, but he had said those flirty things about piercings. Dad rinsed out his glass and poured some water, then asked Cooper, “How old would you say you are?” “I'd say I'm twenty-one.”

Not bad, three years' difference, I thought. Dad seemed satisfied with that and began digging into the fragrant, tinfoil-wrapped takeout containers. Within seconds, Garnet was also in the kitchen, not so interested in Cooper, but very keen on the Greek food. After we'd eaten our fill at the restaurant, there hadn't been much left over, so Cooper had ordered some more meat-on-a-stick things, souvlaki, when I'd mentioned cooking dinner for my family was my current duty. As I stood leaning on the counter, watching Cooper easily chat with my father and brother, showing them how “everything's better dipped in tzatziki,” I thought about how lucky a girl would be to date him. My next thought was this: If I go on a date with Cooper,

Marc will get jealous. That was when I knew I probably wasn't that into Cooper, despite his clean-cut, fair-haired good looks. Maybe he was too nice, too easy-going, and I preferred my guys a little rougher—a bit surly, like a porcupine. I tried to picture Cooper in a skinny black t-shirt instead of his pastel buttondown shirt. Yes, a black t-shirt would help a lot, I thought. Now that I think back to that evening in my kitchen, when I was mentally giving Cooper a makeover, I understand how it's wrong to change someone to suit you. At the time, however, I was not as enlightened as I am these days. Don't judge me, okay? We all make mistakes. I was about to make several. Conversation in the kitchen waned as my father and brother sat on the stools at the kitchen island, gorging on the Greek food. “I dabble in a bit of art,” I said to Cooper. “Show me.”

With Dad and Garnet happily gobbling away at the food, I gave Cooper an express tour of the downstairs floor of the house, then ran up the stairs to my bedroom with him right at my heels. Unlike Marc, Cooper had no qualms about coming into my bedroom, or closing the door behind him. With the two of us in there together, my room seemed smaller than ever. It had never felt so cozy when I was in there with friends, or with our housekeeper, but as I showed Cooper my Forgotten Creatures on the wall and the branches over my headboard, he brushed up against me several times to get past, and I could feel body heat radiating from him. He seemed way more interested in my Creatures than Marc had been. Marc had actually called them demons. And nightmare teddy-bears. “How many of these beasties have you made?” Cooper asked. “Like, four. There's one in my brother's room.” He got on my bed and crawled across to examine one of the stuffed creatures up close. “I know someone who does little dolls like this,” he said. “Collectors pay big money for them.” He tapped on the eyes, which were made from one rusty metal nut and one penny with a hole in the middle. “Don't sell these at a craft show. These are aren't craft, they're one-of-a-kind. They have little souls.” My face flushed red with embarrassment. My friend Courtney was the artist, not me. I just sewed some silly things together, and I wasn't exactly prolific, with all four of my creations. With him right there, on my bed, I almost didn't know what to

do with myself. I feared he'd look down at my unmade bed and see curly pubes on my sheets and I would die of embarrassment. I quickly kicked a pair of dirty underwear under the bed. Oh, the horror! My brain popped in and out of something, and I got that feeling that people call surreal. People always say they “feel surreal” on reality TV shows when they win, or in interviews when they've become famous. I guess all your senses are completely alive, all your nerve endings lit up with something similar to panic, but not panic. A boy—no, a grown man of twenty-one—was in my room, sitting on my bed. This is how it happens, I thought. Casually, I sat on the bed next to him, taking care to smooth the blankets down, covering any potential pubes or sweat stains from my favorite sleeping zone. He turned around from where he was kneeling and sat, leaning his back against the wall. “Have you thought about art school?” he asked. I picked at my pale blue nail polish where it was chipped. “We already have one crazy artist in the family. I thought I might take some business classes. Something practical. I think art leads to a lot of unhappiness.” “Because of your mother,” he said, nodding. “Women are not as laid-back as guys. Imagine if our female ancestors had been more like dudes, trying to ride pterodactyls to show off.” I giggled, imagining a Flinstones-style scenario. “Every kid would have been an orphan,” he said. “It's not fair, but a woman's role is to worry. You can't look at your mom and think she's neurotic because of the art, because

she would have been that way even if she was a nurse or a teacher.” “Or the Prime Minister,” I said, pulling at the baggy knees of my granny-crochet leggings. I'd taken my wrestler boots off when we came in the house, and I hoped my feet weren't giving off any cheese smells. Despite a good bleaching, the vintage boots had retained a certain something from their past in the wrestling ring. “Prime Minister, sure,” Cooper said. “But never mind all this weird talk, maybe I'm full of garbage and dumb ideas from my own family. I've read some stuff about evolutionary psychology and while it makes some sense, I don't like how reductive it is.” “How so?” “Well, evolutionary psychology would say I feel an attraction toward you because of your hip to waist ratio.” He reached down and tickled me on my sides briefly. I sucked my stomach in, which is hard to do when you're giggling and nearly peeing your pants from excitement. He continued, “Your little waist shows me, the caveman, that you are not currently with child, and the shape of your hips shows that you could get pregnant, if I play my cards right. And by play my cards right, I mean demonstrate that I would be able to protect and support our shared offspring until they are about six years old, at which time you'll want to find a different mate so you can have a variety of offspring, all the better to ensure the survival of your genes.” “I what?” “That is, if we were caveman and cave … girl.” “Living without modern bathroom facilities would suck,” I said. “But you're saying we'd last about seven years in our

home-sweet-cave? Probably longer if we could brush our teeth.” He laughed. “Even at the seven-year mark, I would have already been sneaking around behind your back, scamming on every other cavegirl with a nice hip-to-waist ratio.” “Jerk,” I said playfully, smacking him on the shoulder. “But that is interesting. Anything that illuminates strange human behavior is pretty cool.” “I also took some philosophy. Wanna hear about Immanuel Kant?” Did I want to hear about philosophy? No, I didn't. I was in my room with a cute, older guy, and the door to the outside world was closed. I wanted him to show me philosophy, not tell me about it. So, being the brazen hussy that I am, I leaned in and kissed him. In retrospect, my timing could have been better. My lips landed somewhat near Cooper's mouth, but I took careful aim and got him with the second one. He kissed me back. I shifted around on my bed so I wasn't so twistedaround. How would I describe the kissing? I'd say it was very physical, like I was aware of the texture of his lips and his tongue on my lips. While I'd not had a boyfriend before, I'd done some kissing at parties, so I wasn't a total newbie. Things got deeper, and I imagined that he was painting my mouth, and his tongue was the paintbrush. His hands found my waist again, but he seemed to be holding me still, rather than pulling me toward him. Something made a bumping sound, and I jerked back, thinking it was my father at the door.

Cooper winced and rubbed the back of his head, which had just hit my wall, making the bumping sound. “Did I hurt you?” I asked. He pointed to my eyebrow. “Is your piercing bleeding?” “No,” I said defensively. I could see the round ball up there, at the edge of my vision, but there was no way I would have been able to tell if it was bleeding. Sensing a sudden shift into extreme awkwardness, I jumped up from the bed and ran into my en suite bathroom, where I found my eyebrow looking a bit purple and forlorn, but not bleeding. By the time I came out again, Cooper was already at my bedroom door, opening it to make his escape. “We should do this again sometime,” he said, though by the tone of his voice, it sounded like an empty promise. “Sure,” I said, and I followed him down the stairs. In waves, I was getting the dreadful feeling that I should not have kissed him. I'd feel like everything was going to be okay, for maybe a second, then the wave of regret would hit me again. People who say they have no regrets are full of crap. We all have regrets, but denial is also a powerful force.

I'll just act like nothing happened, I thought. We'll both forget about this, and we'll be friends. We got to the front door and my father came over to shake his hand and thank him for the great food. My father said, “Perry's getting to be a better cook, with practice, but I sure appreciated a great meal tonight.” “Dad!” As horrified as I was that he was delaying Cooper's escape, did he have to insult my cooking too?

As the three of us stood there, Cooper turned from my father, to me, and shook my hand. He left without saying anything more. After the door closed, I said to my father, “How could you?” He frowned. “I said you were getting better.” “You suck at life,” I said, which was a little on the mean side, but he shrugged it off and went back to his computer room. My brother was watching something with loud explosions in the TV den, so I went to the kitchen to check out the mess left by the male members of the Martin family. They'd done a decent job of putting most of the takeout containers in the garbage, but they'd left a few utensils out and hadn't wiped down the surfaces. My father and brother both do this thing, where they'll try to clean up the kitchen, but miss the final five percent that'll make it totally clean. As I wiped the counter, more waves of horror and embarrassment returned over having kissed Cooper. It was much worse than simply having your friend tell a guy you like him. I do not recommend it. Girls, try to be sure he likes you before you stick your lips on his face. Upstairs in my room, I sat on the clothing-covered chair next to my bed and thought of someone I usually thought of whenever I suffered emotional crush-related trauma around a boy: Scott Weaver. In my head, I heard him taunting me, saying, “Ne ne, ne ne.” Thinking about idiotic Scott Weaver made me feel like punching something. I turned and glared at my crafts on the wall. “You're fat and ugly,” I said to the first Forgotten Creature. “You say stupid things,” I said to the second.

“And you,” I said to the third, the one who looked most like me. “I can't even look at you.” I tore her out of her shadow box frame and tossed her under my bed. Next, I calmly went to my bathroom and cleaned my piercing with the solution the piercing studio had sold me. The ritual was soothing. When that was done, I lay on my bed and cried like a little girl.

Chapter 14 On Saturday morning, I woke up with crusty eyes and an equally crusty eyebrow piercing. I checked my aftercare sheet and confirmed my piercing was the expected level of disgusting, right on time. Staring at my puffy face in the mirror, the Perry from the night before seemed like a different person. Crying over kissing some guy who didn't seem that into me? Weak. What good would crying do? Does crying drain excess moisture from the body in some way that is beneficial?

Put on your big girl panties and get over it, I told myself. Today is a new day with no mistakes. Fuck other people and their expectations. It's my life, and I'll do what I want. As I was giving myself the pep talk, my poor teeth, which I was brushing rather furiously, cried out in pain. I spat out suds and a bit of pink blood from my gums. “You're a nightmare,” I said to myself in the mirror. The girl grinned back, with foamy lips, then began making rabid-dog faces. I highly recommend making crazy faces in the mirror, if you're feeling blue. How can you not love

someone who's unafraid to look hideous? Next, I cleaned my bruised-looking eyebrow piercing with the saline solution and sprayed on the stuff from the blue bottle, the H2Ocean Piercing Aftercare spray. Maybe it was the sexy merman on the cover, but the misted stuff did smell like the ocean, and that made me happy. I whistled a few silly tunes as I tidied up my room, made my bed, put away my dirty laundry, and retrieved the sad little Creature from where I'd tossed it the night before. “I'm going to make you some more friends,” I told her. ~ After a quick cheese sandwich for breakfast, I walked over to the nearest laundromat to search for some left-behind clothes to make more Creature bodies. At the laundromat, I found my friend Haylee, arguing with the owner about whether or not her comforter could be washed in the regular-sized washing machines. The owner wanted her to use the bigger machine, saying the quilt would wreck the smaller machines, and Haylee objected because the big machine cost more. This was not the first time I'd heard this exact same argument, and I didn't even do laundry there, just rifled through their basket of leftbehind clothing a couple of times. In addition to the materials for the Creatures, I'd also found a few cute shirts there, but don't tell anyone or all the good stuff will get scooped on me. I approached the two of them and said to Haylee, “Dude, just use the big machine. I'll give you the extra two dollars.” She hugged me and took the toonie coin I offered. “You win,” she said to the owner, an Asian woman with glasses on a chain.

I felt embarrassed for my friend for being so aggressive, but she had just moved into an apartment with horrormovie-fan Andrew, and her budget must have been tight. Even though they were both students with only part-time income, I could understand her wanting to move out of her parents' house, because they were dysfunctional in the sadnot-comical way. “You look good,” I said, instantly regretting what any sane person would recognize as a white lie. Haylee's normallypale skin was sallow and her lightened hair looked orange under the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the laundromat. She wore no makeup and had a huge pimple on one cheek. “You too,” she said, which made me question my cuteness. “I'm glad you combed your hair out, it's nice to see you looking so soft and vulnerable.” “Vulnerable?” “Yeah, you look feminine. More feminine.” I asked why she was doing laundry there and she launched into a saga about some war they were having with their landlord about the hot water usage, visitors after eleven, and suspicious smoke-like smells. Haylee is one of those victim-types, who's always on the bad end of a deal. She's constantly getting ripped off by people on Craigslist, whether she's buying or selling, and as far as I know, she's never quit a job of her own accord. While she talked, I snagged a striped shirt and a single bright pink sock from the box. After completing my mission, I wanted to get out of the laundromat, and I didn't have that much planned for the day, so I invited Haylee to my house for a visit while her loads washed. She agreed, so I pulled out my phone and set the timer to synchronize with her washing machine.

“Nice phone,” she said wistfully. “Andrew broke his and then he took mine, so now I have to use payphones to call people and it's costing me two hundred dollars in quarters every month, I swear.” Foolishly, I said, “Why don't you just get a cheap phone?” “All those plans and contracts are rip-offs,” she said as we stepped out of the laundromat to the cool outside air. “But they'd be less than two hundred dollars in quarters,” I said. “Yeah, but you have to sign a contract.” “Right,” I said. Never offer logical solutions to someone like Haylee, unless you enjoy being frustrated. I began to regret inviting her over. ~ Back at my house, she ate three cheese sandwiches and talked about all her problems while I laid out the paper body templates on a pink-and-grey-striped stretch-knit shirt I'd liberated from the laundromat. My phone timer beep-beeped, but Haylee remained on her chair at the kitchen island, saying the laundry lady could “suck it.” “It is Saturday,” I said. “The place will be busy.” “They'll just pull my clothes and put them in a basket,” she said. “People will touch your panties,” I said. She grinned. “I hope they steal some so I can buy new ones.”

I threaded my needle and began putting the body together so I could stuff it. We do have a sewing machine, but it's not worth hauling out of the linen closet for such a small job, and besides, stitching by hand gave my Creatures charmingly bumpy seams. “I guess Courtney's gone full-time-gay,” Haylee said. “How do you get along with her new girlfriend, The Queen of England?” “She seems okay. I don't see them much. Andrew likes to have me all to himself.” She smiled and wrapped her arms around herself, apparently still madly in love with him, which was great for Andrew. As I thought about him, I pictured his big head and strangely short arms, which always reminded me of those short-armed dinosaurs, Tyrannosaurus Rex. When I first met Andrew, his jerky laugh turned me off. He sounded like the cartoon mean kid who points and laughs when someone gets hurt. I wasn't a big Andrew fan. As I was adding long bunny ears to my Creature, I wondered how it was someone like Andrew could get a girlfriend, and I was eighteen and had never had a boyfriend. I'd made out with some guys, even gotten into the occasional grope session, but I hadn't been able to snag and reel in a sweetheart, and yet Tyrannosaurus-head Andrew had. I attempted to talk to Haylee about the two guys I liked, Marc and Cooper, but when I brought them up, whatever I said would remind her of a funny anecdote about Andrew and some new low-budget horror movie he was shooting or scouting locations for, and of course she had to tell me all about it. “Haylee, can we talk about something besides Andrew?” She blinked at me. After the stunned look wore off, she said, “I'm sorry. He's my whole life, besides school, but I

forget other people have their own feelings.” I smiled. “Other people do have feelings.” She shook her head playfully. “Mind boggling! Okay, hit me with all your feelings.” Put on the spot like that, I drew a blank. We sat quietly for a minute, then Haylee got up, grabbed the step stool, and raided our top shelf of junk, bringing down the Oreo cookies. “These Oreos give me feelings,” she said. I said, “Do you think guys would like me better if I acted more … I don't know … normal?” “Derp.” “Don't derp me.” I explained how I'd taken the dreads out and had really soft makeup on the day Marc had invited me to the art show, but I hadn't been able to recreate the same guy-wowing effect ever since. “How did the I-have-unprotected-sex eyebrow piercing factor into your new 'normal' plan?” She did air quotes around the word normal. I got my first twinge of regret over the piercing. Defensively, I said, “Eyebrow piercings don't say promiscuous. Maybe tongues do, a little. Not that I would think that and judge someone, but other people might.” “Slippery slope,” she said, licking the icing out of an Oreo. “But if you want a guy, you have to look like the girl they want.” “And what is that?” “Megan Fox,” she said. “That's so weird. Our prep cook at The Whistle is obsessed with her. As if he could get a girl like that!”

“Exactly. These guys have been trained by movies and video games to think they deserve the prize, no matter how grody they are.” “Toph isn't the worst, but still.” “You have to be that unattainable, ideal girl, who oozes sexuality, but exclusivity,” Haylee said. For a moment, I took back all my mental grumbling about Haylee talking non-stop about Andrew and felt truly appreciative of my friend. We hadn't spent much time together since graduation, and that was a mistake. I loved Courtney, of course, but she wasn't exactly helpful in the hetero-dating department. Haylee at least had some experience. “Take this,” Haylee said, waving her hand over her hair, face, and body. She wore a huge sweatshirt along with some pants that may have been pajamas. “This is the opposite of how you want to look. Andrew's out with friends today, so I'm taking the morning off.” “You look comfortable.” “The wrong kind of comfortable,” she said, laughing. “I'm getting my hair highlighted today and the color fixed. It's expensive, and a total rip-off, but so worth it. Then full makeup tomorrow morning, first thing. Andrew says he likes the natural look. It takes me about fifteen minutes to achieve the natural look.” I slumped in my chair. “My eyebrow piercing was a mistake.” She blinked at me, tilting her head to the side. “One tiny piercing is classy, but don't get more unless you want to go in that direction and get a guy with a face full of chains.”

I made an ew face. “I don't wanna date a guy with face piercings.” Quickly, I clapped my hand over my big mouth. “Woah, double standard,” I said. She tapped her fingers on the counter. “Interesting.” “I'm a horrible person.” “You like what you like,” she said. “When it comes to boyfriends, you're not hiring someone or renting out an apartment. You don't have to be an equal opportunity dater.” “I have an open mind,” I said. “Nobody cares,” she said. “Guys either want to fuck you or own you or don't care, and which one do you want to be?” I laughed nervously and took out my phone to check the time. Shouldn't Haylee be going to get her laundry? “This was really fun,” I said, standing. “I have to put on some stew for when Dad and Garnet get back from soccer.” I began putting away my sewing stuff. My little Forgotten Creature, a pink and grey bunny with mismatched ears, just needed a face. Haylee grabbed a handful of cookies and began moving toward the front door. “We're having a belated housewarming,” she said. “I'll send out the invites tonight, after my hair appointment.” “Party sounds fun. Any single guys?” She wrinkled her nose. “Nobody your type.” “I've never had a boyfriend. How do you know what type I like?” “Exactly,” she said. “You're fussy. And you don't like the guys who like you.”

As we walked through the hall to the front door, past the family photos, I said, “Shut up! What?” “You heard me. You should try liking a guy who likes you. What about that Toph guy from your work?” “He's so skinny, and not in the right areas.” She shrugged. “So, make him a sandwich. Work with what you've got.” “Uhh … I'll think about it.” “The party's bring-your-own-bottle,” she said. “Of course.” “But you can bring an extra one for sharing.” I nodded. “Yup. And feel free to invite some extra cute guys, for sharing.” She gave me a hug and left. I thought about Toph. He was only eighteen, so maybe he wasn't quite fully grown yet. ~ After Haylee was gone, I searched through my collection of found objects for eyes to put on the Creature. The key to making your Creatures whimsical is to not put the eyes on in the expected, obvious places, but to affix them extrawide, or extra-narrow, or too high, or too low. Another key, when it comes to the body, is to not give the Creature any neck. Necks are for people. Frustrated by my lack of eyeball options, I did a quick search around the house, from the junk drawer in the kitchen, to the junk drawer in Dad's office. I found some old

keys that would make neat neck-ties, but no eyes. Since Garnet was still out of the house, I wandered into his room. I couldn't think of the last time I'd been in there, but the smell reminded me why I don't go in often. The boy, in person, smells okay, but something about a week's worth of laundry, even piled neatly in his hamper, seemed to create a critical bacterial level. Also, there was something else in the air besides dust and boy cooties. Skunk? No, it wasn't a skunk, because the window wasn't open. Pot? After a five-minute search, I found a plastic baggie and two joints, in my little brother's underwear drawer, under a folded stack of underwear. Pot! What the hell?! I marched out of his room, down to the kitchen, slammed the baggie on the counter, and crossed my arms. Now

what? No, really, what was I supposed to do? Be the cool big sister and suggest a better hiding space? Narc him out to my parents immediately? Take it for myself and plan a little experimentation party for me and my friends? I was angry, though. How dare he bring pot into the house on my watch? The baggie lay guiltily before me. That was when I started talking out loud to myself, muttering about what was or wasn't in Mom's instructions. I even opened her binder and searched under D for drugs and M for marijuana, but found nothing. Philosophically, I have no problem with pot. People can pay

a doctor to vacuum fat out of their asses and inject it into their cheeks or lips or whatever, and that's legal. Alcohol is legal and it makes people want to hit each other; pot makes people laugh and get hungry for Bugles. So, I wasn't against the pot existing. We have a dispensary not far from the house, on East Broadway, that sells it for medicinal use to cancer patients, so it can't be that bad. By comparison, nobody gets a prescription for vodka. All things being equal, however, I'd rather my little brother was not smoking anything mind-altering at the tender age of fifteen. His little teen brain didn't need that. My Uncle Jeff is a great example of the dangers of drug use on a still-developing brain. When I was little, the guy terrified me. Who am I kidding? He still terrifies me. I picked up the bag, pulled open the seal, and sniffed the contents. The little bugger couldn't say he was just holding the joints for a friend, because I'd smelled the smoke in his room. I had nose-witness smell evidence as well as physical evidence. I put my face in my hands, feeling sick to my stomach, accidentally touching my raw-feeling eyebrow piercing with my dirty fingers. Angrily, I sealed the bag again and stomped upstairs to return the bag to where I'd found it, right under the folded underwear. “Seriously, Garnet,” I said, still talking to myself like a crazy person. “Top drawer? It's like you want to be found out. Why didn't you tape them to the outside of your favorite hoodie?”

Idiot. I don't know what disgusting people were handling the stuff, much less what other goodies besides marijuana were in it. And I touched my piercing after touching the bag. Oh, that little brat. If my eyebrow were to get infected from his poorly-hidden drug cache, I vowed to put a new hole in

his face. With my fist. I waved my fist at the drawer for good measure. Satisfied that his bedroom had been adequately threatened with violence, I went to my bathroom and did the cleansing ritual on my piercing. I calmed down. Everything was different after that. I don't know how to explain it other than I looked up from the sink and saw my mother's face in the mirror. I never realized how much I looked like her. There she was, staring back at me. She asked me, How do you like having my job? I didn't like it at all. Cooking dinner was losing its novelty. I didn't want to worry about my teenage brother and what he was getting into. I just wanted to daydream about boys, hang out with my friends, watch movies, and go shopping. I didn't want to work five days a week at a diner. Things in my life were changing so fast, and I felt so lost and alone. A day earlier, everything had seemed better. A month ago, everything had been wonderful; a month ago, my mother had been there, taking care of us. I brought my laptop over to my bed and turned it on, checking for email from Mom. She hadn't sent anything since her very dry, just-the-facts message from a few days earlier. However, over on Facebook, Marc had finally accepted my friend request.

Chapter 15 A flush of excitement washed over me as I checked out Marc's Facebook page and saw his serious-looking profile photo, with him wearing those brown tortoiseshell glasses, and his mouth in a straight line. It felt good to dismiss my worries about my brother's secret drug stash. I'd just ignore it, like my father would. As I was browsing through some of Marc's other photos and interests, a message from within Facebook's chat popped up from Marc: Hey. Me: Saturday night!!! Woot! What big exciting plans have

you got going on? As I waited painful seconds for his response, I hoped he didn't already know about my terrible, disastrous kiss with his friend Cooper. Guys don't typically gossip quite as much as girls, and I hoped that kiss was the type of thing Cooper wouldn't share. If Marc didn't know, I could take charge of the story and tell him myself, controlling the situation with my own spin. I could probably downgrade it to a scenario in which Cooper and I bumped faces by accident and in my confused state, I'd lingered, so it may have seemed to Cooper that I'd

kissed him, when really, I hadn't. Him: Pickles and I are planning to have a walk and then

watch a movie on Netflix. Me: You should come over so I can tell you the entire

awkward story about me almost macking on some poor guy yesterday. Or not. I'll just pretend it didn't happen. Him: You have Netflix. I was pretty sure he meant that as a question, not a statement. What's with some guys and their inability to use question marks in text messages? Do they think the curvy question mark is too feminine? Me: Yes, we have Netflix. And popcorn. And a stash of

movie-grade snacks. Him: You're sure you're not going out with your friends. Me: It's nice to stay in sometimes. Want to come over at

8? Or come earlier, for dinner? Him: Just the movie at 8. I'll bring Pickles. Me: Yes, I'd love to see her. I tried to say goodbye, but he was already gone, logged off. He would be coming over in less than three hours, and I still had to get the dinner started for my family. I squealed with happiness when I remembered Mom had left some money for pizza a few of the nights. Phew! Crisis averted. Still, that only left me three hours to make myself look like Megan Fox, and for one thing, my hair was the wrong color. I phoned Haylee to follow up on a few things she'd said earlier that day. After I explained my situation, she said, “You have to make

yourself the prize. Guys like to win video games and sports.” In the background, someone laughed. “Who's that?” I asked. “My hairdresser, hold on.” “Hi Sweetie,” said a voice I couldn't identify as male or female. “I'm trying to put color in Haylee's hair, and she can't be on the phone.” I sighed into the phone from my end. “Fine, I'll just mess it up with my big, smart-talking mouth, like I always do.” “If your mouth is the problem, just count to five before you say anything.” “What?” “Buzz! You just spoke without counting to five. Now try again.” I counted. One. Two. Three. “See, I like you more already,” the voice said. Four. Five. “That's ridiculous!” I said after I'd gotten to five, but the little red icon was showing on my phone's screen. Haylee's hairdresser had already disconnected. ~ Forty-five minutes after my consultation with Haylee and her hairdresser, I was preparing to mix chemical compounds together. Hair dye. Specifically, L'Oreal Superior Preference, Brown #4. My natural hair color is a shade my mother calls mouse. She and I share this lovely color, a tone some people call

mousey brown, though mine has a little red, from my father. I still had a couple of hours before Marc arrived, so I ripped open the box and put on the plastic gloves, which felt rubbery and pleasant on my hands. I'd never dyed my own hair before, but I had helped Haylee a few times, before she upgraded to a hair salon, so I knew the basics. After mixing the two liquids, I took off my clothes so I wouldn't get them stained, and started applying the haircolor. It smelled horrible, like a tiger was peeing directly on my head. I breathed only through my mouth and as little as possible without passing out. I imagined the paramedics arriving to find me, butt-naked and out cold. I set the timer on my phone for twenty-five minutes and grabbed my laptop to look up Megan Fox photos to make myself feel depressed. I mean, for inspiration. What's most remarkable about her is how she doesn't really look that unique. If you see her in the rare photo where she's not showing her big, white teeth between seductivelyparted lips, she could be the prettiest girl at anyone's school. My heart soared with sick delight when I found a series of articles talking about her toe-thumbs. Apparently, she has short thumbs and people make a big deal about her imperfection. People are so twisted, I thought as I zoomed in on every photo I could find. The timer went off and I panicked. How was I going to wash it off without getting chemicals in my eyebrow piercing? I wrapped a towel around myself, running down to the big bathroom to look for Band-Aids to cover my piercing. I couldn't find any, so I used some cotton balls and masking tape. It looked ridiculous, but it worked. After I washed the goopy mess out in my tub, I admired myself. Some of the brown dye had darkened my scalp,

which made my hair look even thicker and healthierlooking. I had, however, left the dye on too long while I'd made the eyebrow protection, and it was a lot closer to black than I'd wanted. I tried to make the best of it and copied Megan's makeup look from a photo. It didn't seem like I was wearing any makeup at all, but I guess that was the natural look guys like. I put on some black jeans and a gray v-neck t-shirt and began deliberating over my wardrobe choices. The doorbell ring. To my utter shock, it was already eight o'clock, and Marc was there. I looked down at my schlubby clothes. “Authentic,” I said out loud to myself. “This is fine. I look authentic.” The front door opened as I was coming down the stairs, and my father and brother came in right behind Marc, who was carrying a big bag of Doritos in one hand and holding the dog, Pickles, up with the other arm. Marc wore khaki pants, a button-down shirt, and a serious Crossword Guy expression on his face. He definitely came off as aloof or cranky when he wasn't smiling. “What happened to your hair?” Garnet asked. “You look like a witch.” “Thanks,” I said. My father dropped his big ring of keys to the floor, staring open-mouthed at me. At first I thought he was having a bad reaction to the hair, but then, when the yelling started up, I heard the word “piercing” in the noise. Well, good for him, he'd finally noticed. Pickles, Marc's little cream and brown Shih Tzu, began

barking excitedly, punctuating my father's rant. “Lighten up, it's not a tattoo!” I yelled at my father, which was, apparently, not a valid justification for “putting diseased holes” in my body. “It's not diseased yet,” I said calmly. “I have a special wash to prevent infection.” Garnet tried to squeeze past me to sneak up the stairs, but I stopped him with an outstretched arm. “Not so fast,” I said. “Enjoy your reaming,” he said sarcastically. “Lemme through.” As I observed the reactions on everyone's faces, from Garnet's sneer to Dad's rage and Marc's extreme discomfort, I started to get angry. I was eighteen, not a child, and how dare my father humiliate me like that in front of the guy I liked? Dad had slowed down his ranting to get some air, so I grabbed hold of Garnet by the collar of his shirt and announced to my father, “I found two joints in your son's bedroom.” Never before had I sounded more like my mother. Whenever we do anything bad, she tells my father, referring to us as his daughter and his son, as in, “Guess what your daughter and your son decided to microwave today?” Garnet, who I was holding on to by his soccer jersey, looked like he might faint. “Is this true?” Dad asked. Garnet, who may have been an idiot for hiding illegal items in the most obvious location, did not suffer an attack of the stupids when accused of such on that particular Saturday evening.

Some teen boys would have denied it. Others might cry and beg for mercy. What my little brother did was squirm out of his jersey, leaving me with a handful of fabric. He then pushed past me while shoving me down, so that I fell on my hands and knees at the foot of the stairs, blocking access. As I tumbled, he scooted his little fifteen-year-old legs up those stairs faster than you would believe. Dad reacted like the engineer he is and quickly assessed the situation. I was yelling, therefore I was still alive and not needing immediate medical attention. He chose not to leap over me, flailing around at the foot of the stairs, but took off in the opposite direction, through the kitchen. I heard him thundering up the back stairs, the other way to the upper floor. Upstairs, Garnet's door slammed and I heard the little click that meant the lock was engaged. They'd put the lock in a year earlier so Mom wouldn't have the shock of walking in on him during his solo time … again. I moaned and groaned, but I wasn't broken. Pickles licked my face for a few seconds, possibly contaminating my eyebrow piercing before I could shove her away. Marc helped me to my feet. “We can do this another time,” he said. “No, just wait,” I said, pausing to assess. Upstairs, Dad was threatening to bust down Garnet's door if he didn't open it that instant. For the most part, my father ignores things, but every now and then he takes a different approach and completely overreacts. There is no middle ground with him.

“I'm going to count to three!” he roared. “One!” “My dad's not really a psychopath,” I said to Marc. “Oh, no, he's quite nice, as I recall.” “Two!” my father yelled at the door. I said to Marc, “Once they get this sorted out, we can watch our movie.” “Three!” my father yelled, and at the same time he shouldered the door. Hard. A crunch reverberated through the house. I ran up the stairs, worried about bodily damage. On my watch! How dare they! Upstairs, I found the door open next to a split wood door frame, my brother in tears, and my father rubbing his shoulder while cursing. “You can search my room,” Garnet blubbered. I zipped in and yanked open the top drawer. The baggie was gone. I did a quick search of the surrounding area and all the logical hiding spots while Dad helped. Garnet stood by, his arms crossed and an inscrutable expression on his face. We turned up nothing. “You'll have to strip-search him,” I said to my father. That was when I noticed my brother was sweating. A lot. Unlike me, Garnet doesn't have a bathroom attached to his bedroom, so he couldn't have flushed the two joints down the toilet.

What he could have done, though, was dispose of them in another manner. I searched the area just behind him. “Garnet,” I said as I pulled the empty Ziploc bag out from under his mattress. “Did you eat those two joints?” “What if I did?” he said. Marc joined us in the room. “I'm still here,” he said. My father was frozen, speechless. “My brother may have ingested two joints.” I took another look at Garnet's face. “I'm quite certain he did.” “If it was just two joints, he'll probably be fine,” Marc said. “Bugged-out, yes, but he doesn't need to get his stomach pumped.” “Dad?” I said. My father flopped back on Garnet's bed and put one of the pillows over his face. His voice muffled, he said, “Maybe we should get his stomach pumped to teach him a lesson.” “We could take a vote,” I said to Marc. My brother gagged and spat some shredded paper into his hand. “You're in big trouble,” I said to Garnet. Marc said, “I'm not here to make enemies, so I vote we babysit him for the evening, and no stomach pumping.” “I vote pumping. I am pro-pumping. I hear they put a thick hose down your throat.” Garnet took a seat on the chair next to his desktop computer, looking more miserable by the minute.

I said, “What about you, Dad? Tie-breaker vote. Stomach pumping, yes or no?” My father slowly took the pillow off his face and sat up. “I'm going for a drive.” He talked as though he was speaking to himself. “I think I'll treat myself to some Arby's.” He got up and left Garnet's room. Just like that, he'd swung from overreaction to avoidance. “Pickles and I should leave,” Marc said, still holding the bag of Doritos. Pickles sat obediently near his feet, tongue out, enjoying herself. “You sound like you might be a drug expert,” I said. “You should definitely stay and help me babysit my brother.” “Story of my life,” he said. “Really?” “My older brother liked to dabble. He's fine, now, but I'm good at talking people down from a bad trip.” With a big grin on his face, Garnet finally spoke up, saying, “I'm fine! I'm not going to be sick, I don't think.” My anger at my brother faded. I had to admire him for his fast thinking in disposing the evidence. Sure, a smarter kid would have thrown the evidence out the window, into the bushes, but this way he got to have his cake and eat it, in a manner of speaking. “I get to hang out with you guys?” he asked, his eyes wide and his face as innocent as a little lamb's. “I guess,” I said. “You have to watch whatever movie we want to watch, and no talking during the film.” Garnet laughed. “Bro, you're the movie talker! You always

talk, talk, talk.” He laughed some more, then suddenly gave me a serious look. “Hey, this isn't the same guy who was here with you yesterday.” I grabbed the Doritos from Marc and threw them at my brother. “You're high. See if you can get those open.” To Marc, I said, “Come on, that movie's not gonna watch itself.” ~ The three of us got settled on the L-shaped sectional in our TV-watching den at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. We have a more formal living room at the front of the house, but nobody uses that room, which makes my parents happy, because it always looks presentable. From his spot on the sectional a few feet from me, Marc kept looking out the big windows, talking about how nice the back yard was, lit by my mother's new solar-powered landscape lighting. “Those are fig trees,” I said. “We get a buttload of fresh figs in the summer. I'll save you some.” “Are those the things inside fig newtons?” he asked, looking adorable in his ignorance about figs. My brother, who was staring at his hands, laughed extraloud. He seemed to be doing okay, just acting stupid and baby-like, like those kids you see on YouTube after they have their wisdom teeth taken out. I don't have the gene for being wise, because I didn't have any wisdom teeth to remove. Garnet wasn't as lucky as me, because his x-rays showed buds for three teeth. My parents and I teased him about being one tooth short of a full load of wisdom. “Figs are yummy,” Garnet said in his baby voice. “Hey, brother-sister-person, hey, you, can I wear your eyebrow?” “My piercing? No.”

“Can I wear your nice black hair? Your witchy, witchy, witchhair?” “No. Be quiet and eat your chips,” I said. What was Marc thinking? He probably thought I was stupid for piercing my eyebrow, or dying my hair, or both. I switched over to the other remote control, the mini keyboard one, and brought up Netflix to scroll through. Garnet sat on my left, stretched out on the shorter side of the sectional, and I sat cross-legged in the corner spot, where I always sit. To my right, Marc sat up straight with his feet on the floor, his dog Pickles sitting contentedly between us. Marc turned and said to me, in a hushed voice, “Your brother seems happy enough. Trust me, this is the better scenario than a bad trip.” I remembered what Haylee's hairdresser had said on the phone about being more likable, and counted quickly to five before I replied to Marc. To my surprise, before I could say anything, he started talking again, unprompted, saying, “One time my brother put his fist through a mirror.” Instead of responding, I raised my eyebrows in response and counted in my head: one, two, three … “He's like one of those parrots who attacks his reflection,” Marc said, smiling. I nodded to show I was listening, and counted: one, two,

three, four … “Your eyebrow piercing suits you,” he said. “And it's perfect on that side. They really knew what they were doing at the

piercing place.” I smiled and counted: one, two, three, four … “Your dreadlocks were cool, too,” he said. “But I really like this dark color. Are you wearing perfume?” He leaned over and smelled my head. “It's your hair. They put a lot of perfume in the hair dye stuff. My mom dyes her hair, so I know that smell.” I nodded and didn't even bother counting. To my amusement, Marc continued to talk, prompting himself to keep going. He warmed up, even making a few jokes and teasing my brother a few times. Eventually, he said, “Enough about me, lets get this movie on or it'll be four in the morning by the time it's finished.” “The pizza! I haven't ordered it for dinner.” My brother whimpered. “Pizza? Me hungry!” I said to Marc, “Your choice, pick anything, I'll go order some from our regular place. Do you have a preference?” He said, “Anything but ham. It makes my tongue thirsty.” I climbed over the back of the sofa to get to the phone. “It makes your tongue thirsty?” Garnet squealed with girlish giggles. Marc shrugged. “I can be weird too.” I pointed to myself. “Are you implying I'm weird?” He picked up the remote control and examined the many buttons. “We're all weird in our own ways.” From the appreciative way he looked at me just then, I got the feeling I might be getting out of the friend zone soon.

It had to be the hair. Or the not-talking so he could talk. My scalp was itchy and dry. Alone in the kitchen, I itched it for relief. I just had to get my brother out of the TV room, get Pickles the dog out from between us, and get myself in there next to him.

Chapter 16 I had just ordered pizza when Dad walked in, back from his drive to cool down. I followed him into his office, an alcove off the kitchen, near the back stairs. “It's just pot,” I said, taking a seat on top of his filing cabinet, the metal surface giving me a chill, even though my jeans. “I smoked a little when I was his age,” Dad said, seeming a lot calmer than when he'd left. “We've got some pizza coming.” “Thank God. I tried to find Arby's, but I couldn't. I swear they had one on Southwest Marine Drive, but I couldn't find it. They must have closed that one down.” He looked down at his hand and twisted his wedding band. “Years ago, your mother and I used to go there for curly fries and Jamocha shakes.” When he stopped talking, his office seemed very dark and cold. He looked at my eyebrow, his eyes sad. I peered up at the shiny metal ball protruding from my

eyebrow and said, “I'm sorry I didn't ask permission before I got this piercing.” He frowned and blew his cheeks out into bubbles, the way he does when he knows he's in the wrong with Mom over something. “You're eighteen. I don't know why I freaked out.” He shook his head. “Did you take your pills today?” He flicked at some papers on his desk without answering. That meant no, he hadn't taken his ADD medication, or his anti-anxiety pill. Fidgeting in his fancy ergonomic computer chair, he said, “I'm your father.” I wasn't sure what he meant, but the way he said it, almost as a question, made me scared. “She'll be home in just a few more weeks,” I said. He flicked at the papers again, then turned on his enormous computer monitor and pulled up his gmail account. “Ah, here's another update from the Missus.” The text read: They upgraded my room! Wish you were

here to share this tub. Below was a photo of an enormous soaker tub, in front of a window overlooking a panoramic view of LA. “It's a tough life,” I said. “There goes your university fund,” he said. “What? We're paying for this? I thought the record label was.” He wiggled his hand in the air, making a sorta gesture.

And then, even though I didn't want to know the answer, I asked how they were doing, relationship-wise. He threw both hands in the air. “How should I know?” The back of my thoughts whistled with that warning, that internal waitress clock, reminding me Marc was still there, in the TV den. I slipped off the filing cabinet and backed away from the office. “I should check on the boys.” “What should I do about your brother? Ground him for life?” I'd been thinking about that very same thing ever since I'd discovered the drugs. I glanced around my father's office until I spotted a photo of the extended family pinned on the wall.

Uncle Jeff. No, that would be too extreme. I couldn't. But my father looked so lost. Maybe if I took charge, he would see it wasn't so difficult to react without overreacting. I said, “Make Garnet spend a day with Uncle Jeff. It might do that scared-straight thing. I know the fear of turning out like him sure kept me away from drugs.” Dad's face came to life. “That's a great idea!” “Really?” I twisted my hands. “Don't tell him Uncle Jeff was my idea.” He drew an imaginary zipper across his mouth. ~ Back in the TV den, I found Marc talking to Garnet about the university experience. They seemed to be getting along like

pals. I curled up in my corner spot and Marc started the movie. The film, called Chaotic Ana, was Spanish, with subtitles. When Ana appeared on-screen, we all laughed, because she had dreadlocks, not unlike the ones I'd had until recently. The movie was unusual, but interesting. There was a fair amount of nakedness and sex, which made me uncomfortable, but at least my father wasn't in the room. My brother's eyes were huge, because no matter how many naked girls he'd seen on his computer screen, each new one was still a revelation. In the movie, Ana discovers she's not the free spirit she thought she was, but she's lived many previous lives and they're all coming back to her. There's a lot of talk about politics between men and women, but I'm not sure I quite understood what the director was getting at. My father got the pizza when it came to the door and brought it in to us. To my relief, Ana wasn't wiggling her naked breasts around at that exact moment, and my father took a few slices and didn't stick around. To his credit, my father didn't say anything about us eating pizza in the TV den. According to my mother's rules, we were allowed snacks in there, but absolutely no meals, especially not greasy ones like pizza. Eating dinner stretched out on the sofa was absolutely decadent. The only thing that would have made it better would be if I could have switched spots with Pickles. When we got to the end of the movie, where the main character inexplicably poops on someone's face, we all screamed in horror. Garnet asked, “Did that happen? Am I stoned? Did I

imagine that, or did that happen?” Marc paused the movie and we both played it straight and pretended it hadn't, asking him to explain what he'd just seen. “Nothing. Never mind,” Garnet said, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. I snickered into my hand and wondered if we even needed to send him off to Uncle Jeff's after all. Marc kept looking over at me, grinning, and I enjoyed messing with my brother's head so much that the backs of my ears started to ache from my own evil smirk. We started the movie again and during the fight scene, Garnet said, “You losers! That face-plop did happen! In the eye! What kind of sickos are you, making me watch this movie? I'm only fifteen. I'm impressionable.” Marc said to him, “We're expanding your mind.” I said, “You didn't mind when it was all boobies.” Garnet smiled. “Oh, yeah.” Too soon, the movie was over, and Marc got up to leave. To say the evening had not gone as I'd planned would be an understatement. First there was the pot-eating-doorbreaking fiasco. And then, not only had Marc and I not crossed the friend barrier, but I hadn't mentioned my mistaken kiss with his friend. Then again, he hadn't mentioned it either, so I hoped he didn't know. I walked Marc out to his car, and I'll admit it, I had high hopes for a kiss. Instead, he gave me a very chaste hug, complete with a back pat. “See you Monday,” he said as he pulled away.

He looked like he might be about to say something else, but I'd forgotten about counting to five, so I said, “No kidding. Bring your crossword puzzle.” “Right.” He pointed a finger at me and made a click-click finger-gun noise. I turned and walked back to the house, but he called after me, “Perry, wait, I have something for you.” He loped after me, his hand extended. I put my hand out, palm up, and he gave me a handful of stuff: bottle caps, a coin, a single star-shaped earring, and a heart-shaped rock. “For your art,” he said. I heard a water noise and looked down to see Pickles having a pee on the lawn. “Thanks,” I said. “I can totally use these. It was good to see you tonight.” Marc scooped up Pickles and put her in the back of his hatchback. “See you Monday.” Not wanting to look like a loser, shivering on the front steps in my jeans and thin gray shirt, I went inside the house and watched through the front window as he drove away. I went back to the TV den and found Garnet fast asleep, snoring away on the sofa. Now he falls asleep, I thought. Not earlier, when I could have used some privacy. My father was still quietly working or playing on his computer in his office. I wasn't quite ready for bed, so I glued two of Marc's bottle caps, as eyes, onto my pink-striped Forgotten Creature. The eyes were perfect.

I couldn't believe he'd remembered about promising me the bottle caps. Because I'd talked to Cooper and shown him my Forgotten Creatures, I'd almost forgotten I'd showed them to Marc as well. Marc had given me his heart. Well, a heart-shaped stone. That had to mean something. ~ In bed that night, my mind wandered to some more-thanfriends places with Marc. I'd start by pulling off his glasses so they wouldn't get in the way. I'd kiss him like he'd never been kissed before, and he'd slide his hands up under my plain gray shirt. He'd say sexy things in my ear and then—hey, who's that? Cooper appeared in my fantasy, with his spiky hair and his confident swagger. He'd take me by the hand and pull me away from Marc, whirling me out onto a crowded dance floor filled with people in fancy clothes. My dress was gorgeous, like that of a fairy princess, with armloads of tulle and lace. People held fancy masks up in front of their eyes, like a scene in a movie. After twirling me around the dance floor—in this fantasy, we were both expert ballroom dancers—Cooper pulled me off to the side and kissed me. I would melt in his strong arms. And then, when I was about to die of happiness, I'd think of Marc again, and his soft brown eyes closing as he reached for me. The two guys blurred together, because it was my fantasy, where I made the rules, and physics and reality did not

apply. I had feelings for both of them, but not the same feelings. Even in my fantasy, the imaginary version of Cooper was so easy to be with. When I talked, I wasn't cutting off his thoughts, but complementing them. He was fun, outrageous, and hot. Marc was withdrawn and quiet, but deeply passionate once you got through to him. I should say: my fantasy version of Marc was passionate. In real life, I'd not so much as held his hand, so for all I knew, he kissed like a sea bass. “Oh, Marc,” I sighed into my pillow that night. And then—I'm not ashamed to admit it—a few seconds later, I buried my face in my pillow and moaned, just to see what it sounded like, “Oh, Cooper.” ~ Sunday morning at work, my newly-darkened hair and eyebrow piercing got good reviews from my co-workers. “Do I look like Megan Fox?” I asked Toph as he chopped onions. “Close enough,” he said. “I'd do you.” “Not likely,” I said. “I wouldn't screw you with a borrowed vagina.” Toph laughed, assuming I was joking. Donny stroked his pointy sideburns. “Looks like I have some competition in the good looking department.” “I'm gonna steal your wife and make her mine,” I said. Donny flipped a row of sizzling, orange-yolked eggs. “Don't forget to take the kids.”

Courtney popped up on the dining area side of the passthrough, saying, “I didn't know you were recruiting for us.” “It's about what's best for Donny's wife,” I said, pointing to his back, where his tattoo was visible through his thin shirt. “He's got that big assassin tattoo on his back. That thing must scare the crap out of her when she wakes up in the morning with a robot's gun in her face.” Courtney wrinkled her little nose. “So phallic.” “Speaking of dicks and hairy balls, how's Britain?” I asked. “Since you ditched us at the theater, she's not your biggest fan.” “I'm glad our mutual dislike is out in the open,” I said. “I don't have to pretend to be nice to her anymore.” “So, before, that was you being nice? You're bananas.” Courtney grabbed the platters of food Donny set on the pass-through and walked away. The order was for my table, but I was still standing on the kitchen side, munching a dayold brioche as my breakfast. “Bananas,” Donny said, then he began to sing a song about bananas and tallying them. We had some bananas ripening on the counter, and they were the perfect shade, so I grabbed one and peeled it. With a mouth full of fruit, I sang along with Donny, though it sounded like, “Bavavaz.” “I used to be afraid of girls my age,” Toph said to me. “Now that I've worked with you and Courtney, it's really taken away all the mystery.” “You're welcome,” I said, and then, to Toph's amusement, I made dirty porno noises and shoved the rest of the banana in my mouth.

“I think I'll stick with my wife,” Donny said. “Your loss,” I said. Toph's eyes were watering. I said, “Oh, sweetie, did I make you cry? My singing's not that bad.” “Onions,” he said, still chopping away. Seeing him with red eyes and tears pooling up gave me a new feeling for Toph. Even though it was simply a reaction to the chemicals released from the onions, I kinda wanted to hold his head to my bosom and tell him everything was going to be okay. ~ Soon the restaurant was packed with the Sunday brunch crowd. Unlike the Saturday crowd, who all have things they want to get done over the weekend, and don't linger long over refills, Sunday people are in no hurry. If anything, they're reluctant to leave, because it means admitting the weekend's as good as over. I don't even work a Monday to Friday shift, and I still get bummed out on Sunday evenings, feeling the weight of nonexistent homework. My father typically gets a headache Sunday afternoon, and he calls it his Sunday headache, which I realize is not terribly creative, but that's my dad for you. He's an engineer, not a songwriter. That Sunday at The Whistle was typical, with couples writing out grocery lists on the backs of receipts and discussing who would drop off whom for work Monday morning. However, despite that normalcy, something strange was happening at the bar counter. That's where we always seat

the single guys, so they can watch cartoons on the flatscreen while shoveling down their giant breakfasts. It took nearly my entire shift to clue in to what was different: the guys were totally flirting with me. Normally, guys will sass back or give my jokes a courtesy chuckle, but they don't make a lot of eye contact, and they don't linger. Until recently, I'd had a lot of wild dreadlocked hair to study, rather than my actual face. It was like our regulars were all seeing me for the first time. They were looking at my chest, too, I guess because I'd stopped wearing the frumpy sweater. I walked back and forth behind the bar counter on made-up errands, testing my theory. Instead of keeping their attention on the TV, the guys at the counter—all ages, from eighteen to sixty—would follow me with their eyes. They kept watching as I bustled around behind the bar, slicing lemon wedges and scooping ice for water. When I looked up and caught them, they'd smile back at me. I wore one of my typical waitress outfits: a white blouse and a plaid skirt, with knee socks and lace-up boots. That day, however, I'd gotten a coffee stain on the hem of the shirt, so I had tied the bottom of the blouse around my waist, like Megan Fox would have done. Checking my reflection in the bar glass, behind the rows of bottles, I noted the tying of the shirt did nip in my waist, showing off the curve from my waist to my hips. What had Cooper said about ladies' waists? That guys liked to get a visual of them so they could tell the girl wasn't pregnant. I snorted at the idea, which seemed so caveman-like. All people like that curvy shape, similar to the iconic glass Coke bottles. It's just a pretty shape. Had I really gotten so desperate for a boyfriend that I was catering to caveman lust? I flicked my newly-darkened hair back and admired my

Megan-Fox-like makeup. Yes, I was that desperate. The rest of my shift went by pleasantly enough. When Courtney and I sat in the back of the kitchen by the window facing the alley, cashing out, I got another nice surprise. For the first time ever, I'd made more tips than Courtney. She seemed to grow even more sour each time I mentioned it. Fanning my cash out, I said, “Whatever shall we do today before the stores all close?” She twirled some black strands of her hair along with her feather extensions, and then she fed me a total lie about having to run some tedious errands. “Don't lie to me,” I said. “Why don't you count your money again.” “Fine, I will.” I knew she was going to hang out with Britain, and her lying to me was infuriating. I'd driven my mom's Land Rover in that morning, because I'd been running too late to walk and figured it was worth the gas, though I probably don't have to tell you it's not cheap to fill the beast with fuel. “I have the truck, so I can drop you at Britain's place,” I said, calling her bluff. “Don't be bitter,” she said. I couldn't read her facial expression to tell if she was mostly joking or actually ticked at me. “You love Britain more than me,” I said.

“She is my girlfriend.” “But you'd pick her over me, if you had to make the choice.” Courtney stood and grabbed her brown leather jacket. I knew that jacket. I was with her when she bought it, from a consignment store. Because I was her best friend. “Enough drama,” Courtney said. “I tried to be nice to Britain, but she made zero effort.” “You shouldn't have gotten that eyebrow piercing she wanted.” My voice got sarcastic and snippy. “Uh, I think there may be some more piercings available from the universe's hole supply. I didn't get the last one, ever.” “And then, the theater incident.” “You guys kept shushing me,” I said. “I wasn't having any fun, so what was the point?” “Oh, I don't know. Maybe to watch the movie? Duh.” “You don't need me anymore,” I said. “You want to have a new life, and leave behind everyone from your old life.” “Perry, I'm just trying to get through each day as it happens.” The sadness in her voice brought hot tears to my eyes. “I'm sorry,” I said, tapping the bench next to me. “Come, sit down.” She looked at the back door, the clock on the wall, then down at the bench. I patted it again, and she sat down. “What's going on? You seem sad,” I said. She shrugged.

I said, “I haven't heard anything about your sculptures lately, or your mosaics. Did you talk to any of those people you met at the art show?” “My parents are putting on the pressure. The art might have to wait for a few years.” I put my arm around her shoulders. “You can do both. You can do anything. You're Courtney Badass Chow.” “My parents aren't cool like yours. You're so lucky.” I had to fight the urge to argue with her on that particular point. “Let's go buy some candy.” “Candy's for kids,” she said. “No kidding. Come on.” She twirled her feathers and hair. “Thanks for the offer, but I'm going to go see Britain. I could use her company today.” As Courtney stood and walked out the door, I felt a pain in my chest. I'd tried to bridge the gap between us, and failed. She wasn't going to come back to me.

Chapter 17 What are friends, anyways? You pick some people you have similar interests with, and you hang out and talk. You give each other little pep talks and listen to each other's problems. I could replace most of Courtney's job duties as best friend with a book of inspirational slogans and a journal. And yet, I still craved her attention, and I hated myself for that weakness. I wished I could be one of those loner types who's content to eat breakfast alone and feels joy walking on the beach with nobody at her side. As much as Courtney and I had made fun of Haylee for becoming attached-at-the-hip with Andrew, I knew I'd likely be the exact same way if I got a boyfriend. Until then, I'd always had Courtney to fill that spot of the last person I talked to before I went to bed at night. Lately, she hadn't been responding to my goodnight text messages.

Screw you, Courtney, I thought as I got into the big SUV and started the engine. The stereo clicked on with One Direction telling me how beautiful I was. Those five little liars.

Oh, but their songs gave me that dreamy, longing feeling. I drove under magnolia trees with thick, promising flowerbuds. Soon the cherry blossoms would be raining down pink confetti on my street. Maybe it was spring fever igniting my lust, but ever since the Sunday I'd seen the girl from Bakery Confidential and her cute boyfriend, giving each other the ooey-gooey eyes, I'd been craving a boyfriend of my very own. She and her boyfriend had put a spell on me. When I got home, I downloaded some episodes from the new season of the bakery-based show, then I sat on my bed and hate-watched the girl. She had everything, including a stunning older sister who had recently left her job as a dental assistant and started working at the bakery. Maybe it was a trick of the editing, but there seemed to be a romance brewing between the sister, Melanie, and Angelo, the recently-separated and hunky bakery owner. When the three episodes were finished playing on my laptop, my body was too heavy to move. The girl, Maddie, was barely a year older than me, and she had everything, including her own TV show. My day's haul of tips didn't seem so remarkable anymore. I know, poor me, right? I had a good life and I knew it, but a good session of feeling sorry for one's self overrides all reason and intelligent thought. That poor-me feeling gets into your heart and poisons everything, making you hate even the sound of your inner voice whining in your own head. I wasn't upset over not having the newest iPad or a car of my own or a perfect manicure. I wanted to have that thing everyone strives for in life—and I don't mean real estate. I wanted a partner I could hug and call silly names. He'd call me schmoopie or something equally revolting, and he'd look at me like I was the only girl in the world.

Sure, my curiosity about sex was also wrapped up in there, but being so inexperienced at both love and sex, it was hard for me to imagine the difference. People in love tend to have sex, and isn't sex the main difference between lovers and good friends? I'd been friends with Courtney for years, and she'd thrown me over for another girl she was having sex with. Therefore, intimacy had to be a pretty big deal. All I knew was this: everything in my life would be better if I could have a special person who was—ugh, I hate this term —my soul mate. After I couldn't take the sound of my voice in my head for one more minute, I had to do something to escape. I pulled a pillow over my head to block out the world—carefully, to avoid my still-tender eyebrow piercing—and took a very angry nap. ~ Sunday night was educational. I made macaroni and cheese with crumbled ground beef. My father, Garnet, and I ate in silence, each staring at his or her own phone, playing apps or checking email. If my mother had been there, she never would have allowed the phones out at the table, but it was a good way to avoid talking about the pot-eating incident. By the time we finished eating, I felt lonelier than ever, after sitting across from two people ignoring me. It made me realize why my mother had that particular rule.

Darn you, Mom, and all your sneaky life lessons! ~ Jay came over Sunday night after dinner to do his regular housekeeping. He was wearing a new chain belt that I

coveted. I said, “Just so you know, I'm staring at your amazing belt, wondering if you'd consider a trade.” “This won't go with your new, softer image,” he said, shaking out the keyboard for my desktop computer. “Jay, I don't even use that keyboard since I got my laptop,” I said. “Still gets dirty,” he said. As he finished dusting, I asked him, “Do you think some people really have it all, or do you think that's an illusion?” “Life's not about getting what you want. It's about appreciating what you have.” “I don't agree. If we're totally satisfied, we'll never go after anything new, never go to college, never try to better ourselves.” “Sweetie, I clean houses for a living,” he said. “Once upon a time, I had it all. The fancy job, the big-money lifestyle. It's not as great as it looks from the outside.” “I don't mean material things. I mean love. Having a boyfriend.” “Oh.” He sat on the bed next to me. “I'm going to be honest with you. Some people are happy being single. I am not one of those people. That's why, if I have a boyfriend, plus I can fit into these jeans, those two things make me deliriously happy.” “That's what I suspected.” “Patience,” he said. “You look gorgeous. You're eighteen. You've got your hair figured out. The love will follow.”

I smiled and pretended I believed him. ~ Monday morning, I woke up with determination. The sun was shining and bluebirds fluttered in through my window and helped me get dressed. Marc was going to put away the crossword puzzles and be my boyfriend, whether he wanted to or not. We'd already had three dates, if you counted the art show, the dinner with my family, and the weird art movie. There was so much sex and nudity in that movie, the date practically counted double. Marc had put me in the friend zone, but I could work with that. A couple dates every week and soon he'd get accustomed to me—spoiled by me—and he'd come to his senses. Summer was coming, and I'd be his summer girl. I wore a summer girl outfit: a dress halfway between pink and lavender, with a thick, black elastic belt that cinched in my waist nicely. The Spanx underneath the dress, borrowed from my mother's drawer, certainly helped. For my makeup, I tried a dewy look, with tinted foundation all over, minimal makeup, and clear gloss over pink lipliner that was just a few shades off the dress. I'd bought one of those new Revlon eyelash curlers, and the goofy-looking thing actually worked, making my lashes more visible. My eyebrow piercing was healing nicely and looked calm and seasoned. The glint of the metal picked up the sparkle in my eyes. When I arrived at work, the schedule had been changed for that Monday. Courtney had rearranged her shifts, and instead of working with her, I'd be joined by Nigel, who usually worked evenings. Nigel was nice enough, though reluctant to help out with the

other servers' tables, citing his fear of “overstepping his bounds.” No matter how many times I told him that bringing my tables their utensils or ketchup wasn't overstepping, he refused to jump on the clue train. Nigel is thirty-something and self-described as light brownish due to mixed ethnic heritage, the specifics of which he coyly refuses to reveal. He has chronic bed-head hair that, coupled with his heavily-lidded eyes, makes him look like he's just come back from a nap or is heading off for one. The kitchen staff swears he's gay, even though he often mentions a girlfriend we've never met. I could have strangled him that Monday morning, when he sat Marc—as in, my future boyfriend Marc—in his section. My annoyance quickly escalated to full-scale shit-fit when I realized Marc was sitting with a girl, and not just any girl, but Sunshine, his ex-girlfriend, who, as you may recall, is also Cooper's sister. My pink-purple dress dress clung to my front, just under my bra, where I'd broken out in a miserable sweat. Sunshine had her blue hair up in a high ponytail and was sporting 2003-era-Gwen-Stefani look, with a jewel between her eyebrows, a short athletic top showing actual ab muscles, and track pants with racing stripes. Marc was adorable in a dorky-looking cardigan. His hair appeared damp, like he'd just gotten out of the shower. Oh, man, they were totally sleeping together, weren't they? They must have had sex and then decided to go out for breakfast. Was her hair wet? No, but she could have showered first and then blow-dried her ridiculous blue hair. The nausea started in the back of my throat and plunged down to my stomach. Everything and everyone around me was whistling for service, but it was all a sick, vomitinducing blur.

I ducked down behind the bar counter and sucked on a slice of lemon. After a few seconds of being absolutely useless, I jumped up and started rocking my job, because that is what I do.

I'm gonna hold my head up high, I told myself. Waiting tables can be enjoyable, and if you take pride in your job, like I do, that makes it twice as fun. Lots of people will offer their own tips on how to waitress, but I'll keep it simple and offer you my top three: 1. Never waste a trip. If you head out to the tables with food in hand, come back with finished plates from another table. 2. When you're walking with really full drinks on a tray or in your hands, don't look at them. Your hand can hold the tray level while you're walking, because your hand is smart like that, but not if you're back seat driving with your eyes and brain. If you're watching, you'll over-correct and slip-slop everywhere. Nobody wants a half-full root beer with sticky sides. 3. Draw a smiley face on the bill.

Those are the three things I learned on my first day, and they've served me well. That Monday morning, I made the mistake of glancing up at Marc and blue-haired Sunshine while I was putting the smiley face on a bill, and the little guy came out all satanic and mental-looking. With horns. Nigel lingered near me, grabbing french fries from a plate he had tucked next to the pop machine. We aren't supposed to eat where customers can see us, but Nigel's

skinny enough we let him get away with it as a means to prevent him from fainting. Nigel said to me, “Crossword Guy wants you to say hi. Are you friends with him now?” “His name's Marc, and yes.” I took two of Nigel's french fries, turning my back to the dining area to eat them. “Did you detect a romance vibe between him and the girl?” “The hot girl?” “I didn't ask for your personal rating. I mean the girl he's sitting with, obviously.” Nigel got one of his evil grins. “I definitely smelled sex in that general area.” “You're disgusting.” I grabbed an ice cube from a bus pan of dirty dishes and tossed it down his shirt. He pulled out the waistband of his jeans and let the ice cube slide all the way down, rolling his eyes in super-fake pleasure. I took some dishes back to the kitchen, where Toph was toiling away like a gentleman, helping the lady who had just started washing dishes for us a few weeks earlier. She didn't speak a lot of English, but she sure sighed a lot. Maybe once every five minutes, she'd let out a huge sigh. We needed glasses out front, so I took a hot tray of clean ones with me, even though that was Toph's job. As I unloaded the piping-hot stemware behind the bar, I wondered what Nigel had meant about smelling sex around Marc and Sunshine. I'd heard people say that before, and I'd assumed it was a joke. If people were doing it, wouldn't they just smell like sweat? Times like that, where I wasn't sure about things, but was too embarrassed to ask, made me wish I wasn't a virgin.

I should tell you that as of now, the point of time from which I'm telling you this story, I am no longer a virgin. Bombshell! I know, right? I'm not messing around with you, either. I really have had intercourse (as the teachers are calling it these days) with a guy, although my friend Courtney would point out it doesn't have to be with a guy to count as sex. I will tell you about the sex, soon enough, but first I'll make a small update about the smell issue, so that if you're a virgin, you don't have to wonder like I did. I think when people say a room smells like sex, they mean it smells like a lady's underwear. That's all. I can't believe I'm talking about these things. How funny is it we're all so embarrassed about admitting we're curious about sex, and yet every single music video or clothing advertisement you see is all about getting some? On that particular Monday, I decided I would lose my virginity to anyone who was willing to have it. I was seriously considering propositioning Toph, the skinny prep cook. Seeing Marc with Sunshine had given my crush on him a complete U-turn. In the mess of thoughts in my head, sleeping with Toph seemed like a suitable punishment for Marc, and he'd come to regret bringing Sunshine into my place of work. I know now that I was being particularly petty and idiotic that day, but I never promised I wasn't an idiot. And let's be honest, we all have our petty moments. Don't tell me you've never posted a single passive-aggressive Facebook status update, hoping one specific person would see it and get all butthurt. I should have stayed well away from Marc, in my thoughts and in the flesh, but, being an idiot as well as having poor

impulse control, of course I couldn't. After a quick trip to the washroom to check my hair and makeup, and to make sure my Spanx were still making my butt cheeks look awesome, I dropped by Marc's table just to casually say, “Hey.” Marc looked up over his glasses, his eyebrows high with surprise, as if to say, why are you at my table? “Nigel, your waiter, thought I should say hey,” I said, avoiding eye contact with the girl. The right side of my face felt the heat of her jealous gaze, but when I turned to face her, she was actually looking down at her cell phone, not even aware I was standing right there. Marc snapped his fingers over Sunshine's phone. This probably isn't the appropriate time to mention a fun fact, but did you know that the snapping sound when someone snaps their fingers comes from the middle finger landing on the fleshy part of your hand, below the thumb? The noise doesn't come from the two fingertips, like it looks! Try snapping without letting the finger hit back down on your hand and you'll see: no snapping noise will occur. “Sunshine,” Marc said. “This is my friend Peridot, I was telling you about her.” I held my hand out and smiled sweetly. “I saw you at your brother's art show, but Marc here didn't introduce us.” Sunshine shook my hand enthusiastically. “Peridot!” she said with such glee, I found myself unable to truly hate her. Damn me and my forgiving nature. “You two are piercing twins,” Marc said, and it was true— she had a similar piercing in her right eyebrow as well, though half of her eyebrow was missing and filled in with swirly curlicue lines.

“It's a tattoo,” she said, noticing me staring at her unusual eyebrow. I found myself wishing I'd never met Sunshine, because I feared I would always wish I'd been the first one to think of replacing half my eyebrow with a swirly tattoo. It was weird, yet subtle and artistic. Damnit, she was so cool! I said it was nice to meet her, muttered some more pleasantries about the weather, and walked away from their table in such a daze that I wasted a trip and returned to the waitress station with empty hands, breaking my first rule of rockin' waitressing. Strange thoughts and imaginary scenarios raced through my head. As is typical for any girl in my situation, I had a hundred different theories for what was happening, including, but not limited to the following: 1. Marc liked me as more than a friend, but Sunshine invited herself out to breakfast at the last minute, and he was too nice to tell her to get lost. 2. Marc saw me as a sexless, robotic object who simply delivered breakfast, and asked Sunshine to come with him because he was still in love with her. 3. Courtney's mean girlfriend Britain was the evil mastermind behind an elaborate scheme to crush my spirit. 4. Marc was hoping for a threesome. 5. Marc had brought Sunshine there on purpose to introduce her to me and thus make her jealous enough to take him back. 6. They'd slept together the night before and needed some food to refuel before they went back to his place to do it some more.

7. I had gone insane and was imagining Sunshine in sort of a Fight Club mind game situation. To my shock, I would later find out she and I were actually one and the same person. Twist! (Her eyebrow piercing being in the same spot as mine was the only clue.) 8. Marc was equally in love with both of us, at the tragic heart of a real life love-triangle situation. 9. Marc wanted to date me, but wasn't sure how to make the first move to transition from just being friends, so he foolishly brought Sunshine in to help as a female adviser. 10. I was actually a ghost and had been dead since a month earlier, when my mother had run a red light with the Land Rover while applying lip gloss, causing us to get creamed by a giant Costco truck.

I realize now that some of these scenarios, such as the love-triangle one, don't seem that plausible. You have to admit, though, that the Fight Club one was rather inspired. When Marc and Sunshine finally paid their bill and left, I ran over to their table to sniff the air—just out of curiosity. I smelled only empty coffee cups with an undertone of maple syrup. ~ At home, Dad announced that Operation Scared Straight By Uncle Jeff would be going down the following weekend. Garnet's mouth dropped open in shock. I said to my brother, “Unless you want to take over making dinner for me?”

My father said, “I can't authorize that, Perry.” Garnet said, “Shit.” Dad and I smiled at each other. There was no point in admonishing Garnet for swearing. Saying shit, or much worse, was a perfectly reasonable response to the news he'd be spending an entire day with Uncle Jeff. “Hey pot-muncher,” I said, rubbing it in. “For dessert, would you like a special brownie? I made them just for you. I put something special in them.” “That's enough,” my father said, checking his email on his phone while he ate the tuna-noodle casserole I'd made from mom's recipe. “Bro! No fair,” Garnet whined to me. “You should get in trouble for snooping in my bedroom.” Doing my best approximation of Mom's voice, I said, “I was simply investigating an unusual smell. It was your choice to bring that stuff into our family home.” Garnet picked the cheddar-breadcrumbs topping off his casserole with his fingers. “You sound just like Mom.” “Thank you, dah-ling,” I continued in her voice. Dad said coldly, “Don't do that again.” He was still focused on his cell phone screen when Garnet and I exchanged a that-was-weird look. Back to my own voice, I said, “So, I still haven't lost my virginity yet, despite my best efforts.” Without a word, Dad picked up his plate and left, taking it into his little office just off the kitchen.

“Can't you just poke it with a Q-tip?” Garnet asked. “That's what they do to cats when they're in heat.” “I hope you're joking,” I said, but the look on his face indicated he wasn't. I asked him a few more questions and discovered that, despite having his own computer in his room, with no parental controls or restrictions on use, and despite having taken Sex Ed in school, my fifteen-year-old brother still didn't have the first clue about women's bodies or how sex worked. I had at least read a few books about sex, thanks to one of Mom's friends gifting me on my thirteenth birthday with a variety of educational titles. While I'd never actually had a guy touch me anywhere except over the bra, I owned a lady body, and therefore knew more than Garnet. He said, “Why do you think vaginas aren't round? They don't look like they'd be that good.” Stifling a giggle, I finished chewing my bite of casserole and said, “They can take on any shape. Like how you can … wrap a peanut butter sandwich around a big dill pickle.” He squealed with embarrassment. “You're so rude!” He fanned his face for a few seconds. “Okay, tell me more. What's the little man in the boat?” “I don't know. Is that something you heard at school? Maybe it's a position.” He wrinkled his nose. “Why are there different positions?” “Honestly, I don't know. We should ask Dad.” We both laughed at that. His face getting serious, my brother said, “I don't think you should have sex until you're married.”

“Thanks for your input.” “At least do it with a really nice guy,” he said. “And whatever happens, DO NOT tell me about it.” “I promise.” He picked at the cheese on his plate for a minute, then said, “Mom got pregnant by accident, didn't she?” “Not with you, buddy. You were wanted.” He smiled. “I'm glad they had you first.” “Me too.” I stood and started clearing the plates. “Hey, do you want to borrow some books I have? They might answer some questions you didn't even know you had.” He nodded hesitantly, so I ran to my room and brought down my collection of teen sexuality books for him. He was most interested in the one about puberty for women, which made sense. Women are pretty private about cramps and periods. The whole thing must be mystifying to guys; I know it sure was to me before I got my first period. Garnet said, “You should let Mom know we had this talk so she doesn't have to tell me anything.” “You'll miss out on mother-son bonding time,” I said, draping a damp dish towel over his head for giggles. He tucked the sides behind his ears and moved on to the next book in the pile. “Oh my God!” he yelled, slamming the book shut. “The Joy of Sex is a classic,” I said. “Don't tell me you haven't seen so much more than this on the internet.”

“That's different,” he said. “That stuff's not real. Can I take these to my room?” “Sure, but no solo time using those books. They're still mine and I don't want spankies in them.” He held the books tight to his chest. “Don't worry, Dad busted my doorjamb.” “Poor little monkey,” I said as he disappeared upstairs. ~ As my brother learned about the birds and bees from a non-pornography source, I cleaned up the dinner dishes and wondered how that scenario would have gone if Mom had been there, and if Garnet would have even talked about sex at all. My mother is a loving person, but at times she treats us more like cousins or friends than her actual children. My friends think she's so casual because she was young when she had us—barely twenty when she had me. I haven't told you very much about my mother, partly because I've been trained from a very young age to never talk about her. We found out the hard way that so-called journalists aren't above paying to get information, even from the parents of my and Garnet's friends. My mother's fears fed into mine, so when I was at a friend's house and her mother asked questions, such as, “Does your mother buy this brand of soup?” I'd get cagey and refuse to answer. Mom and Dad had drilled into us that whatever went on in our home was nobody's business, and besides, getting big dough for a biography about my mother was my big plan for being a future millionaire.

I kid! I kid! Selling my mother out was not my plan, though secretly I hoped her sixth album would make us tons of money. Her fifth one had not done well, so, understandably, the pressure was on. While she could have recorded in Vancouver, she felt the only way she could make a hit again was to become a rock star again, which meant time away from taking care of her family. I could understand how making tuna casserole and picking up Garnet's smelly laundry was not the fuel for inspiring an album that spoke to people's emotions. Mom says the music industry is always changing, and now more than ever, it's about touching people's emotions. An album like Adele's, that makes people cry, does better than one with a great dance beat. I don't know why people like crying so much. I think crying's overrated. The truth about my mother is, I don't have that much dirt on her. She reads trashy romance novels and hides them in the couch cushions where she thinks we won't find them. She has Jay come in once a week to give the house a thorough cleaning, but then she lies about it when people ask for a referral, saying he only comes once a month, and that he's booked solid and not taking new clients. She's even referred to him as Kevin instead of Jay to throw particularly nosy friends off the scent. I don't know why she'd lie about such a thing, but it's not hurting anyone, except Jay, who probably wouldn't mind a few more clients. Before she went to LA, Mom instructed us to only call her at most once a week, because she wanted to “feel the loneliness” of not being in contact, and let that inspire her work. I'd sent her more than one email hinting that the one

suffering most from loneliness was my father, but she'd reply back with a sunny email about how lovely the weather was and how she didn't miss the Vancouver rain. I had to assume she wasn't even reading my emails at all. I'd considered sending her a test message, saying the house had burned down, but stopped short because I didn't want to get blamed for ruining her creative vibe. She had big plans for licensing on this one, as in film and TV. She'd made a name for herself with the unusual stuff, but she was getting too old to compete with the batshitcrazy women like Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj. Gone are the Alanis Morissette days, where you can have a hit album without air-humping a bunch of backup dancers in your video. Nobody wants to see their mother air-humping backup dancers. ~ I looked up at the sky from the kitchen window, and the soothing blue gradient reminded me of one of Cooper's abstract paintings. I pulled out my phone and sent a Facebook message to Cooper: Totally just gave my little brother the birds and

the bees speech. I put the phone in my pocket and felt a bit guilty about texting him. He was so out of my league, way too gorgeous, and he'd probably be annoyed by me bugging him. I'd awkwardly kissed him the last time we'd seen each other, so I figured he'd message me back to give me the justfriends speech. Minutes later, I got a message from Cooper: Is there a

presentation? Was this a prepared speech? How do I get a copy?

Unlike Marc, Cooper was no stranger to using the question mark in communications, which I appreciated. I messaged Cooper: I made another Creature. Turned out

okay. Cooper: Can I come over and see it … sometime? Me: Yes. Cooper: How about now? Did he want to give me the just-friends speech in person? My brother was up in his room with the books and Dad was in his office. The perverted parts of my brain flashed a movie-style preview of me and Cooper taking our clothes off and getting tangled up in each other like the illustrations in The Joy of Sex. Would that happen before or after the just-friends speech? Did I even care?

Don't be a perv, I told myself. Cooper had practically run away from me after the kissing incident, and if there was a possibility of us being more than friends, I didn't want to scare him off. We would take it slow. Maybe some light fondling and groping. I was enjoying my little fantasies so much I nearly forgot to text him back that yes, he should come over. I ran up to my room and brought the new Creature down to the front, formal sitting room. That space was tidy and the lighting could be dimmed, but it was wide open, with no door, and not conducive to making out. Back up the stairs I ran with the newly-made pink-and-greystriped Creature with bottlecap eyes. All of this had made me sweaty, so I had to change, but I couldn't figure out what

to wear. The purple dress I'd worn to work was still clean, but I'd have to put the Spanx back on, and if groping happened, I didn't want Cooper to find girdle-like lycra squeezing me like a sausage. It was too late to shower, because I wouldn't be able to hear the door, so I used a washcloth to freshen up, then put on my Good Old Standbys: black jeans and a v-neck black tshirt with stretch-lace along the neckline. With my darkened hair, I looked a little goth, so I added a pink scarf, which looked ridiculous, so I tossed it aside. Then I picked the pink scarf up and tried it on again. The lace on my shirt made it look like underwear. I looked weird, and I didn't know what to do. I sat on the edge of my bed, close to hysterical tears.

Stupid Mom, I thought. I didn't know what my mother could have done to help me, but I was angry she wasn't around when I needed her. Garnet had me, but I had nobody. She was so selfish to ditch us and forget us, leaving me responsible for everyone and nobody looking after me. I missed Courtney too. I bunched up the pink scarf and stuffed it in my big, stupid mouth. The doorbell rang. ~ I opened the door to find Cooper, standing on the front porch with his hands in his jean pockets, his feet in flipflops. “Hi,” I said shyly as I pulled some pink threads out of my mouth.

We both looked down at our feet. In his flip-flops, he had nice toenails, very healthy-looking. “It's warm enough to sit outside,” he said, wiggling his toes. I told him to hang on, and I grabbed my jacket and slipped on some boots. “There's a park that's higher up and we can watch the sun setting,” I said. “Really?” He looked around. “You don't actually see the sun, but you get a lot of the colors in the sky, and the buildings downtown light up, all copper.” “That'll do,” he said, waving me ahead to show the way. As I walked past him, he caught my hand. “If you're not feeling shy, I had another thing we could do.” His warm hand enveloped mine. “Like what?” “A surprise.” He let go of my hand and opened the door of his black car for me. I told him to wait a moment and ran back to my house, opened the door, and yelled at my father and brother that I was going somewhere with Cooper. Nobody answered, so I yelled louder. My father called out, “Have fun!” I ran out to Cooper's waiting car, my heart racing. This didn't feel like a just-friends intervention. I didn't ask him where we were going, or even guess, because I like surprises—good surprises.

Chapter 18 Cooper didn't say anything while he was driving, and I was determined to not say anything dumb, so I kept my mouth shut, which wasn't easy. What could his surprise be? I like getting presents for my birthday, but I wish I could get them a week ahead of time, so I could enjoy seeing them wrapped up and imagining what's in them. The anticipation is the best part. You might draw a connection between my love of wrapped presents and my still being a virgin when none of my friends were, the gift wrap being a metaphor, but you might be over-thinking. That night with Cooper, when he drove me to his surprise, I didn't know it, but I was about to get one step closer to unwrapping that big mystery: sex. Not the full meal deal, but one little step, and it all happened inside a community center classroom. He parked at the community center, and I wondered if we were going to a cooking class or maybe a book club. We went inside, and as we walked through hallways, past colorful murals of spring leaves made from construction

paper, I was enthralled by the mystery. “Tai Chi class?” I guessed. “Nope.” “Introduction to Mandarin?” “Nope.” We stopped by a closed door and he knocked. A woman's voice from inside yelled, “Come on in, nobody's naked!” Cooper gave me a wink and opened the door. “Why would someone be naked?” I asked. He nodded for me to follow him in. I stepped into the room, which must have been used as a daycare or playschool during the day, because all the tables were knee height and the stacking chairs were tiny to match. About twenty people, ranging from my age to wizened, sat in a circle on folding chairs, adult-sized. All of them had easels and either stretched canvases or big sheets of paper on spiral sketchbooks. The eldest, a man with white hair tied back with a piece of leather, made a dour expression when he saw me. “Not enough curves on this one. I want voluptuous. I paid my twelve dollars. Nobody ever listens to me.” A woman with wavy salt and pepper hair parted down the middle stood and offered me her hand. “You're a bit late, so let's get you disrobed. There's a screen you can use in the corner.” “Hang on now,” I said. “My name's Perry, and I think you should at least buy a girl a drink before you ask her to

disrobe.” Cooper laughed. “She's not the model, she's my friend, and she's an artist.” The old man, his voice rising in volume, said, “Somebody better get their clothes off. We're running out of time. I paid my twelve dollars. Nobody listens to me. I said we should meet half an hour earlier to get this chit-chat out of the way.” The wavy-haired woman sighed and said to Cooper. “Honey, would you mind? I don't think that new girl is going to show.” “Sure, Mom,” he said. “If it's okay with Perry.” He pulled me over to a corner of the room, where a ratty-looking bath robe lay folded over a standing screen. “This is quite the surprise,” I said. He bit his lower lip. “I'm sorry. I thought we'd be able to draw together. We can go if you're not comfortable.” “Why wouldn't I be comfortable?” “Because I'll be naked.” I'd been trying so hard to play it cool that the reality hadn't quite sunk in until he'd put it so plainly. I said, “I'm going to see your ding-ding, aren't I?” He snorted with laughter and looked to the side. “Don't say such sexy things, or I'm going to have a problem maintaining my composure up there.” “Quite the surprise, indeed,” I said, my brain still sorting out exactly what was happening. “I don't have any art supplies.” “My mother will get you something. But listen, we don't have to do this. We can go get some ice cream instead. We had a middle-aged curvy woman booked for tonight, but I guess

she chickened out. Aw, this was a bad idea.” “I've always wanted to sketch a nude model,” I said. “Why not?” He patted me on my shoulder. “You're a good sport. Now go sit down, you can't watch me get undressed.” “Right. Because that would be weird. As opposed to everything else.” “It would be,” he said. “This is weird.” “Don't laugh when you see me naked,” he said. A wave of horror washed over me. What if I got the giggles? In a daze, I walked back over to the group, who had reconfigured to make a space in the circle for me. In the center was one of the low kids' tables, draped in a sheet. “Nice of Chris to bring a friend,” Mrs. Cooper said, calling her son by his first name. She handed me some paper and pieces of charcoal from her own tray. “Do I pay you now?” I asked, thinking of the twelve dollars the older gentleman had mentioned. “I'll put it on your tab,” she said, and then she gave me a really intense look-over, from head to toe and back again. She smiled and nodded to herself, as if to say, oh, yes, I like my new future daughter-in-law. I peered down at the black lace on my shirt. I didn't look nearly as trampy as I'd hoped, apparently. All that approval felt uncomfortable, because I was used to new friends' parents being more wary. Maybe it was the

lack of dreadlocks. Shouldn't the eyebrow piercing have given her some pause? Perhaps she hadn't noticed it, and I'd have to acquire a bigger one, all the better to put parents on edge. One of the other women in the drawing circle had thick, red dreadlocks, accented by several gold bands. That must take hours to dry, I thought, and I gave her the secret dreadlocks nod. In my mind, I was still a club member, but without my own dreads, I must have seemed suspiciously friendly, because for the rest of the night, she avoided eye contact. I was so nervous about being near Cooper's mother, on top of not being able to sketch with charcoal, that I forgot Cooper was about to walk out naked. When I saw the pink blur of his nude body out of the edge of my vision, a superembarrassing case of The Awkward Giggles threatened to erupt from my throat, but I managed to overcome them, clamping down with sheer terror. I'd never seen a full-grown man naked, not in real life, let alone a man I was interested in romantically. Every one of the cells in my body waved their little cell arms over their heads and ran around like lunatics, yelling naked,

naked, naked! Cooper stepped up on the low-table platform, keeping his back and his (OMG!) nice-looking butt cheeks toward me. I kept my head down and pushed back the cuticles on every one of my fingernails while surreptitiously watching Cooper out of the edge of my vision. You could describe the feeling I was having as surreal. Also appropriate: exciting, titillating, hyper-aware, and—the ever-popular-catch-all-description—awkward. Seated to my left, Mrs. Cooper—his mother!—gave us a quick rundown on nude sketching etiquette, for the benefit

of “the new artists.” Everybody turned to look pointedly at me, except dreadlocks girl, who was eating up Cooper with her hungry eyes. Mrs. Cooper explained how nudity in the context of art was a beautiful gift from the Creator, and that the art studio was a sacred place. She jumped up and rushed over to lock the classroom's door to make sure nobody barged in, or perhaps to slow my escape. Cooper took his first pose, a dynamic one with one bicep flexed. Mrs. Cooper said, “The model will hold a series of poses for one minute each, while we do quick sketches to loosen up.” She clapped her hands. “Quick, quick everyone, fifty seconds remaining!” Everyone else was already sketching the first pose, but between my repressed giggles and the hand-sweat making the charcoal squirt out from between my fingers, I didn't get more than a little smudge on my paper for the first pose. The minute ended and he changed poses, or so I surmised from the motion at the edge of my vision. Mrs. Cooper reached over and lifted my chin up with her finger. “You have to see before you can create.” Without moving, our nude model said, “Mom!” The white-haired man said, “If I looked like this guy, I'd never wear clothes.” “Enough commentary, Mr. Stryker,” Mrs. Cooper said. She leaned in to me and whispered, “Just start where you can. Or why don't you try the forearm or the calf, on its own.” “I can do that?” “Of course you can. You don't have to draw everything,” she

said. “It's like life. Start somewhere, but start.” Her quiet reassurance emboldened me enough to start drawing his calf muscle, and I'd gotten to the knee when Mrs. Cooper called out for the next change. “Don't worry about detail,” she said, peeking over at my paper. “Try to capture the overall gesture, the sense of motion.” For the next pose, I concentrated so hard, actual beads of sweat popped out on my forehead. When the next pose happened, and he rotated to present me with his front, the irony—that I'd been thinking about getting to second base with the guy—was not lost on me. I didn't know what base nude modeling counted as, but we were there, and it was looking right at me with its one eye. Trying to not look directly at the penis, I sketched the shape of his shoulder and arm. On my paper, the arm looked like a very aggressive penis. I stifled a scream of horror and flipped my sheet over to a fresh one. Someone mentioned the room was awfully warm, and Mrs. Cooper said it was for the comfort of the model. What about me? With all the sweat coming out, I worried about fainting from dehydration. Cooper, on the other hand, handled the situation like a professional, his face cool and calm. Jealously, I wondered exactly how many girls had seen him naked. I looked through him, to the girl with the dreadlocks, wondering what her sketches looked like, and if they were as adoring as her face as she gazed happily up at his nice buttocks and higher, at those little button-shaped dimples. As I shaded the darkened part of his torso beneath his arm, smudging the charcoal with my fingertips the way some of the other artists were, the paper beneath my hand became

his smooth, hot skin. My left hand kept flying up to my mouth, caressing my lips, my knuckle becoming his lower lip as we kissed. To my surprise, despite my wandering mind, my right hand continued to sketch. I wouldn't say the drawings were great, but for my first-ever nudes, they weren't bad. After the warmup, Mrs. Cooper explained the model would take poses that were less dynamic, including some seated ones, that he could hold for longer periods. Mrs. Cooper handed him a stool and a piece of paper towel to put on top as a barrier. He took a seat and did a longer pose, staying in the same position for a good twenty minutes while we all sketched. The initial shock of his nudity had passed, and the whole situation started to feel normal. Someone got up to turn off a leaking tap in the kitchenette counter along one side of the classroom. I surveyed my surroundings and thought briefly about something other than Cooper's naked body. Was this a music room? Along the opposite wall was a collection of ukeleles and tambourines. We took a short break, and Cooper put on a loosely-tied robe for the duration, which made him seem even more naked, if you can imagine. As he was getting a glass of water, I went up to him and said, “You're so brave to do this.” “Thanks,” he said. “Bleh, water. I could really use some sugar.” “I'll go get you some,” I said, backing away. “Didn't we see a vending machine on the way in?” He waved. “Bye? I'll get a grape soda.”

“Like they'll have grape!” I said as I ran out the door. Out in the hallway, I breathed a sigh of relief. Seeing him in that robe, knowing he was naked underneath, had almost made my brain explode. I located a vending machine, and—to my delight—it had grape Fanta soda, so I got one for each of us. Mr. Stryker had followed me out and grumbled about the price of the things in the machine. “Dude, that's kind of a cliché,” I said. His face took on a charming look of surprise and new-found respect for me. “You're right. I shouldn't be such a curmudgeon.” “I think curmudgeon is a totally valid personality type. But you should mix it up a little, throw in some surprises.” “Young lady,” he said slowly. “Would you like to smoke some medical marijuana with me?” “There you go,” I said, laughing and pointing at him with my free hand as I backed away with the cold cans in the other. “Just like that!” He muttered, “But I wasn't joking.” When I got back inside the classroom, I wanted to tell Cooper what Mr. Stryker had said, but he was talking to some of the other artists, so I slipped in, handed him the can of grape soda and returned to my seat. Mrs. Cooper called the group together and we all got back to work. She asked me, “Do you mind if I sketch your face? While you're drawing?”

I told her she could, and then regretted it, because I had to be careful to hold my head up so as not to get a doublechin from the side angle. I'm so vain! At the end of the class, or session, or whatever it was, Mrs. Cooper gave me the charcoal drawing of my profile to keep. It was so lovely, I almost cried. Instead, she held her arms out and I gave her a big hug. I felt like we'd just been through something together. Cooper disappeared to put his clothes on, covering all of his nice body. I don't want to sound shallow, but I had enjoyed looking at him, from his sparse, golden chest hair to his muscular calves, and everything in between. Remember how he'd alluded to a private-area piercing when we'd had dinner? That had been a joke, after all. I'd seen everything, and there were no piercings. “Thanks for the refreshments,” he said as we walked out of the community center into the chilly night air. “Thanks for the show!” I expected him to say something cheeky to me on the way out to his car, but he was unusually quiet. “Your mother seems nice,” I said. “She's pretty cool,” he said. “She's self-taught, no formal schooling.” We got in his car and I relaxed, enjoying the electric seat warmer. I held all my drawings on my lap, careful to not crinkle them. “You hungry?” I asked. “I'm fine,” he said. When we pulled up to my house, he got out of the car and walked me to my front door. When he turned to leave, I

said, “You're not coming in?” “I'm tired.” “But … you came over to see my art. My new Forgotten Creature.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and remained about four feet away from me. “Kinda late.” “Anything else?” He cleared his throat and said, “The other night ...” “When I kissed you? I'm so sorry. That was so embarrassing. Total mistake. Not appropriate at all.” I pretended to shoot myself in my head with my finger as a gun. Over our heads, a pair of moths noisily threw their bodies against the porch light. “I'm sorry about this evening,” he said. “Don't be! I had a great time.” He stuffed his hands even deeper into his pockets and wiggled his toes in his flip-flops. “That was weird, even for me.” I sensed there was something he wasn't telling me. Up until that point, Cooper had been quick to speak his mind, the same as me. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I asked. “No.” His answering speed told me it was the truth. So, he didn't have a girlfriend, and he hadn't said anything about getting me and his friend together. I wondered if he was gay. If he was, that would explain why people always

complain about the best-looking ones being gay, because he was really hot. “Maybe we can go out again,” I said. “If you'd be into that.” “Maybe,” he said, dragging the edge of his flip-flop along a seam in the porch floor. He darted in, gave me a hug, and then left. As he drove away, his red tail lights disappearing down the street, I didn't know what I was feeling, exactly, except that it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair for me to get less of a guy whenever I wanted more. ~ Back inside the house, I went to my room and called Haylee for a video chat. She spent the first minute setting up her desk lamp so her face would be attractively lit. “It's just me,” I said. “I'm not recording this, are you?” She fluffed her newly-colored golden hair and made a duck face. “I have to see myself in the little screen, and if I don't look good, my self-esteem suffers.” I pretended that actually made sense and adjusted my desk lamp to do the same. We talked for over an hour, one gorgeously-lit girlfriend to another, as I caught her up on the pot-eating incident with my brother, my movie night with Marc, and then my drawing night with Cooper, even showing her the sketches. “Pick the guy who's the most into you,” she said. “Haylee, you're not listening to me. They're both being ambivalent. I thought girls were supposed to be the hard-tofigure-out ones. Why are these boys being so strange?” “Welcome to dating!” She made a duck face again, her

eyes focused on her own image. “I don't want dating. I want someone to make hot, sweaty love to me.” “Post that as your Facebook status update and see which one answers first.” “You're not helping. I should call Courtney. That's how much you're not helping!” In another window, a message popped up from Marc. I screamed. Irrationally, I feared Marc's instant message would somehow link him into the video chat with Haylee, so I slammed shut my laptop. When I opened it again, Haylee and I had a good laugh. I rearranged the windows so I could open the text chat window with Marc and read his messages to Haylee for analysis in real-time. Ah, modern flirting. Marc: Today I got that skinny guy as my waiter and not a

cute girl. After I relayed this to Haylee, complete with the fact he'd implied a question but not had the decency to use a question mark, Haylee said, “Oh, he's definitely flirting with you. Ask him why he brought his skanky ex to your place of work.” Instead of that, I typed: In the right skirt, Nigel would make

a cute girl. Marc: Not as cute as you. I gasped with my hand over my mouth, then read it to Haylee, who said, “Sounds like he wants to introduce you to his pool boy. And by pool boy, I mean his penis.” “But I don't like Marc anymore,” I said. “He's all moody and

weird, and Cooper's fun and simple. I thought Cooper was too hot for me, but he keeps wanting to hang out, sooooooo …” I let my voice trail off in that gravelly vocal fry that drives Haylee nuts. She did a fake shiver. “You need to pin him down. Wait, who's on your chat? Not the one who you saw naked today?” “No, that's Cooper. Try to stay on top of my love triangle, would ya?” I joked. “Ask him right now if he wants to de-virginate you.” She squealed and bounced up and down. “I want this so bad for you. And for me, to experience vicariously through you, of course.” “Let's try a more subtle approach.” I typed in: Who are you calling cute? Sounds scandalous.

I thought we were “just friends.” Haylee howled with despair that her battery was running out, and ran off to find the power cord for her laptop. There was no answer from Marc. I typed in: Hello? Again, I feared he'd somehow been linked in to the video chat, even though it was in a completely separate window. Could a bit of sound have come through? Several minutes later, Marc finally sent: I have had some

beers. I am going to bed. I typed a few things, but kept editing, and before I sent them, Marc logged off. Haylee got her power cord in and I caught her up on what

had just happened. Her boyfriend Andrew's big, goofy face popped in upside down at the top of the screen. “Have a threesome with both of them,” he said before Haylee pushed him away. “I would if I could!” I said. Haylee gasped. “Of course I wouldn't,” I said. “I'm a virgin, not a porn star.” Just out of clear microphone range, Andrew said something about porn, Haylee, and the laptop's web cam. “Tell me he's joking,” I said. “He's delusional,” she said. I thanked her for all the coaching. We went over everything Marc had said, a dozen more times, but didn't get any closer to knowing anything. We said goodbye and I got ready for bed, more confused than ever. I brushed my teeth for fifteen minutes while staring at myself in the mirror. Some of the dark brown dye had washed out of my hair— even so-called permanent color isn't that permanent—and I looked like myself again, whoever that was. My eyebrow piercing was healing nicely, right on schedule. I thought about Sunshine, with her blue hair and her adorable eyebrow tattoo. She was so close to both Cooper and Marc, and I wasn't.

I should befriend her, I thought. Should I? I entertained the idea for a full minute, even considering emailing her a piercing-related question, then I decided against it.

I crawled into bed, bringing my rabbit-eared Creature with the bottle cap eyes, hugging him against my chest. Normally I thought of my Creatures as female, but this one had a male energy, despite being mostly pink. I closed my eyes and thought of Cooper's nude body, complete with all his boy bits. Why had he seemed so shy after the nude modeling? Had I stared at his genitals too much? Or at his nice chest or adorable buns, with those little buttons on the small of his back? “Oh, Cooper,” I said to the darkness of my room. ~ The next day at work, Donny and Toph listened eagerly as I told them about my naked date with Cooper and asked if they thought, in their guy opinions, that he liked me as more than a friend. “Did he pop a boner when he was doing the poses?” Toph asked. I covered my face with my hands. “No! Don't be disgusting.” Donny's feelings seemed hurt by my horror over the possibility of an erection. Donny said, “It's not disgusting, it's natural. And you have to react positively when you first see a man naked, or he can be scarred for life.” Toph and I exchanged a look, and I wondered what traumatic incident had happened to poor Donny in the past. I said, “There's no way guys are as hung up on their appearance as girls. Come on. Guys don't get cellulite, and they don't have to worry about how their boobs look out of a bra. Are they saggy? What about that one nipple that's inverted?”

“Some guys have eating disorders now,” Toph said. Courtney came in through the back door of the kitchen just in time to hear what Toph was saying. “GAWSH!” she said in exaggerated frustration. “Can't women have anything to themselves?” I said to Toph, “That thing about the inverted nipple, that wasn't me. Just so you know. It's a friend.” “Guys don't care,” he said. I held my hand out to be clear. “But you understand it's not me, right?” In response, Toph pretended to lick his fingers and rub his nipples. Donny started composing an original song, about penis acceptance. “Maybe it's got a little curve,” he sang. “That don't make me a perv.” Toph and I exchanged an amused look. Donny continued singing, “I didn't break it from over-play, baby I was born this way.” Toph laughed like it was his real job to encourage Donny's creativity and chopping vegetables was just something he did between songs. As Courtney tied one of the server aprons around her waist —black and minimal, with pockets for pens and paper pads—I caught her up on my romantic entanglements. “I'm so glad I don't have to play games anymore,” she said, walking out to the dining area. I followed, feeling defensive. “I just don't want to make a

mistake and date a terrible person,” I said, thinking of Britain. “Once you have someone you love, you won't care what the rest of the world thinks about your relationship,” she said. “Why stop there? People with lobotomies don't care about anything.” Ignoring me, she spritzed the black chalkboard and wiped off the previous day's specials, the damp bar cloth turning from white to gray. I should have dropped the subject, but I couldn't. What was I supposed to do about Courtney dating someone who hated me? Could a person dislike me and still be otherwise decent? How could I accept that as a truth, and if I did, what did it say about me? I said to Courtney, “That girl must have all kinds of skills to have you wrapped around her little finger.” “What? Little finger? Is that a homophobic commentary on my sex life?” Courtney glared at me with her prepare-toget-punched face. “Eeps, no! Figure of speech. I only want what's best for you.” She groaned and yanked open the little bucket of colored sticks of chalk. “You sound like my father.” The light shifted, and we both turned to the door as the first customers of the day came in. I was relieved to have some company and other people to talk to. The rest of the day, Courtney only spoke to me when I asked her a direct question. If I came back into the kitchen while she was goofing around with the other staff, she'd quickly leave.

So that was it. She doesn't trust my judgment, I thought as I grabbed the pepper shakers off the tables. Trust. Funny I was thinking about trust at that moment, as I was filling the pepper shakers. The pepper doesn't go down nearly as quickly as the salt, so refilling the pepper shakers is not something I do often, but every time I do, I remember the prank Donny played on me my first day working at The Whistle. He'd shaken up the big sealed bucket of pepper and handed it to me, telling me to crack the lid and take a good sniff to make sure the pepper hadn't spoiled. I don't imagine you've ever sniffed a one-gallon container of pepper dust, because you're not as stupid as me, but trust me when I say it's not something you forget. Donny had been horrified, saying he'd meant it as a joke and would never have said it if he thought I'd actually take a big sniff of the pepper cloud. I believed him, because he hadn't laughed at all during the ensuing sneezing fit. Courtney, on the other hand, had laughed until she cried.

Courtney is a jerk, I thought, trying to make myself feel better. Was she really, though? Maybe I was doing that sour grapes thing, and pretending what I'd lost wasn't so great after all. Either way, focusing on Courtney's imperfections made me feel better. Courtney was energetic and fun to be around, but she was also selfish, and not just in the way we're all selfish. Here's an example: when Nigel and I work a shift together, we pool our tips. Most of the other workers do the same, because it's a tiny restaurant, and we help out with each other's tables.

When we both began working there, on the same day, Courtney and I split our tips evenly. This was after paying out the portion to the kitchen staff, which is always a set percentage of our total sales. After a couple of weeks, she did some calculations and figured out she'd be making more on her own, since her tables generally gave her close to twenty percent, and I got fifteen percent most days. When she suggested we cash out separately, I didn't argue, because I didn't figure it was worth fighting over. Every person has their own little quirks. I mean, apparently, Donny has a dick shaped like a banana. Being cash-aware is not a bad thing, but Courtney had done other stuff, too, like driving her car front-first into a parking spot someone else was trying to back into. The man had actually gotten out of his car and given her a lecture about how “people in this country” value manners. He didn't know she wasn't from Hong Kong, but had been born here in Canada, the same as me. I'd felt such shame, as a white person, for his racist rant, that I'd almost overlooked the fact she'd stolen someone's parking spot. It happened in the West End, where free street parking is almost impossible, but still, what kind of a jerk steals a parking spot? I was better off without her. Or was I? I didn't really have a choice in the matter, so whether she was a bad friend or not hardly mattered. My heart felt heavy in my chest.

Friendship over, I kept thinking every time I glanced over at her. She just looked right through me. ~ Because I couldn't do anything about Courtney, I switched

over to obsessing about Marc for the rest of my shift. I hadn't received any messages from Marc, so I had no story for his flirty behavior the night before. Perhaps he'd heard from Cooper about the nudity and been jealous. When I thought about Cooper with his clothes off, it made me smile. I'd be taking someone's order down and I'd think about the brown-gold trail of hair on Cooper's muscular abdomen. I pulled out my phone and posted on Cooper's Facebook wall, for everyone to see: Art class was awesome! That

model was HOT. The hot part was true. Just thinking about the sketches made me eager to rush right home after my shift. My joy seemed to spread to my tables, who laughed louder than Courtney's side of the restaurant, as though they knew it was a contest. Donny said to me, as I was cashing out, “I should record that penis-acceptance song. Maybe a viral hit?” “Ew,” I said. “Don't use penis and viral together.” “I wish I knew a musician,” he said. I tensed up, sensing what was coming next. “Parody isn't really my mother's thing,” I said. He laughed. “What? You thought I meant your mother? Puhleez. I said musician, not pop princess.” I scowled at Donny. He could make fun of me all he wanted, but my mother was off-limits. Toph rushed to my aid, saying, “I love Jade's music. She's really alternative, and alternative is totally coming back.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Is that true?” I listened to music, but I wasn't exactly up on trends, because I simply liked what I liked. Toph said, “There's that song, We are Young. And, um, the cool one with the guy in all the body paint.” Donny said, “Alternative's been coming back every year since forever, allegedly.” I said, “What is alternative, exactly? I never understood that.” Courtney, who had just came into the kitchen, said, “Duh. Alternative music is stuff white people like, like Vespa scooters and putting their kids in French immersion.” The three white people in the kitchen looked back and forth at each other. None of us could disagree. Donny said, “White people like Wes Anderson movies, farmer's markets, and,” he looked right at Courtney, “Asian girls.” She took a little curtsy. Toph said, “White people like brunch, and Portlandia.” Normally, I'd stick around and play Stuff White People Like, but I wanted to get home and look at those sketches of Cooper. As I stood by the back door, I said, “I love you guys,” to my coworkers. They all made disgusted faces, as was the norm.

Chapter 19 Back at home, after I took a good look at the sketches I'd made of Cooper, I started dinner. A couple of weeks into looking after dinner almost every night, most girls my age would have been serving frozen dinners and toast, but I'd kept up my end of the bargain with my parents. I actually enjoy cooking, especially if I can experiment with the recipes. My mother's had me help with the cooking since I was old enough to safely reach the stove, back when we lived in Dunbar. The first thing I made was preserves, using fresh figs from the tree in our back yard. Both of our houses have had fig trees, so it's hard for me to believe other people don't have yummy fresh figs in the summer. That Tuesday night, I made what we call Stolen Soup. One weekend afternoon, Mom and I had some incredible soup at a cafe, so she used the phone on her camera to take a picture of the ingredients, which were on a card next to the specials. The card was probably there to help people with allergies, not to give away the recipe, so we had a cackle over our criminal activity. The proportions weren't listed on the card, of course, but we'd experimented at

home and concocted a soup that was even better than the cafe's. Stolen Soup: 2 cans of black beans, drained but not rinsed 1 can corn niblets 1 fried onion sliced carrots (as many as you like) Cover with chicken stock and cook until the carrots are soft, then add: 3 cups of chopped, cooked chicken 1 can diced tomato Season to taste with: 1-2 garlic cloves freshly-grated ginger 1 tsp curry powder 2 tbsp peanut butter (secret ingredient!) 1 tbsp soy sauce 1 tbsp honey 1 tbsp dijon mustard (another secret!) My Stolen Soup that night turned out magnificent, as always. Dad wrinkled his nose and said it was “gumbo, not soup,” like he always does. As we were digging into the soup, made with a minimal number of carrot slices to keep Dad and Garnet happy, all

three of our phones buzzed or rang with incoming messages. “Mommy,” I said. “Mommy!” Garnet cried, and we all raced to get our phones out. As I read the message, an emotion came over me that made my stomach feel bloated, like I'd never be hungry again. I pushed my bowl of soup away in disgust. To my surprise, Garnet started to cry. He didn't just cry little tears down his cheeks, either. He bawled, his mouth turned down in a grimace, sobs coming out of him. This set me off, and pretty soon the two of us were blubbering. The text was, indeed, from our mother, and she'd said she was staying in LA for “at least another month.” My father set his phone on the table and finished eating his soup. “This is better than how your mother makes it,” he said of the soup, which only set off Garnet's wails again. I said, “Dad! That's all you've got to say?” “I just live here,” he said, clearing his bowl and spoon away into the dishwasher. Garnet wiped his nose and face with his shirt. “Dad! You can't let her do this to us.” “Your mother's a free spirit,” Dad said, his voice eerily calm. “She can't soar with the eagles if she's stuck here with us turkeys.” “Spring break's coming up,” I said to my brother, trying to

sound upbeat for his benefit. “We can check for a seat sale and fly down there for a visit. I've got some money saved up. What do you think of that?” “She doesn't want her children there,” Dad said. Angrily, I yelled at him, “She didn't say that! Don't make it worse than it has to be!” Without answering me, he took a few steps toward his computer den, then turned and went in the direction of the front door. I heard his keys jingle, then the front door slammed shut. I tried to grab Garnet for a hug, but he pulled away. As he sulked, I tried to reassure him. “We can talk about everything when Dad gets back from his drive.” “Talking doesn't do anything,” Garnet said. “Now you sound exactly like Dad.” “Yeah? Well you sound exactly like Mom, and I'm not very happy with her right now.” “No shit. Me neither.” He narrowed his eyes. “I don't need you. I can take care of myself.” I pointed to my chest, stunned by the hate in his face. “Who are you talking to? I'm not Mom. Don't be mad at me.” “You made her go,” he said. “Uh, no way! Like she listens to anything I say!” “You're dead to me,” he said, pushing past me to look in the fridge.

I was dead to him? Thinking about his hateful words, I wanted to grab him by the arm and smack his freckled little face, slapping away that bad attitude. He grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge and took it up to his room. I looked at the text message from my mother, searching for information that wasn't there. She cited a “creative breakthrough,” whatever that meant. I didn't have to be a mind-reader to know my father was assuming the worst, and that the “creative breakthrough” involved some attractive keyboard player who had a key to her room. At the risk of painting our family in a trashy light, I should mention there was a time Garnet's paternity was questioned. His face shape didn't match anyone on Dad's side of the family, and my father sent away some hair samples to one of those mail-order DNA places. It seems ridiculous now, when you see the two of them next to each other, but a few years ago, Garnet had more of a baby face and he didn't look like anyone in the family. We'd joked about him getting switched at the hospital. The good news was the test came back showing my father was Garnet's biological parent. The bad news was, despite being so careful about having the results mailed to him at his work place, Dad used their shared credit card. Mom googled the mysterious name on the statement and figured things out on her own. My father made it so much worse for himself by lying and saying the test was for someone at work. Then he yelled a bunch and stormed out of the house. Dad gets worked up sometimes with the yelling, when he goes into overreaction mode instead of avoidance. He scares me when he gets like that, because he's not himself

anymore, like when someone's really drunk, or sleepwalking. His eyes are open, and he's seeing you, but it's not him. It's the Anger Monster. After the credit card showdown, which took place on a Saturday morning during an otherwise-normal pancake breakfast, things were different in the house. Dad slept downstairs on the sectional sofa for almost three weeks—long enough for me and my brother to assume it was the New Order of Things—until one day I came home from school and discovered my father and mother giggling in the big downstairs bathroom, the sounds of splashing coming from the tub. Thus ended the Paternity Incident of 2009, which I'd assumed would be their one and only low point. Until she sent the message about staying in LA for another month. I got tired of pacing downstairs and went up to my room, taking the front stairs so I wouldn't go past my brother's door. I looked at all of my mother's clothes in my laundry hamper. The opportunity-spotting part of my brain lit up. Another month of doing laundry and cooking dinner? That hadn't been part of our original agreement. Even at minimum wage, that extra month of work had to work out to some serious money. I pulled out my phone and angrily stabbed the screen to send a message to my mother: When available, please

call to discuss $ compensation for housework. She didn't call, but messaged me immediately with: When

available, please call to discuss $ for rental of bedroom. Oh, yes she did.

Well played, Mom. Well played. That was when I got the buckets of paint out of my bedroom closet, hunted down the brushes and painting supplies, and started painting my room. Garnet heard the noises and came to investigate. I said, “I thought I was dead to you.” “I'm a kid. I don't mean stuff I say.” “You hurt my feelings.” He frowned. “No I didn't.” “You're not the baby anymore. You've grown two inches this year. Your innocent kid routine isn't going to cut it.” He seemed genuinely troubled by this revelation. “What should I do?” “Learn to apologize.” He ruffled his hair with one hand, looking sheepish. “I'm sorry I said that stuff. I miss Mom.” “I miss her too,” I said. “But while she's gone, I'm going to do some things, like finally paint this room.” His eyes got wide. “Can I paint my room too?” he asked. If one painted room would annoy my mother, two would push her to madness. I nodded. “Yes, you can. You have my permission.” He jumped up and down. Honestly, you've never seen a boy so excited about interior decoration. “I'm going to paint it black,” he said. “As well you should. But you have to help me with my room

tonight, and we'll do yours tomorrow.” He picked up a brush. “Mom would never let us do this.” “I know. That's what makes it so fun.” He immediately slopped a big droplet of paint on the hardwood. “Oops,” he said. “You're a big boy. Go get some paper towel and clean it up.” He pointed at me. “Bro! Right! I'll do that.” ~ My father got back from his drive and stopped in to see what we were doing. I expected him to turn away in disgust, ignoring the problem, or possibly overreact with a little screaming. What I didn't expect was support. “I never liked the pink,” he said. We didn't ask my father for permission to paint Garnet's room, because I figured it was better to beg for forgiveness and have a cool room in the color you love than ask and get turned down. Sometimes it's better to take what you want. ~ The next day, after work I went by the paint store near our house and paid for Garnet's paint out of my own account. The man at the counter kept repeating to me that the charcoal color was meant only for trim or accents, and not an entire room. “My brother is fifteen,” I said. “Can you imagine how cool this is going to make him with his friends?”

The man shook his head and loaded the paint into the shaker. The idea of the paint had cheered Garnet right up. None of us had discussed the bad news about my mother staying away an additional month. Putting a smile on my brother's face was a great use of forty dollars. Plus, it would really piss off my mother. All for forty bucks. ~ Wednesday night we finished painting my room and started painting Garnet's, doing just the edging. On Thursday night we did three full coats of nearly-black charcoal on his walls. One unexpected bonus of the project was we discovered the source of the smell in Garnet's room. It wasn't so much one source as two: a pile of liquid that may have been a banana, plus a furry thing in the closet that may have been a living furry thing, or a sandwich. Whatever the furry thing was, we scooped it up with a dustbin and didn't check for bones. When our work was done, Garnet's black bedroom was a thing of striking beauty. Our house has thick, white molding and window trim, plus extra-deep crown molding where the wall meets the ceiling. We left the trim and Garnet's ceiling white—a specific Benjamin Moore shade of white that Mom paid a designer to pick out—so his room didn't look so much like the blackness of outer space as it did a smartlooking tuxedo. After we put his framed sports jerseys back on the wall, covering the biggest expanses of black, the wall color didn't seem that unusual, to my disappointment. I said, “It looks so awesome, I wonder if Mom will have a hard time hating this.”

“No, she's going to freak,” he said reassuringly. Even though we were done painting, I had gotten comfortable hanging out in Garnet's room, and I lingered there, looking at his paperback books while he used his laptop, sitting on his bed cross-legged and propping the laptop up with a beanbag-like laptop pillow my parents originally bought for me to use. Several of the paperbacks on his shelf had originally been mine as well. “It's been fun hanging out with you,” I said. “Kyle wanted to help me paint, but I haven't told him yet that the you-know-what is gone.” “Do you think he would have wanted to smoke them tonight?” Garnet shrugged. In my head, I heard one of those TVspecial messages for parents. Talk to your kids about

drugs! I get it, I said back to the voice. I'am talking to my kid about drugs, even though he's not my kid. We'd also had our little heart-to-heart about sex not even a week earlier. I was pretty much the best parent ever, considering I was only three years older than the little sweat gland. “How many times did you guys smoke up?” I asked as I casually pulled out one of his Harry Potter books. I wondered if the book was the one we all stood in line outside the book store for, to buy at midnight. Dad had taken us, and he'd had the night of his life, hanging out with all the other Dads his age, enjoying the costumes and fun. How quickly we had gone from lining up for books to talking about drugs. “Just once, but it didn't do anything,” Garnet said.

“Promise me something,” I said, remembering my session with the eyebrow piercer, when she'd made me promise not to go under a piercing gun again. “Promise you won't smoke up again until after you're eighteen, when your brain isn't developing. When I was your age, one of the boys at school went psychotic because of pot.” Garnet blew air out of his mouth noisily. “Yeah right.” “I'm not lying. They'll never know if he was going to develop schizophrenia on his own, but the marijuana sure didn't help,” I said. Garnet closed his laptop and stared at me silently. “Is Uncle Jeff schizophrenic?” “We're not sure what he is,” I said. “Hey, don't look so sad. You can drink all the beer you can get your hands on, and I won't say a word. Just stay away from the hard stuff.” “Okay,” he said. A pleasant feeling came over me. I was so proud of my conversation with my brother, I almost wished my mother had been there to see it. She would also hate the charcoal-black walls. That made me smile. My brain shivered with the little I'm-forgetting-something feeling I get when I haven't checked for text messages in several hours, so I pulled out my phone. “That's odd,” I said. Garnet didn't look up from his computer. I sat down next to him on his bed. I had a friend request from the last person I'd expected to friend me. Actually, the request wasn't Courtney's girlfriend Britain, so I guess that would make it the second-to-last person.

Sunshine Cooper had sent me a friend request. Bubbling with curiosity, I accepted, and ran to my room to look at all her photos on my laptop. ~ As I was enlarging some pictures of her, looking for evidence of any flaws in her creamy skin, I got an instant message from her. Sunshine: How do I know you? Me: You're the one who requested me. Sunshine: I know. You looked familiar and Facebook

suggested. Who are you? Who was I? Besides the girl who liked her ex-boyfriend and also her brother? Me: I'm the smart mouth waitress from The Whistle. She disappeared, logging off. Anticipating a rapid unfriending, I quickly right-clicked on a bunch of her photos, saving them to my desktop for future analysis. Before she had dyed her hair blue, pierced her eyebrow, and got the cute swirly tattoo on the one eyebrow, she'd looked like a regular girl you'd know from school. She looked like a Chloe or a Jenny. Her profile showed she was going to beauty school, and planning to work in TV and film. “Lucky you,” I said to my laptop screen, even though I knew I could go to beauty school if I wanted. I had liked the idea of that type of work, until we had career day at school and I attended a session with a working hair stylist. The woman had talked for several minutes about her neck, back, and foot pain. She then moved on to even less inspiring topics, such as inhaling toxic hair-straightening

chemicals. That particular career fair, all the people I picked seemed depressed and miserable at their jobs. I guess you'd have to be unhappy, to leave your work to go to a high school and talk about your career. I wished people would have been more up-front about the salary. If they do tell you, it's the annual wage, and you have to divide it a couple times to figure out what the pay is per hour. If I were setting up a career day, I'd put the hourly wages next to the name of the career, right there on the sign-up sheet. Wouldn't that be useful? On my screen, Sunshine hadn't reappeared. I was ready to go to bed, early so I wouldn't sleep in Friday and waste my day off by being unconscious through it, but my stomach was doing flip-flops over the idea of Sunshine logging back in to talk to me. How could I sleep? I even had a little story concocted about what she might have been doing! Maybe she wanted to get Marc back for herself, so she wanted me out of the picture, with her super-hot brother. You know how you like an idea so much you convince yourself it must be true? That was how I felt that night about the whole Marc and Cooper situation. I was, of course, completely wrong about everything, but I had no idea that night as I crawled into bed, my laptop next to me so I could check it if I woke up in the night. ~ Friday was the day Marc kissed me. I didn't know that when I woke up that morning, or I would have flossed in addition to brushing.

It was my first day off work and Haylee came over around ten. I'd offered to let her do her laundry at my house if she helped me with grocery shopping. She thought this was a great idea, because she had some blankets to wash, and it would save her nearly fifty dollars. Andrew came in with her, hauling the overflowing laundry baskets. He'd lost a lot of weight since the last time I'd seen him, so I said, “Isn't Haylee feeding you, dude?” He waved his Tyrannosaurus Rex head back and forth, flailing at the air with his tiny dinosaur arms. “I have Chrohn's disease,” he said. “Oh. I didn't know.” I felt terrible for seeing him as a dinosaur, but I couldn't un-see it. Haylee put her arm around Andrew protectively and gave him a smile. “We don't know for sure, but he's doing a lot better off gluten, aren't you, baby?” “Sucks,” he said to me. “We have some rice crackers in the kitchen,” I said. “Unless you … have somewhere you need to be?” As bad as I felt about his health problem, I still didn't want to hang out with him all day. Andrew mumbled something about editing a film, gave Haylee a kiss, then left. After the door closed, Haylee said, “It's been a tough week.” “No kidding. He has that wheat disease?” “No, not exactly. He might have to get part of his colon removed.” We walked over to the laundry room, at the corner of the

house, and I helped her sort the laundry as she told me more about Chrohn's disease. It's an inflammatory bowel disease that can pop up in your teens or early twenties, and there's no cure, just management. “That's so awful,” I said. “Poor Andrew.” Haylee twisted her lips in a strange sideways manner. “People die from it.” There we were, sorting laundry, when I realized Haylee's boyfriend could die. I apologized for being so casual in my initial reaction. “You didn't know,” she said. “Poor Andrew,” I said again. I made a note to add good health to my list of things to be appreciative of. Haylee stuffed an enormous comforter into the washing machine, along with a second blanket. I could see why the lady at the laundromat yelled at her. I pulled the blanket out, saying, “You don't have to pay per load, so let's leave some space to get clean.” “It'll take longer,” she said. “If the items are jam-packed, there's no room for the water to circulate, and the dirt won't rinse out.” She stepped back, hands in the air, laughing. “Easy there, Mom.” In a high-pitched voice, I wagged my finger at her and said, “You should be so lucky to have me as your mother, dahling!” We laughed together, and I remembered how much the three of us—me, Courtney, and Haylee—had enjoyed hanging out together before Andrew came along.

I could give Andrew a chance. Besides having an unusuallylarge melon head and bad taste in movies, he wasn't a bad guy. The idea of him being ill had also softened me towards him. Why does finding out someone has pain in their life make you appreciate them more as a human being? Shouldn't we all assume everyone we meet has their own pain? ~ After we put the second load into the washer, Haylee and I had some lunch and made fun of Britain. Haylee had met her at Courtney's house and been unimpressed, though at least Britain hadn't terrified her the moment Courtney left the room, like she'd done to me. I stuck my nose up in the air and did an impression of Britain hating everything by comparing it to something else, like she'd done with The Hunger Games and Battle Royale. “This peanut butter is stupid,” I said, holding up the plastic container of Kraft smooth peanut butter. “It's just a rip-off of Skippy peanut butter.” I pulled out the hem of my t-shirt. “This shirt is a rip-off of pants. Pants did it first.” “Pants is a funny word,” Haylee said. My scalp, right behind my ears, started to ache. I think of that spot as my evil laugh indicator, as the little muscle soreness only happens when I'm making fun of someone. If being mean is wrong, but why does it feel so good? Why is it so enjoyable to make fun of your friends with your other friends? ~

After loading up the third batch of laundry—mostly Andrew's gonchies, which I refused to handle—we took my mother's Land Rover and drove to Fraser Street to the No Frills (yes, that's really the name) to buy groceries. You'll remember I mentioned this was the day I kissed Marc, and I am getting to that part. Outside the grocery store, I saw a familiar-looking brown and cream Shih Tzu. “Pickles?” The dog wagged its tail. “Rover?” The dog wagged its fluffy tail even more vigorously. So much for identifying Pickles by name. I explained that she looked like Marc's dog, so Haylee knelt down to check the collar tag, while I tried to not look like a dog thief. “This is Pickles,” she said. “If Marc's in there, we have to hunt him down.” She seemed over-eager about the hunting part, so I urged her to remain calm as I grabbed a shopping cart. She'd gotten so excited during our video chat, while I was reading out his text messages, and I worried she'd bring up my virginity in front of him. Inside the store, we split up to cover more ground, and Haylee found him first, in the dairy section. She hadn't met Marc before, but had seen photos. I walked up, as casually as I could, pretending to be looking at the selection of butter. The chilly air from the dairy cooler had created visual distractions on the front of Haylee's thin sweater— distractions that Marc kept checking out. “She has a boyfriend,” I said to Marc. “Eyes off the nipples.”

“Peridot,” he said. “Perry, Perry, quite contrary.” “Whatcha shopping for?” I asked. “We saw Pickles out front. I totally knew you were in here.” He scanned the section of soft cheeses. “I was looking for goat cheese, but it would appear they don't have any.” “This is No Frills,” I said. “Goat cheese is clearly in frill territory. You need to hit Whole Foods.” “Mom knows best,” Haylee said. Marc squinted behind his cute tortoiseshell glasses and scratched his head. “Did I send you some drunken text messages the other night?” “Yes. You were very flirty,” I said. Haylee said, “Ooh!” Marc pulled some cream cheese off the shelf and put it in the plastic shopping basket sitting by his feet on the floor. “Do you like my girl here?” Haylee asked. I smacked her on the arm. Marc scratched his ear, looking more uncomfortable by the second under the bright grocery store lights. “Perry's a special girl,” he said to Haylee. “You should pop by the house,” Haylee said. “We're having a girls' day, but you could help us fold laundry.” “Sure,” he said. “Pickles likes your house.” I said, “I repainted my bedroom. You can check it out.” Haylee commented, “How forward!”

“Haylee!” I pulled her ponytail. Marc's cheeks reddened. I really hadn't meant anything frisky when I'd mentioned my bedroom. My pal Haylee was enjoying the vicarious flirting way too much, so I quickly dragged her off to the produce section after I said goodbye to Marc. “Focus your energy on finding some good yams,” I said to an over-excited Haylee. “Do you mean yam-yams or orange potatoes?” she asked. “Because what people call yams aren't actually yams.” “Those things, smartypants,” I said, pointing to the oblong potatoes with the thick brown skins. She closed her eyes and began groping the potatoes, making dirty noises. People turned to stare. Normally, I would have jumped right in with her, but I didn't want Marc to catch me acting like a doofus. I didn't know how he wanted me to act, besides staying quiet and letting him ramble on during conversations, but feeling up root vegetables was probably a bad move. “Pick five and put them in a bag,” I said to Haylee, putting some distance between us as I moved over to browse the non-suggestive broccoli.

Chapter 20 Haylee and I got the grocery shopping done, though the bill for a full cart of food was a shocking two hundred dollars, paid for with my parents' debit card. “Junk food's cheaper,” Haylee said. “Andrew and I have started eating healthier, and it's killing us, budget-wise.” I was quiet as we loaded the groceries into the Land Rover. Haylee had grown-up worries, with Andrew's health and their budget problems. She'd been working at a movie theater since we graduated, and going to school part-time at VCC, Vancouver Community College, which has a campus downtown and one on East Broadway. I didn't want to think about Haylee's problems. I wanted to be a giggly girl, crushing on two boys, one of whom had promised to come to my house later that day. ~ Marc came over at two o'clock, and the three of us—four if you count the dog—sat in the back yard enjoying the early spring weather while Pickles snorted in the grass and ran around the fenced back yard.

“We're moving in,” Marc said to me. “I hope your parents don't mind.” I licked my lips in anticipation of the kiss that was about to happen in less than half an hour. Okay, not really, because I'm not psychic, and of course I didn't know. Haylee, however, was inspired in her Machiavellian machinations. As soon as we came back into the house so I could show Marc my painting job, she said she had to make some phone calls and switch over the laundry. “It's going to take some time, so start the tour without me,” she said, giving me a wink. Pickles, content to be in the sunny yard, stayed behind, though we left the door cracked open in case she got lonely. Quietly, Marc followed me up the old wooden stairs to my bedroom. Had the stairs always squeaked so much? The sound was deafening. With Haylee sequestered off in the laundry room, we were practically alone in the house. My brother wouldn't be home from school for another two hours, and my father home from work about the same time. We stopped off in Garnet's room first. “Wow,” Marc said when he saw the black walls. “This color sucks up the light,” he said as he ran his hand over the wall. “Black would be depressing in every room, but I like it in here.” “Your brother's friends must think he's the coolest guy around.” “That's exactly what I thought!” He pulled out some of the books on Garnet's bookshelf.

“Harry Potter. Hah!” “Don't tell me you're a hater.” He wrinkled his nose. “The world makes no sense. Everyone can do magic and conjure things out of thin air. The economic system is non-existent. Ron Weasley shouldn't have to wear ugly sweaters and have hand-medown things. His parents can just wave their wands and make new sweaters.” He shook his head. “It's just a book,” I said, feeling defensive of the world in which I'd spent so much enjoyable time. “And if someone paints your picture, that means you have to spend your afterlife in that picture. There's something very wrong about those portraits. It's not clear if they're artificial intelligence or dead spirits. Harry could commission a painted picture of his parents so he could have them around, even talk to them.” “I think you may be missing the point,” I said. “Assuming there is a point, besides cashing in,” he said. I muttered something lame about good versus evil and gestured for him to follow me out to my room. This time, he didn't stop at the door, but came right in. The first thing he did in my room was point to the spot where the brush had slipped out of my hand and smudged some blue-green paint on the ceiling. “Oops,” he said. I said, “You can criticize JK Rowling all you want, but leave my painting skills alone. It was my first time, okay?” Marc put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a little shake. “Just teasing you. I like it, especially the color. You look like a mermaid in here, in your sea-green room.”

My sketches of Cooper, naked, sat out on my dresser, next to Marc. My heart flipped and a lump went up the front of my throat. Marc hadn't noticed the charcoal sketches, and I didn't want him to. Even if he didn't recognize his friend's face from my poorly-drawn likeness, I didn't want him questioning why I was drawing naked guys. Or worse, criticizing my skills. “I'm a mermaid?” I stepped backwards two steps, away from the drawings. He stepped forward two steps and paused, grinning at me. After a moment of staring at each other, he reached up and gently touched my eyebrow piercing. “Does it hurt?” “Only when I catch it on my clothes.” “Hmm,” he said. “Hmm,” I replied, taking one little step closer. Without exaggerating, I must tell you my entire body was on fire with excitement. I wanted to kiss him so badly, just to see what he would do, but I restrained myself. He would have to make the first move. As though reading my mind, he said, “You should kiss me.” I blinked and said nothing, but I did tilt my chin up. “I can't believe you like Harry Potter,” he said. I held my ground. The house was silent, except for the rushing pulse in my ears. He leaned forward and kissed me, very gently. I didn't move my lips, but I leaned forward a little.

He pulled away and tipped his head to the side. “We should shut the door.” “Sure.” We were still standing next to my dresser at this point, so he turned and closed the door, then pushed the little button to lock it. My mother had sourced door handles that matched the house's original brass ones, but had modern locks on them. When he turned back and kissed me again, I had one very specific thought: oh shit. It was all happening too fast. In my imagination, kissing Marc was completely different, and my mouth wasn't dry. I backed away, thinking I should get a drink of water, and he moved with me, so I stepped further, until I bumped the backs of my legs against my bed. He laughed, then sat on my bed, patting the spot next to him. I joined him, and we kissed some more, until he said, “My neck is hurting. Why don't you sit on my lap?” I jumped up. “Haylee's here. She's probably wondering what's going on.” He took his glasses off and hung them by the arm from the collar of his shirt. “Let her wonder.” He fell back on my bed and rubbed his cheek against my pillow. “A nap might be nice.” I stood, halfway between Marc, on my bed, and my locked bedroom door. Something I hadn't disclosed was bothering me. I grabbed the sketches of Cooper and brought them over to Marc. He sat up and put his glasses back on. “These are not turning me on,” he said.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, I said, “That's Cooper. I don't know if he told you, but I went to his mother's drawing class and drew him. Nude.” “Well, obviously nude,” Marc said, frowning. “I also kissed him.” “Nude.” “No, with clothes on. In here, actually.” Marc scowled and jumped up from the bed, away from me. He paced to the door and back, ruffling his dark hair with one hand. “I don't know why you're telling me this.” “Full disclosure. I wanted to be honest with you.” “Honesty's overrated,” he said, unclicking the lock and opening the door. “You should try it sometime,” I called after him. He was already at the foot of the stairs by the time I came out my door. Haylee came rushing out of the laundry room and nearly knocked me over when I came around the corner. I could hear Marc talking to Pickles and getting her from the back yard. “I think Marc's going home,” I said to Haylee. She gave me a sidelong, smirking look. “That was fast.” I asked her to stay where she was, and I went and found Marc, putting his shoes on by the front door. Annoyed, I said, “Why do you have to act like you have a bug up your ass?” He tried to tie up his shoes while Pickles playfully tugged at the laces.

“Pickles, no! Bad dog,” he said. “She's just having fun. You know you could lighten up a little.” “You're bad,” he said to her, a sharp edge to his voice. “So I kissed your friend. Once. He's a nice guy, or you wouldn't be friends with him. I'm free to kiss other people, since you and I aren't a thing.” “I didn't want any of this,” he said. With one hand on my hip, I said, “Well, good, because you're not getting any of this.” He stood and took an audible breath. “Perry, let's forget this whole thing happened. I shouldn't have sent you those messages, and when we were in the park, I shouldn't have said I wanted to kiss you.” As my anger dissipated with his apology, the urge to cry crept up on me. “Why don't you like me?” I asked, my voice cracking. Instead of saying he did like me, or anything that would have stopped my heart from breaking, he said, “I don't know.” And then he left. ~ A few minutes after Marc stormed out, Haylee came up behind me and put her arms around me in a hug. She'd heard everything. I pulled myself back together and we went to the laundry room to fold her clothes. The laundry room, conveniently enough, is where my parents' liquor storage is, and I eyed

the vodka while we matched up socks. Haylee said, “Having someone to help almost makes laundry fun.” I sorted out the white sports socks, which were nearly identical, but had slightly different lengths. I threw a pile down in frustration, saying, “If Andrew would just buy the same damn brand of socks, this would be a lot simpler.” “What can we do to make your mood better?” she asked, turning and giving a subtle nod to the booze. “Do you think vodka helps with rejection?” “Let's do some shots and find out,” she said. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed two soft-boiled-egg holders to use as shot glasses. “Does that look like a shot size to you?” I asked, holding up the silly cups, which looked like miniature old-fashioned sundae dishes. “You're a classy lady,” she said as she unscrewed the lid of the vodka. We each chugged an egg-cup shot and agreed it made doing laundry more fun. I paired up socks with matches that were “close enough.” Haylee giggled and crammed together a blue sock and a white one. “Look, it's Avatar,” she said. “Not really. They were both blue when they did the nasty.” She threw the pair of socks down. “It was still bestiality. So gross. Totally took me out of the movie.” “And yet … decapitations are fine by you?” She rolled her eyes. “That stuff's not real.”

“And giant, blue aliens with tails and head snakes that plug into other animals are real,” I said. We poured two more shots and discussed blue aliens and their enormous blue organs. My father and brother came home, so we shut the laundry room door for privacy, as we were quite comfortable, sitting on stacks of folded towels. When my father knocked on the door, I cracked it open and asked sweetly if I could have the night off from cooking. “I guess I could make some grilled cheese, since the other option is starvation,” he said. “Awesome!” I clicked the door shut, and a moment later he knocked, asking where the cheese slicer was, and then the cheese. Haylee was stunned. “They would starve! If you weren't here!” “He was probably kidding about the cheese. I hope.” The buzzer on the dryer went off and we both shrieked. Dad knocked on the door again. “Everything okay in there?” “Girl stuff! Never mind!” After a bit more giggling and not much laundry, Haylee called Andrew and said she was going to stay over at my house, so we could have a “good, old-fashioned sleepover” like we used to have. After the coast was clear in the kitchen, we snuck through and watched some movies in the TV room, sobering up and nearly falling asleep. Around midnight, we took the sofa

cushions off the sectional and brought them up to my room for Haylee to sleep on. We revisited the laundry room to “look for missing socks” and smuggled some more booze from there up to my bedroom, and that was when the real drinking began. ~ I don't know how our laundry day sleepover ended, but I have to assume I had a good time. I woke up in bright sunshine, due to not having shut the curtains the night before. I had to pee like crazy, and Haylee was snuggled in next to me on my double bed. Patches of memory came back from the night before. You're probably wondering if I did anything I would come to regret, say … something involving drunk dialing? Did I phone Cooper while I was drunk? Or Marc? I don't think I need to tell you I did. Of course I did. Even though our text messaging to date had been limited to Facebook Chat, both of the boys were programmed into my cell phone. I'd had Marc's number ever since he gave me his business card, before he came to my house for dinner. Cooper had his phone number on his Facebook profile, so I'd programmed it into my phone, just so I had it. Until my vodka-soaked evening, I'd never phoned or phone-texted either of them. Girls who call up guys while drunk are total idiots, right? If you'll remember, I specifically warned you that I can be an idiot at times. The thing is, I knew drunk dialing was wrong. Why would someone willingly do something they know is so wrong?

My only explanation is that my drunk personality is even more of a dumb-ass smart mouth than my sober one. After the world's longest pee, I filled my toothbrush cup with water three times and drank it down each time. When I came back from the washroom, Haylee had taken over my bed, so I made a nest with the couch cushions on my floor and lay down. Despite wanting to sleep off the gross feeling, I couldn't get back to dreamland. I listened to my father get Garnet out of bed. It was Saturday. They were going out with a friend of my father's, to fly miniature airplanes somewhere near Langley, and they'd be gone most of the day, which was fine by me. Had my father's voice always been so annoying? Why so much conversation? He stood just outside my door, talking to my brother non-stop about their plans for the day, for at least one million minutes. With my pillow over my head, I tried to relax and sleep, but my body rejected the notion. After my father and brother were finally gone, I got up and had a very long, very hot shower. When I came out, I thought I was going to throw up, but clutching the cold toilet bowl for a few minutes brought my system back online. While Haylee slumbered, oblivious, I tidied my room and brought the empty bottle of vodka back downstairs. I filled the bottle to the top of the Absolut logo with water and placed it back where it had been, in the laundry room. Haylee was nineteen, so she could legally buy alcohol, and I planned to give her some money so she could buy a replacement. I opened the fridge, looked for orange juice, and found my cell phone on the shelf, next to the milk. A fleeting image … Haylee putting my phone into “cold

storage” to do me a favor … me, grabbing it back from her and phoning people … telling them exactly what I thought … Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. I grabbed my fridge-chilled phone. I had to check the outgoing calls. No. It was better to forget. As I was holding it, my phone vibrated with an incoming call, and I yelped. Guilty conscience, much? The incoming number wasn't one I recognized, but I still answered. I'm not one of those people who lets unknown numbers go to voice mail. Those people are so annoying! So what if it's a wrong number? Is it so much trouble to simply tell someone they have a wrong number? A female voice ear-blasted me. “Hey! Peridot! It's Sunshine!” I immediately dropped the phone, on my foot. She was still talking when I picked it up. “... so I thought we could get lunch?” “Sure,” I said, not knowing what I was agreeing to. “Why not.” “The Whistle, at noon?” I did not want to be at my workplace on my second day off, but I couldn't think of anywhere better, so I agreed. After I ended the call, my phone buzzed again, with another number I didn't recognize. The universe was testing my phone-answering policy on that too-bright, too-early, knees-

wobbly, stomach-queasy morning. I answered, getting Andrew, who said Haylee wasn't picking up her phone. “She's moving in with me,” I said. “We slept together last night and I rocked her world.” Without missing a beat, Andrew said, “I hope you took pictures.” That was my first-ever evidence that Andrew had a sense of humor and an actual personality. I said, “You can come get her, if you can pry her off my bed. I'll warn you, it's memory foam. That shit's addictive.” “I'll fight for my lady,” he said, laughing. I told him to come on over and ended the call.

Andrew's so nice, I thought. I have since discovered he plays classical piano—beautifully—and wants so desperately for people to enjoy ping-pong that he'll let you win your first few games. It's hard to focus on the ball when you're distracted by his little Tyrannosaurus Rex arms, but that may be part of his strategy. Personally, I think his arms would look normal-sized if he'd relax his shoulders a bit. I know I've made fun of Andrew, but he's not the worst. Yes, he does smell like the underside of a sofa cushion, but he's sweet to Haylee. In fact, because he'd accurately deduced we'd be hungover, he showed up with a shopping bag full of GatorAde, Tylenol, and no-name brand pink stuff in a bottle. Haylee must have sensed his presence, because she came down the stairs just as he arrived, looking remarkably presentable, considering.

As Andrew was loading the laundry into his car—some of it folded creatively into triangles, which had been my idea— he told me he was glad we'd had such a good time, and that Haylee hadn't been herself the last few months. I said, “She was a whole lotta herself last night.” “I love to see my lady smile,” he said. She was throwing up on my lawn when he said it, but that didn't make it any less romantic. He ran to her side to hold her hair so she didn't throw up on it, and I thought to myself, that's what I want. Not the puking part, but the guy who cared about me. I'd been raised to be a strong, independent person who could take care of herself, but I could still use a little backup. ~ Back inside the house, I closed one eye and clicked on the personal horror movie that was my outgoing calls screen. Confirmation of my stupidness: outgoing calls to a ton of people, including both Marc and Cooper. Small consolation: the calls were less than thirty seconds, so either I hung up quickly or only left short messages. I had a lunch date, though, and perhaps meeting with Sunshine was the perfect solution. I could get the low-down on what was happening with the boys. It would be like ripping off a Band-Aid quickly. Ri-i-i-i-i-ip! By the end of lunch, I'd know what was going on. When I walked into my room, which was painted an incredibly soothing blue-green shade (my compliments to the interior decorator!), the sleep that had eluded me earlier that morning tried to get me into bed and have its way with me. I resisted and had a second shower, since my

skin smelled weird. Picking an outfit to wear to lunch with Sunshine was the most taxing thing I'd attempted since a few nights earlier, when I'd had one of those nightmares where you show up for a class you didn't know you were taking, like German or something, and it's final exam day. Sunshine was not going to out-weird me with a funky outfit, so I put on a plaid kilt with a puffy crinoline underneath, and a waffle-print little girl's undershirt topped by a black mesh 1980s top. I plaited my hair into an upside-down french braid that ended in a ponytail on the crown of my head. “Too much,” I said to my reflection. “Not enough,” she said, putting on deep, red lipstick. Then I licked my lips and made sexy faces at myself in the mirror for several minutes. You know, like every girl does before she goes out.

Chapter 21 Before I left the house, I phoned the restaurant to beg them to reserve a table for me and Sunshine, so we wouldn't have to “wait with the hoi polloi,” as I joked. Nigel, who had answered the phone, said, “Hoi polloi? Really. You know, in Canada, we don't have a class system. That's why my ancestors immigrated here.” “And where did you say they immigrated from?” “Nice try,” he said. “Okay then, a table for two. Can you make my day?” “Fine. But don't tell anyone I did something nice. I have a reputation.” I thanked him as I locked up the house and started walking down. Fifteen minutes later, I walked into The Whistle, thankful to get away from the searingly bright orb in the sky. The restaurant was a moist din of voices, music, and laughter.

Maybe it was my hangover, but from the second I stepped into the restaurant, everything felt backwards. Even coming in the front door instead of the back was an educational experience. I didn't get hit with the kitchen smell of dishwasher detergent and the bleach we soak the lasagne dishes in, but instead, I got a nose full of coffee, orange juice, and … oh, bacon. And it was good. Skinny Nigel was working the dining room, wearing a knitted hat over his perennially messy black hair. The other server was Ginger, a redheaded girl. I understand ginger is an insult in the UK, but I think it's a great name for a redhead. The next thing I noticed, after the nice aroma, was how Nigel and Ginger left me standing at the door for an eternity before they sat me. I made a mental note to be faster on greeting and seating during my next shift. Nigel pinched my arm. “You're not wearing green,” he said. I surveyed the crowd, spotting green shirts on many of them. “Oh, St. Patrick's Day.” He pinched me again, hard, so I reached out and grabbed him in the general area where I figured his nipples were. He giggled and said, “Twist harder.” “I'm taking that table,” I said, pointing to the little one by the window. “It's yours, Princess,” he said. Once seated, I started to fidget. Sunshine wasn't there yet, and I wondered if she was one of those girls who's always late. Those people think their time is more important than everyone else's. I seethed with pre-emptive rage.

The table had some water spots on it, and I wanted to duck behind the waitress station and get a cloth to clean it better, but my skin was too heavy. I so wanted a big coffee. I don't drink coffee, except the frozen ones from Starbucks, but that day I wanted one bad, and Nigel was taking his sweet time getting it for me. I made a mental list of things I noticed needing cleaning, such as the kids' smeared hand prints on the windows. A gorgeous woman breezed in. She wore simple brown cords and a crisp, white, button-down shirt. It was Sunshine, but the blue had been completely bleached out of her hair, and she was a stunning blonde. I felt about as appropriate as a wet fart at a wedding. Here, I'd been trying to out-weird Sunshine and she'd outnormal'd me. She looked like an ad for Banana Republic. “You're not wearing green,” I said. “It's St. Patrick's Day.” She flicked back her nearly-white hair, revealing dainty green earrings. “Gotcha,” she said. “Smart girl.” I gestured to the empty chair. She reached her hand to me, and we squeezed fingertips awkwardly. “Sorry I'm late. My mother sends her regards,” she said, taking a seat on the chair across from me. “I love this table you got for us,” Sunshine said. “It's all about who you know.” Nigel came by with a menu for Sunshine and gave us a rundown of all the things we weren't allowed to do, including dip our fries in mayonnaise. “What if I brought my own mayonnaise from home?” I asked.

“There's a dollar charge for that,” he said. After Nigel left the table, Sunshine asked if we, the serving staff, were allowed to make up our own rules. I assured her we didn't, and the mayonnaise thing was either a brandnew one, or Nigel was messing with me. “I like the rules,” Sunshine said. “People seem to dig the abuse. Lucky for me.” “I enjoy being out of my comfort zone,” Sunshine said. “The restaurant must do really well. There's usually a big line-up.” “The last few years have been difficult. My boss bought the place from the original owners because they were retiring, planning to become snowbirds. Arizona in the winter, that sorta thing. Anyways, my boss thinks she overpaid.” As I spoke, a voice of dissent in my head questioned why I was divulging secrets about the business to Sunshine. Was I trying to impress her? Shut up, I told myself. Nigel finally came back to take our order, bringing us our coffee. Sunshine sent him off to bring her skim milk, provided there was no additional fee. He graciously offered to go milk the cow we keep in the kitchen, and disappeared. “Will I get my skim milk?” Sunshine asked me. “Yes. You get everything how you want it, you just have to put up with the lip.” “He's cute.” “Nigel? Ew. I guess if you like those super-tight jeans that give you beetle legs.” “So, you were saying … the owner thought she overpaid?”

That was when I noticed something unusual about Sunshine. She was a good listener. Rarely do you meet someone who brings you back to what you were talking about before the topic got sidetracked. If you ever meet someone who uses the phrase “you were saying,” make them your friend for life. By the way, don't expect to ever hear it from me. I explained to Sunshine how I hadn't been working at The Whistle back in 2010, when HST kicked in and the tax on restaurant meals doubled. The Whistle used to have people lined up down the block on Saturday nights, but we were in lean times. The owner wanted to make changes, but was afraid to mess with the original formula. “I think The Whistle is perfect how it is,” Sunshine said. “You shouldn't mess with perfection.” I drained my cup of coffee as well as my glass of water. My bladder reminded me with some subtle pressure that it was not without limits. “So, tell me what's on your mind,” I said, trying to sound casual. Since her phone call, I'd been operating under the dual assumptions she wanted to be my friend, and that she also wished me bodily harm. It was only because she suggested my workplace, where I could have concealed weapons hidden around the premises, that I'd agreed so readily. “This is embarrassing,” she said. My curiosity threatened to reach across the table and shake it out of her. “Go ahead,” I said calmly. “You can say no,” Sunshine said. “But Jade is one of my personal heroes and it would mean so much to me to get

her feedback.” She carried on talking, her words washing over me as meaningless noise. Jade. My mother. Sunshine wanted me to introduce her to my mother, or send my mother some of her songs. I blanked out, the noise of the restaurant turned up to maximum in my brain, muting Sunshine. Nigel brought us our food and berated me for having my cell phone out on the table. I apologized and stuck it in my pocket, feeling annoyed at myself, because I should have known better. I grabbed my crispy bacon and munched away while Sunshine talked about her sound. Even then, I had a pretty good feeling whatever music Sunshine had made, it was going to be good. And since that day we met at The Whistle for brunch, I've heard pretty much everything she's recorded and it's all good. She's unique and sweet, a bit music-nerdy, not unlike that girl from Karmin, who does the rap covers. Seated at the little table across from her, my minded started to clear up from the previous night's fun. How had Sunshine gotten my phone number? I'd called both her brother and her ex-boyfriend the night before, according to my phone records. She must have gotten my number from one of them, so who was it? And what had he said? I still had no recollection of my topic of conversation, thanks to Haylee and her endless string of vodka-related dares. An image came back to me as Nigel appeared at our table and refilled my cup of coffee: me, lying on my back and

pouring vodka into my belly button, then daring Haylee to drink it, which she did, lapping it like a cat. If that was the level of depravity we'd achieved, I could only imagine what I'd said on the phone. Sunshine asked me a question, which I had to ask her to repeat. “What made you decide to get your eyebrow piercing?” She pointed to her own eyebrow, which had a fancier piece of jewelry than mine. Hers had what appeared to be diamonds on the ends. She had a few stray eyebrow hairs growing in over the delicate tattoo, but it was still the most adorable body art I'd ever seen. “Spite,” I said. “My best friend Courtney, well, my former best friend, has this new girlfriend, Britain, who wanted an eyebrow piercing, and she chickened out.” Sunshine's top lip curled up in disgust. “Britain's a real piece of work. She went to my school.” “No kidding. So you know her.” “Unfortunately. I stuck pretty close to Marc at the art show so I wouldn't have to talk to her.” “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” I said. Sunshine ran her hand over her bleached, nearly-white hair and laughed. “I wouldn't say Britain's my enemy. I feel sorry for her, with the whole eating disorder thing.” Sunshine then told me all about Britain's reputation in high school, from her giving hand jobs to any guy who asked, to her disappearing for months at a time to go to various treatment centers for her anorexia and bulimia. My scrambled eggs had lost their appeal, so I put down my utensils and pushed my plate to the side. “Great, now I have

to feel sorry for Britain,” I said. “You've humanized her. How can I hate her?” “You can feel how you want,” Sunshine said. “I thought I was a bad person for disliking her, but the truth is, even if someone has a mental illness, they can still be a massive douche on top of it. I practice compassion, but I'm not a doormat. My advice is to avoid her, but for you, that's not easy, since Courtney's your friend.” I put my face in my hands. “Nothing's easy.” “Nothing worth doing,” she said. “And other meaningless platitudes.” She raised her coffee cup, nodding for me to do the same. “To meaningless platitudes,” she repeated, clinking my cup. Nigel cleared away the plates and brought us the bill, which Sunshine insisted on paying for. “Sunshine, how did you get my phone number?” Her eyes twinkled with mischief and secrets. “You don't remember, do you?” Nigel walked past us with an omelet that smelled like hot garbage—the feta cheese and olive special. I confessed it all, saying, “It's probably no secret I like your brother, but I like Marc too.” “They're both great guys,” she said. I winced. “You're not mad? I mean, are you and Marc still a thing?” “We're done. I'm seeing my songwriting partner now, and we have a real connection, on so many levels. He's amazing. You'd love him.”

In a deadpan voice, I rolled my eyes and said, “I probably would.” Then I waved my hand and said, “Kidding, kidding! I don't even look at guys who already have girlfriends. It's just … well, this is a bit awkward. You know, me and you.” “Life is awkward,” she said. “Beats boring.” “I love your eyebrow tattoo.” She got a big, goofy grin, and I saw the family resemblance between her and her easygoing brother. “Thanks. That's really sweet.” She picked up her wallet and keys from the table, which caused some subtle excitement in the people standing in line by the door waiting for a table. “No rush, just let me know what you decide,” she said. Surprised she was being so cavalier about my decision to date either her brother or her ex-boyfriend, I stammered for a moment. She clarified with, “About getting my songs to your mother. I don't mind if you say no.” I stood and pulled the layers of crinoline away from the backs of my sweaty legs, feeling ridiculous in my semi-punk outfit. Sunshine waved her hand up and down, pointing at my clothing. “I love this, by the way.” Flattered, I thanked her. “You're an original,” she said. ~ On my walk home after eating at The Whistle with Sunshine, I wondered how many of her compliments she'd truly meant and how much of her niceness was an act to

butter me up about sending her songs to my mother, the amazing rock star who everyone thinks is so awesome, despite her tendency to ditch her family for months at a time. Back home, I changed my clothes, drank some of the pink stuff Andrew had left behind for me, and crawled into bed. I didn't wake up until my room was dark. My clock read 8:15, but in my confused state, I didn't know if it was still night, or if I'd slept through to the morning. I went downstairs and found my father at his computer. “Where's Garnet?” I asked. “The house is freakishly quiet without him here.” “I dropped him off at your Uncle Jeff's in New West, since Uncle Jeff has had his license suspended and can't drive.” “Poor Garnet. How long is his punishment, uh, intervention?” “He can come home tomorrow, Sunday night, if he says the magic words.” “Are those words Uncle Jeff is trying to convert me to Scientology?” “The words are I'll never touch drugs again, Dad, I'm so sorry.” Being a little hungover had lowered my self-restraint and dialed up my guilt. “Dad, I took one of your ADD pills once.” He turned off his computer monitor and turned his office chair slowly to face me. “I know.” “You knew?” I leaned back on his filing cabinet, my legs shaking. “The pharmacy is really tight with the controls, and they

suggested I keep track of them by counting, because I have teenagers in the house. It was just the one, so I let it go as normal curiosity.” “Did you know you're the best dad in the universe?” “Yes, because I have the mug.” I jumped up on the filing cabinet and watched him for a few minutes as he turned his monitor on again and pulled up his email program. The last three emails from my mother were in bold, showing they hadn't been opened. “You didn't read Mom's emails,” I said. He minimized the window and frowned at his desktop photo, which was of the four of us in sunny Mexico. “Dad, you kind of ignore problems, hoping they'll go away, don't you?” He snapped back, “I dealt with your brother, didn't I?” I did not point out that the punishment had been my idea and he'd sorta left dealing with it to Uncle Jeff. I said, “The thing with your missing pill. Did you really think what I did was okay, or did you just not want to deal with it? Did you ignore the problem, hoping it would go away?” Tersely, he said, “I'm not having this conversation with you.” “Haylee and I were drinking in my room last night.” “Wonderful,” he said. “If you want Mom to come home, you have to talk to her.” He got up from his chair and walked into the kitchen, pacing back and forth, but not doing or getting anything.

Seeing him that upset made me upset. I followed him into the kitchen and put on the kettle for tea, because my mother makes him tea when he's upset. “The next month will go by even faster,” I said. “That's the problem,” he said, pulling out the little sugar dish and the carton of milk from the fridge. He disappeared into his office and returned with his Best Dad in the Universe mug, which he cleaned with the scrub brush. I was still mulling over what he'd said when he explained, “I don't miss your mother. I don't miss her bad moods. I think I'm better off without her. Maybe we all are.” My stomach turned into a bowling ball, and at the same time, my consciousness felt like it lifted up, out of my body, and jumped out the open kitchen window. I stood still, my fingers wrapped around the handle of the kettle. It reached boiling point and whistled before clicking off automatically. “Is this how it happens?” I asked my father, meaning divorce, but not saying the awful word. “I don't know,” he said. I thought of the previous day, when Marc had said I don't know to my question of him liking me or not. People not knowing how they felt was quickly becoming my top pet peeve. “Did you take your pills today?” I asked. He snapped back. “Why? Are you going to take them?” “I'll take that to mean you didn't. Listen, you're the adult, and I'm the kid, so do I really need to tell you to take your brain

pills?” He fidgeted with the dishes out on the counter, rearranging them into a grid, the way he plays with his food. “Are you going to pour that water or are we waiting for it to cool to room temperature?” “Real mature, Dad.” We stared at each other for several seconds before he broke into a slight smile. “I should pierce my eyebrow,” he said. “Then your mother will learn she can't leave the three of us alone.” “You still love her.” “Of course I do.” He rubbed his stomach. “I didn't have any lunch. You know I get bleak when I haven't eaten.” “No kidding.” I quickly pulled a container of leftover soup from the fridge and dumped it into a bowl. I set the microwave for two minutes, pushed the button, and we both dashed out of the kitchen. We waited on the other side of the wall for the microwave to beep. My father has an irrational fear of the radiation from the microwave, and refuses to be in the same room when it's running. He knows it's a silly thing to be scared of, but once a fear takes hold in your brain, it's hard to get rid of. He has passed that fear on to both of his kids, because neither of us will stay in the kitchen during microwaving. “We're a strange bunch,” he said to me. I wondered how Garnet was enjoying his scared-straight intervention with Uncle Jeff. “It's St. Patrick's Day,” I said.

“Woo hoo,” he said sarcastically. “You're not meeting your friends? Aren't some of them Irish? Isn't it required by law that you go out and drink green beer?” He shifted uneasily. “I'm getting too old for that shit.” I'd never noticed before, but some of his hair, what he had left, was turning gray near his temples. “Maybe next year,” I said. When it was safe, after the microwave dinged, we returned to the kitchen and he hungrily slurped up his soup. I set his mug of tea by him and he thanked me. Taking care of him had made me feel better. That's my role in life. I bring people food, and they go from whatever state they're in to being more pleasant. If everybody brought each other plates or bowls of food, what a happy place the world would be. ~ On Sunday morning, I brought a gift for Courtney in to work. It was her favorite study-session snack food, Pocky, a Japanese snack similar to a skinny cookie, or a stick pretzel, half-dipped in chocolate. Instead of Courtney, however, I found a slender redhead in the dining room. “Hey, Perry,” Ginger said. “Your friend Courtney traded the rest of her shifts with me, which is fine because I like working mornings, but … are you two fighting?” “Apparently.”

Ginger, who is older than me by a good dozen years, said, “Haters gonna hate.” “You really have a way with words,” I said, smirking. “That's why I get to work at The Whistle,” she said, flipping the Sorry We're Closed sign over to Sorry We're Open. Studying the sign, I said, “This restaurant does everything wrong.” “You're just figuring that out now?” I grabbed some Windex and cleaned off the kids' hand prints I'd noticed on the windows the day before. A restaurant that did everything wrong was a lot like me, really. “Ginger, did you ever like two guys at once?” “I tried to, but they thought it would be gay if their balls touched.” She made a shocked face to show she was joking, then said, “Actually, when I met my husband, I was dating his friend. So, yes.” I gasped in mock horror. “Did your husband steal you away from his friend?” Ginger turned her back to me and cleaned off the chalkboard, the white bar cloth turning gray. “All's fair in love and war.” “Cliches and platitudes are not really helping me.” She turned around. “Are these two guys both chasing after you?” “More like running away from me. But not trying very hard to get away. They're like ...” I pulled out a chair and pretended to trip over it. “Oh no, I'm trying to get away from the demon

woman but I fell down! Stop touching me! Wait, come back and kiss me! Look, I'm naked!” Ginger seemed to be as confused as I was. “I'm not explaining this well,” I said. “I've kissed both of them, and been on what people would call dates, but I don't know where I stand.” “I don't think I have the experience to help with your particular level of problems,” Ginger said with mock seriousness, hands on her hips. “The one guy is all, oh, I'm so tortured, I'm an intellectual, but I don't know how I feel,” I said, rubbing my chin and acting pensive. She nodded. “I know the type.” “Then the other guy is smart and kinda philosophical, but he's also … ooh, touch my manly, chiseled abs.” I perched on the edge of the chair like a pin-up boy, rubbing the sides of my own torso. “Keep going,” Ginger said, getting out her cell phone to take a few pictures. I acted out a few more of the scenes I'd had with them, including the drunken text messages from Marc and the under-table knee touching with Cooper. Things got a little silly, and I was posing with a lemon wedge between my teeth when the first customers came in. The woman with the Zooey Deschanel bangs and glasses turned to her fair-skinned boyfriend with the floppy hair and said, “You're right, we should have gone to The Wallflower.” “So hungry,” he whimpered. She wiggled her Starbucks coffee at me as I took them to

their table. “I know about the extra charge, it's okay.” “Fine, but no mayonnaise on your fries,” I said. The two of them laughed at each other. That was when I realized The Whistle did everything wrong, everything you shouldn't do in a restaurant, and yet, people loved it not just despite its flaws, but because of them. Another group of people rushed in the door, and from that point on, the place was busy right until the end of my shift, with the kitchen whistle blowing non-stop. When the other waitresses arrived for the evening shift, one of them being Courtney, I barely said hello to her. I sat at the back of the kitchen with Ginger and we shared the Pocky treats I'd brought for Courtney. Ginger and I pooled our tips and split them, which made me happy. Donny made us some french toast with Nutella and fresh bananas, which also contributed to my happiness. Never underestimate the power of a few well-timed carbohydrates. I asked Ginger how she'd met her husband, and about how he'd stolen her away for himself. She got herself a big cup of tea with two bags of the “sickly fruits” flavor, as we called it, and recounted the entire story while sipping the fuchsia beverage. Ginger had been dating her high school boyfriend for about five years, and everyone, including her, assumed they'd eventually get married. The only problem was, every time they had sex, afterward, she would get this terrible anxiety that everything in her life was wrong. She was too embarrassed to talk to a doctor about it, but she did some reading on the internet and decided she had POIS, or postorgasmic illness syndrome. She wondered if she was allergic to his semen, so they used condoms, but the

anxiety persisted. Despite all of this, her boyfriend proposed marriage to her, and she accepted, on one condition. She wanted to have sex with at least one other guy, so she wouldn't always wonder what it was like to be with someone else, and if the post-sex anxiety wouldn't happen. She and her boyfriend had been each other's firsts, so she suggested he sleep with another woman as well, just to be fair, and so neither of them would wonder. He agreed to it, and said he would pay for an escort for himself, so he would know he'd gotten the best treatment, so to speak. Ginger's dilemma of who to sleep with for her one-night stand was not as easily solved, until one night she met a friend of her fiance's. He didn't live in Vancouver, but was visiting some family for about a week. They had chemistry together, and when she mentioned the idea to her fiance, he thought it was a good one. The truth is, he had gotten rather excited about being with an escort. The friend was not so easy to convince, and insisted on being taken out for a proper date, with wine and a fancy dinner—just the two of them. Ginger agreed, and they had a wonderful dinner. Later, when they got to their hotel room for the pre-negotiated evening of sex, he lit some candles. Then he slowly undressed her and … At this point in telling the story, Ginger's eyes rolled up and she wrapped her arms around herself giddily. “He rocked your world,” I said. Donny and Toph, who had been relieved by the next kitchen shift, sat on pickle buckets near us with their mouths dropped open. Ginger wiggled her torso and stamped her feet while squealing.

Toph said, “I am so turned on right now.” Donny said, “I'm going home to make sweet love to my wife.” I waved my hand at my face to cool my own cheeks. “Holy cow. That is one dirty story.” Ginger said, “No it isn't. I didn't say one dirty word, and there was no nudity. It was all implied.” I said, “But there were hookers, and that weird orgasm illness. So, do you actually have that POIS thing?” She waved her hand. “Gosh, no. Just with my ex. I think my heart was trying to tell me he was not the one. The body knows.” Donny and Toph both grabbed their jackets and made a bee-line for the door, leaving us some privacy. I picked at my fingernails. “I don't want that sad feeling to happen when I have sex for the first time.” “Then pick the right guy,” she said. I stared up at the water stains on the ceiling. She clapped her hands in front of my face. “Quick, which one! Pick!” “Ginger! I think I just peed a little.” “Didn't work, huh?” “No, but thanks for helping me check the absorbency level of my pantyliner.” I stood and checked myself, relieved the moisture was just sweat. “See you tomorrow,” Ginger said, grabbing her purse and heading home to make love to her sexy husband.

Oh, I'd seen Ginger's husband around The Whistle: handsome face and a cute bum. You better believe I was imagining the guy making love to … well, it doesn't matter to whom. On the walk home, I imagined flying somewhere exotic, like London, and meeting all the boys from One Direction, then starring in one of their super cute music videos, and getting their cute little British-Irish boy band bodies all over me. When I got to the house, nobody was there, so I locked my bedroom door and had some private time. I know masturbation's not for everyone, but when you're so good at something, why deny yourself?

Chapter 22 After a little nap, I put a chicken in the oven, expecting my father and Garnet home for Sunday dinner by six. They didn't show. I figured my father was delayed picking my brother up from my uncle's place in New Westminster, so I portioned everything into sealed containers and stacked them in the fridge. I'd tried making risotto for the first time, and it turned out tasty enough, though I was curious what it might taste like with actual wine in it instead of extra chicken stock and apple juice. After I got the kitchen business put away, I went to my room and did a video chat with Haylee while we over-analyzed and over-thought every piece of communication or gesture I'd shared with Marc and Cooper. I told her about my lunch with Sunshine the day before, and we checked out her YouTube channel, playing all her cover songs and discussing how well she'd do as a musician. Haylee thought Sunshine's eyebrow tattoo was a rip-off of Amanda Palmer, a musician I didn't know much about at the time. I looked her up and found out Amanda draws in both of her eyebrows with makeup, which is different from

Sunshine's look. “It's hard to be original,” I said to the image of Haylee on my laptop screen. “My mother got in at a good time, when female singers weren't all about how much they wanted sex. In the 90s, people were actually upset about stuff Madonna did on stage—stuff that's totally normal now.” Haylee put her chin on her hands and leaned in to her web cam, making a dreamy face. “Your mom is so crazy good, and she's working on an actual album. My mom spends all day pinning pictures on Pinterest. Pictures of fudge and flower arrangements. That site is like mind control.” “My dad plays that same game my brother does. Skyrim. Plus he's all over this Star Wars one. He's such a geek.” I turned my head to listen and make sure no one else was in the house. “I think he and my mom might get separated. Don't tell anyone, okay?” Haylee scratched her head and didn't say anything. “What's up? Is Andrew doing something funny? Do you need to go?” I asked. “I know you don't like hearing about the gossip blogs,” she said. My skin prickled all over. “Just tell me,” I said. “Your mom's always getting photographed with guys. But there are these new ones.” A horrible feeling washed over and into me, like my digestive system was full of ice cubes. “Show me,” I said. “It might not even be her,” Haylee said.

“Send me the link or I'll google it. Come on, let's get this over with.” Seconds later, it was all over my screen. The prickling on my skin turned to sweat. When you're a regular, non-famous person, you look at TMZ or whatever when you're bored and your friends aren't doing anything interesting on Facebook. You make fun of Lana Del Ray, or read the articles about Demi Moore checking into rehab, or whatever Courtney Love is tweeting about, but those people are about as real to you as brands of toothpaste. Yes, brands. You don't think of them wrapping Christmas presents for their kids, and you don't think about how those kids feel seeing their parents' faces all over the internet. When everyone was tweeting about Whitney Houston's death in February, and speculating about whether or not it had been an overdose, Bobbi Kristina Brown was mourning the loss of her mother. I consider myself lucky, because my mom's fame peaked when I was a baby, too young to know what was happening. I was probably eight years old by the time I figured out other people didn't have Alanis Morrisette come for dinner with her then-boyfriend Ryan Reynolds. But … enough name-dropping, and back to my gutwrenching, heart-breaking discovery of what exactly my mother was up to in LA. First of all, she'd gotten rid of the dreadlocks, and not by combing them out, like I had. Her hair was on the short side, and messy, like she'd hacked them out with whatever sharp thing was handy. She was with another guy, some non-famous musician you

haven't heard of, with tattoos all over his skinny arms. He was like the knock-off, no-name brand of Adam Levine. They were having dinner together in some of the photos, which could be explained away easily enough, but there were blurry shots, taken with a telephoto lens, of them kissing while walking on the sidewalk, right out in public, where anyone could see them. The worst part was how she looked in all the pictures. Not her face, but her body language. Her body screamed that she was happy. ~ Someone asked me if I was still breathing, and if I needed her to come over. I'd forgotten Haylee was still there, on the other side of the web cam. I tilted the lid of my laptop so my side's image was just the top of my forehead, not showing my face. “Color me the last to know,” I said. “Why don't you come over and hang out with me and Andrew tonight?” My hands and legs were shaking. “I don't think I can drive.” “We'll come get you,” she said. “Okay, I'll pack an overnight bag.” Fifteen minutes later, they were parked out front, texting me. I left a neutral-sounding note on the kitchen table for my father, telling him about the chicken in the fridge as well as that I'd be at Haylee's. I couldn't locate my cell phone, so I left home without it. With my bag on my shoulder, I walked to the front door, past our hallway full of framed family photographs. As I glanced across the row of professionally-shot pictures documenting

the four of us every year, each picture took on a new, second meaning. The image of my mother and father holding hands in front of the fig tree in the back yard became a portrait of unhappiness, two people putting on a good image for the business of raising children. The Christmas photo of us—from the year I'd had terrible acne and cried all morning before the shoot—was no longer part of a series of holidays counting up, but holidays counting down. It was our third-to-last Christmas together. And last December's photo, which had only been hung on the hallway wall a month earlier, was our final one, our final Christmas. No more family. I stepped out, locked the front door and walked to the waiting car, Andrew's beat-up Honda Civic. Haylee climbed into the back and insisted I take the front. I'd never been so happy to see Andrew, whose presence was comforting. “Let's go watch the sun set,” he said. ~ Andrew drove us west, to Kits beach. The spring weather was holding, though the air had a chill there, near the ocean. The sun hung heavy in the sky, as cold as the moon. The three of us sat on a log with Haylee in the middle. In a few months, the beach would be busy, full of people sunbathing and socializing, but that night it was mostly locals, walking their strollers and dogs.

Haylee put her arm around me, and Andrew gave me his jacket when they noticed I was shivering. “I'm not cold,” I insisted, but I was, and I didn't know if I'd ever be warm again. Andrew said, “No matter what, your parents still love you.” “I know. They just don't love each other.” “My parents split up when I was fifteen,” he said. “Things will get normal again. Not like how they were before, but a new normal.” I fidgeted with my eyebrow piercing. After seeing the photos of my mother and her new boyfriend online, the piercing, and painting my room blue-green and Garnet's room black didn't seem so dramatic. It was just paint, in a house. The house. Who was going to live in the house? My brother and I would stay there, of course, but which parent would remain? If Dad stayed, I'd be stuck cooking dinners every day until … forever. If Mom stayed, she'd look after us, but would she move her new boyfriend in? As the sun washed down into the sea, I put my head between my knees and threw up in the sand. My chicken and risotto dinner had moved beyond my stomach, so it was just bile and spit, though it tasted of chicken. Haylee rubbed my back as I dry-heaved. After a few minutes of silence, I said, “Why'd they even get married? Anyone can see they're not a good match.” “They seemed happy to me,” Haylee said. “My father puts up with way too much shit,” I said angrily.

“He needs to grow a spine. Oh, man. You guys, I just imagined him trying to date. It's so pathetic.” “I'm not gonna lie,” Andrew said. “Seeing your father go out on a date is pretty traumatic. Mine gave me a high five the first time he got laid.” Haylee said, “I didn't know that.” Andrew pretended to sniff and said, jokingly, “What happens in therapy stays in therapy.” “You saw a therapist?” I asked. Andrew confirmed that he had seen someone for nearly two years, once a week. I covered the spit-up between my feet with some loose sand and we moved to the next log over while he told us about his therapist. She had an office that looked like the exact opposite of what you see in movies or on television, and during the sessions, he'd sat on a La-Z-Boy knock-off chair with wood over the armrests—the type of hand-me-down furniture people leave in alleys. At his first visit, he'd expected she would declare him totally healthy and not in need of treatment, but he'd broken down and cried for the first time since he was a little boy, and they both agreed he could probably use “a couple of sessions.” She was always trying to get him to put names on his emotions. She'd ask how he felt about something his mother or father was doing, and he'd simply say “bad.” One day, he finally lucked into the correct word and admitted he'd been scared, and the therapist had been unable to hide her delight at his progress. From there, they talked about fear, anger, jealousy, anxiety, sadness, and also joy. At their final session together, after he was doing much better at school and sleeping through

the night without bad dreams, they'd said goodbye and he'd hugged her. Every session, he'd wanted her to hug him, and when it finally happened, he felt so good, and he knew he would carry that feeling of absolute love and acceptance with him for the rest of his life. There was a goodness in other people, and he'd never understood it until that therapist had showed him compassion. Yes, she got paid to do her job, but he knew it had meant something to her, and that he was worth saving. When Andrew finished talking, the sun had gone down and the sky was cold and blue. Tears were trailing down my cheeks. Haylee asked me, “How are you feeling?” “I don't know,” I said. They helped me stand and we went back to the car. ~ When we got to Haylee and Andrew's apartment, they both apologized for the mess. “We're going to do a big cleaning soon, but as you'll notice by the lack of housewarming invitation, we've kinda put that party on hold. We may wait until we're somewhere better, our next move,” Haylee said. “This isn't bad,” I lied, moving some food-encrusted plates off their cream-colored sofa, which was looking a little grimy around the two indentations where they sat to watch television, play video games, and—apparently—eat dinner. Haylee sat next to me while Andrew scurried around, tidying up.

“If you guys ever have kids, you'll make good parents,” I said. Andrew said, “Ew, babies. They pee and poo on everything.” Haylee explained, “My sister is potty training her little one, and they're making him aware of his bodily functions by keeping him out of a diaper. Or pants. Or anything.” I hugged my arms around myself. “Does he come over here like that?” Andrew said, “Hah!” “Just once,” Haylee said. “But don't worry, we threw out that pillow.” I did a disgusted shiver from head to toe. It felt good, so I did it again, until I got a laugh from Andrew. Haylee grabbed the remote control. “How do you feel about gore today? Are you caught up on all the episodes of The Walking Dead? It's getting so good right now. Or, if you aren't into zombies, and frankly, some people just aren't, are you down with torture?” I grabbed a couch pillow and hugged it to myself. “Let's see what you've got,” I said, and I actually was excited. For the first time in my life, I was stoked about watching some guts spill out and heads get chopped off. Anything to take my mind off my problems seemed like a great idea. ~ In the morning, Andrew and Haylee were still sleeping when I crept out the front door to go to work. The night before, Andrew had offered to drive me, but their apartment was near Main Street, so it was easy enough for me to catch the

Number Three bus to work. I was in such a daze, I didn't realize it was Monday until Marc walked in the door, newspaper in hand, open to the crossword puzzle. “Hey,” he said as I stared at him. “I can go up the street if you're angry with me.” “As long as you keep your hands off my mother, we're good,” I said, showing him to his regular table. “Is that a joke? I don't get it.” His cute glasses were filthy, covered in specks of grime, so I took them off his face. “I'm washing these for you.” At the sink behind the bar counter, I cleaned the glasses with soap and hot water, then wiped them off with a fresh bar cloth. Back at Marc's table, I gave the glasses back and he thanked me. “I was blind, but now I see,” he said. The restaurant wasn't very busy, with only three tables in my section, including Marc, and the other two were under control, so I broke one of the major waitress rules. I ran back to the coffee machine, grabbed two mugs of coffee, then returned to his table and sat in the chair across from Marc. I said, “Pretend everything's normal.” “You seem sad,” he said. “Listen, Perry, I think you're really cute ...” “Have you seen the pictures and stories about my mother getting it on with some douche in LA?” He did a double-take and cupped one hand around his ear. “No, why would I? Oh … I remember now, she's that

musician. She's Jade. You look a bit like her.” One of my tables whistled for service. After I gave my coworker Ginger a feeble look, she took over for me, bringing them water and whatever else they needed. I didn't care. I wanted to go home, but also not go home, since I didn't have a home, in the sense of a loving set of parents. I explained what had happened—what little of it I knew at the time, considering I'd left my cell phone at home—and Marc listened, fidgeting with the utensils in front of him. When I was done, he said, “If they aren't happy, splitting is for the best.” “Everybody says that, but is it really true?” He frowned at his coffee mug like it held a thousand secrets. “Take it from someone whose parents hate each other, but are still stubbornly married.” “That's horrible.” “My grandparents hate each other too, at least the ones who are still around. I come from a long line of unhappy marriages.” “You'd better not get married,” I said. He squinted at the window as a tall dude with a black mohawk walked by. “I'd like to think we make our own destinies, but Cooper's always talking about that evolutionary psychology stuff. We may be completely helpless, prisoners of our biology.” I smiled, remembering the conversation with Cooper, with him pointing out my pleasing hip-to-waist ratio. “Today's a new day,” I said, feeling a little sunnier. The music on the stereo stopped, between songs, and I

heard a grumbling noise—Marc's stomach. “Should we order?” he asked. “Whatever they're cooking on the grill smells great.” And then, it happened. He made a very small gesture that was almost lost on me at the moment, but that I think about almost every day now, whenever I see a newspaper. He glanced over at his crossword puzzle, sitting on the table to his right. He hadn't come by to see me at all. It was Monday, and he'd come in to have his same old breakfast—brown toast, crispy bacon, and poached eggs—and he wanted to quietly work on his crossword puzzle. He didn't want me any more than my mother wanted her family. I stood, pulled the notepad out of my mini-apron, and wrote the following:

MARC IS A TOTAL DICK! I smiled sweetly. “Shall I put in your regular with the kitchen, or do you want to hear the daily special?” “I'm not really a daily special kinda guy,” he said. “No, you sure aren't.” As I walked away, he was already pondering his crossword puzzle. ~ Somehow, I got through the first half of my shift. When I took a meal break, sitting at the back window to eat my bagel and scrambled eggs, Toph started talking to Donny about some girl he'd met at a concert. “She was so fake,” Toph said. “She must have used spray

tan. There's no way you'd get that tanned in Colorado.” “You have to watch out,” Donny said as he adjusted the sweatband he'd worn that day. Summer was coming and the kitchen had been getting hot, even on drizzly-weather days. Donny waved his spatula and said, “You have to get a good look at them under the bright light.” “What do you mean them?” I demanded from my seat on the bench. “Women are not some enemy camp, trying to trick you with our womanly wiles. We're people. We have feelings.” “Too many feelings,” Toph said. Donny, who was not quite old enough to be Toph's parent, patted him on the shoulder in a fatherly way. “Easy now. Just because you only have two prevailing emotions doesn't mean other humans aren't more complex.” Toph, apparently missing the insult, laughed at Donny's comment. “Perry, what do you think?” Donny asked. “Do you have any girlfriends who might take our friend's virginity for him? You know, teach him the ways of the mysterious female.” “You guys. I can't even lose my virginity.” Donny clapped his hands together with glee. “Problem solved! Two birds, one stone. Uh, two eggs, over easy. Two sausages, ready to serve. Or, one sausage and one … taco?” I put down the second half of my bagel, my appetite gone. “Enough, Donny. I'm picking up on what you're throwing down. No more metaphors.” Toph, looking as hopeful as a little boy who's just seen the giant teddy bears at a carnival, grinned at me.

“Not gonna happen,” I said. When Toph caved in on himself with disappointment, I added, “Only because it would be weird with us working together. You know. I've seen you work with your hands and I'm sure you'll be a very skilled lover for someone … some day.” I scraped off my plate and put my dishes on the dishwasher rack, feeling Toph's undressing gaze on me. I stuck out my chest, enjoying the sensation of being wanted, even if it was just Toph. When I got back out front to relieve Ginger for her break, I was still thinking about Donny's suggestion. You might even say I was considering it. Toph always smelled clean, like soap, and since he'd shaved off that scraggly goatee, he wasn't so bad to look at. Thinking about bedding my co-worker certainly took my mind off my family problems. He wanted to have the experience as much as I did, so it would solve two problems at once. One thing held me back from saying anything to Toph, though. Well, two, if you include his ridiculous name. I couldn't shake the mental image of my other co-worker, Ginger, having one night in a hotel room with another guy, just to see what it was like, and then falling in love with him. I'd heard of girls getting attached to guys because of all the different hormones that fluctuate after intimacy, and I didn't want to accidentally fall in love with Toph. ~ When I got home from my shift, the house felt ancient and lifeless. Everything was exactly where I'd left it, including my note on the table. On the way home, I'd stopped to pick up a few

items I'd forgotten to buy on Friday, and it was already halfpast four. My brother should have been home from school and my father from work. Instead, I had a feeling they hadn't even been home the night before. The kitchen was perfectly clean, as I'd left it, with no cereal bowls anywhere, not even in the empty dishwasher. I ran around looking for my phone, to call them. I couldn't find it anywhere, and worse, couldn't remember where I'd used it last. I picked up the land line and dialed my number, listening for a ring—I'd set it up so the land line always made a ringtone, extra-loud, specifically for these situations —but I heard nothing. The battery must have died. Next, I would have called my father's cell, but I couldn't remember the phone number. Nor could I remember my brother's. Or my mom's. Or the number of anyone who would be remotely useful. My mother had probably mentioned a hundred times that we needed to print out all the numbers and tape them up somewhere in case of emergency, but we'd never gotten around to it. With no numbers, no cell phone, and no sign of my family, I teetered on the brink of panic. And by teetered on the brink, I mean I sat on the floor and hugged my knees while talking to myself. If other people had been there, and we were in an old-timey movie, some dude would have had to slap me across the face to calm me down. With no one else to do it for me, I patted my hands on my cheeks until I felt better. This triggered a memory, of a beautiful Indian woman who'd done a workshop with me and Mom, for some wackadoodle self-help therapy. She'd given us some exercises, and they came back to me in pieces.

I began tapping my arm with one hand, lightly tapping from the wrist to the elbow and back down again. “This is my skin,” I said out loud. I moved on to the other arm, tapping up and down and repeating the mantra that I was in my skin, in my body. My mind calmed enough for me to remember the name of what I was doing: EFT, or Emotional Freedom Technique. My arms were feeling tender from all the smacking, and I had to stop doing the tapping so I could remember what I was all worked up about. My father and brother were missing. A friend. I needed a friend to help me figure out where my father and brother were. I grabbed my jacket from its hook by the doorway and pulled everything out of the pockets, looking for a phone number. I still had the business card Marc had given me before he came over for dinner. I also had a card Sunshine had given me, with her home phone number, which was also Cooper's number. Marc was smart, on his way to becoming an engineer. He would be able to think like my father, and thus help me find my father. I grabbed the cordless phone from the hallway and pressed the first few digits of his phone number. In my mind, I saw him glance at his crossword puzzle, uninterested in my problems. I canceled the call. I didn't need an engineer so much as I needed a friend. Haylee and Andrew would have been great, and while I didn't have their number, I could go to their apartment. There was another option, though.

Holding the second business card in one damp hand, I phoned the Cooper residence. Sunshine answered. My mind cut to black and I couldn't remember Cooper's first name for a few seconds, so I asked if her brother was there. She said, “Perry?” “Hey Sunshine,” I said. “My little brother's missing and I need some help.” I started to say something else, about my Uncle Jeff's instability and everything being my fault, but it came out as blubbering. “Hang on,” she said. I held the phone to my ear with my shoulder and tapped my fingers on my arm until she came back on the line, saying she and her brother were both going to come over and help.

Chapter 23 While I waited for Sunshine and Cooper to show up, I checked my dad's and my brother's computers, but found no hints about where they might be. I grabbed my laptop and posted emergency messages on my Facebook wall and my brother's, asking if friends had seen either my dad or my brother, to call the home phone number. We never gave our number out, because of my mother, but I posted the phone number, along with a note that I didn't have my cell phone on me.

You're being silly, I told myself. They're just at Uncle Jeff's. Uncle Jeff's seemed like a logical place to look. But first, I needed to call Mom and let her know. I opened the emails from my mother and found a dozen different phone numbers for various hotels and studios she would be at some days, some times. I couldn't figure out which place she'd be at on that particular day, but did it matter? She was in LA, what was she going to do from there? I sent her an email that would get her attention.

Subject: Emergency, 911, I can't find Dad or Garnet Email: Mom, I've lost my phone and Dad and Garnet

didn't come home last night. I don't know where they are and I'm worried sick and have no phone numbers. You were right about printing out a phone list for emergencies. I'm sorry I didn't do that. I'm sorry about everything. Can you try phoning them and tell them to call the house ASAP? I then typed something snarky about her finding time in her busy schedule between making out with random dudes, but I deleted that part and sent the email without the hate. The doorbell rang, and I raced down the stairs. When I opened the door and saw Sunshine and Cooper standing there, it felt almost as good as if it had been my dad and brother. I threw myself into Cooper's arms. He rubbed my back and told me everything was going to be okay. Sunshine had a notepad and pen in one hand, and an iPad in the other. She flashed me a web page that looked like an official government site. “We're supposed to call the police immediately if the missing person is a child, or if they're suicidal.” “I don't think they're either,” I said. “Garnet's fifteen, so, I don't know.” Softly, Cooper said, “What about your dad? He saw those photos of your mom, right? Marc told me about that.” “My dad's weird, but he's not suicidal. He takes pills for anxiety, but not depression. I think.” Cooper and Sunshine exchanged a worried look. “Can we just drive to my uncle's place?” I asked. “If they're not there, we'll call the police.”

We walked over to Cooper's car, where Sunshine squeezed into the back seat and let me take the front. I didn't know my uncle's exact address, but I named the cross streets, in New Westminster, which was east of Vancouver. Cooper did a low whistle. “It's rush hour, that's going to be at least an hour.” “It'll be fine,” Sunshine said. She rubbed me on the shoulder. “We'll be fine. Just an hour. Don't worry, we'll find them.” Sunshine read more from the website, out loud. Much of it was rather obvious instructions, but in light of how panicked I'd been, I could understand why the RCMP had a bulletpoint list telling people to first try calling the missing person on their cell phone, and to contact their friends.

The school. I should have called the school to see if Garnet had been there that day. I told Sunshine and she looked up the phone number for the school. I called with Cooper's phone, but the school's office was closed for the day. I left them both the home number and Cooper's cell phone number. When we were half-way to New Westminster, I swore so loud it startled Cooper. “My phone,” I said. “You remembered where you left it?” Cooper asked. “No, it's probably stuffed between couch cushions, or at The Whistle. It didn't grow legs and walk off. If the three of us had stayed there and searched the house, we would have found it by now and plugged it into the charger.” I rubbed my forehead on my hand, ashamed of myself for being so stupid.

“We'll do that yet,” Cooper said, reaching over to grab my hand. We were stopped at a red light, so he turned to look me in the eyes, which made me feel so much better. ~ My uncle's house is what a real estate advertisement would describe as a handyman's special. As in, bring your decorating ideas! Plenty of opportunities to add value! The porch is loosely held up by a network of blackberry brambles, and the roof looks like one of those envirofriendly green ones you see in architecture magazines, except the moss and weeds that originate in the gutters are not there on purpose. Even though I was in a panic over my missing family, I did feel a little shame on behalf of Uncle Jeff's house, and apologized to Cooper and Sunshine. “It's cute, like a cottage,” Sunshine said as she wiggled out of the back seat of the car. Cooper looked up at the house, then stood on the mound in the front yard and surveyed the area. “Great location,” he said, waving a hand across the view, overlooking the Fraser River. “I would paint this.” I approached the house, which had an aura of not just neglect, but emptiness. I banged on the door, but nobody answered, so I grabbed the spare key from on top of the door frame and unlocked the door. At least if Uncle Jeff was out, he could have been with my father and brother. Echoing my thoughts, Cooper said, “At least the three of them are all somewhere together.” I agreed that I was relieved to not find my uncle home, though it certainly hadn't gotten us any closer to figuring out where anyone actually was. It was a Monday, but Uncle Jeff

had been on disability for years, so he couldn't have been at a job, since he didn't have one. Cooper and Sunshine stood silently, waiting for me to decide what to do next. “Sorry in advance for the mess,” I said, opening the door to the house. They followed me in and were polite enough to neither stare at the fast food garbage and filth nor insult my intelligence by denying the mess. “My uncle doesn't own a computer,” I said, talking it through. “So we can't check that, but maybe he's smarter than my family and has a list of phone numbers somewhere.” “We'll find it,” Cooper said, already opening cupboard doors and drawers. Sunshine said she would go check the rest of the house and use the washroom. “I wish I could check the phone messages at my house,” I said to Cooper. “But I don't know the password to get them from somewhere else, because we just dial star-nine-eight from the home phone.” Cooper's eyes widened and I gasped, then both of us reached for my uncle's phone. He beat me to it, and handed the cordless phone to me. I dialed the code, and sure enough, I accessed my uncle's phone messages. The first one was a saved message, and it was incomprehensible, just giggling and babbling. Probably one of his train-wreck girlfriends, I thought. The next one was from my father: “Jeff. It's your brother-in-law, Dale. Have you heard from Peridot? I can't seem to locate her and I'm worried she's done something strange. Call me immediately.” He didn't leave his phone number, and the next two messages were from the neighbor, asking Uncle Jeff not to

water their flower beds or lawn, whatever that meant. My uncle's phone didn't have call display, and when I dialed star-six-nine for the last number called, it was a pay phone. I hung up and turned to Cooper, who was clearing some empty beer cans into a shopping bag. “Making myself useful,” he said. “Any clues?” “Ironically, my father left a message, and he was worried about not being able to locate me.” I thought over the last day's events. “Maybe he was home last night after all.” I put my face in my hands. “I'm so sorry to put you two through all of this. I'm such an idiot.” Cooper pulled my hands down and held them. “There's nothing wrong with you caring about your family.” “I guess we go home and I find my cell phone before my father calls the cops.” I called the house, in case he was there waiting for me, but there was no answer. “Well, you have to eat.” He grinned. “I know a good place.” “Of course you do,” I said. I leaned back against the kitchen counter, feeling slightly more relaxed after hearing my father's voice. Cooper looked down at my legs. “You're wearing those crochet-looking leg things again, just like when we had dinner at the Greek place for our first date.” “Oh, are we dating?” “Some people think we are,” he said. Sunshine hadn't returned from the bathroom yet, and I was glad to have the time with Cooper. I reached up and touched his spiky blond hair.

He caught my hand and kissed me on the wrist, which was so hot and romantic at once that I nearly died on the spot. I was about to ask him why he'd been so cool to me after the night of the drawing class when our attention was drawn by the sound of gravel under tires in the front yard. Sunshine came out of the bathroom and the three of us ran to the front window in time to see a beat-up old truck park on the driveway, and then a slim fifteen-year-old boy step out from the driver's side. I ran out the front door and collided with my brother, hugging him while alternately kissing his cheek and berating him for giving me a scare on top of driving without a driver's license. My uncle staggered a couple of steps toward the house. “Burglars!” he yelled. “I'll shoot you!” He staggered a few more steps. Sunshine said, “Hey, you must be Uncle Jeff. We're here with Perry.” “You're not Perry!” he shouted. Sunshine pointed at me. “She's right there.” Uncle Jeff turned slowly and nearly fell over when he saw me with my brother. “Seein' things!” he yelled. Garnet said, “He's drunk.” “No kidding,” I said. My uncle muttered something about watering the neighbor's lawn and began taking a wee on the flowers next door. “I'm so sorry,” I said to Sunshine and Cooper, who were

struggling to keep their faces straight. Cooper, who had met my brother briefly at our house, shook Garnet's hand and introduced Sunshine. The sky glowed in red and gold over the Fraser River, and it was actually a nice little moment, until my uncle, still watering the neighbor's flowers, started farting, apologizing, and farting again. I turned to my brother and said, “Has he been drunk the whole time you've been here? You were supposed to come home Sunday night, why didn't you?” Garnet started to answer, but I cut him off with more questions, accusations, and general big-sister insanity. Done with his business, Uncle Jeff came over and tried to hug me, but I squirmed away. “Gross! Go wash your hands,” I yelled. This made Cooper laugh so hard he had to put his hands on his knees. I wasn't laughing, though. As much as I'd like you to think of me as some goodnatured, happy-go-lucky type, I was seriously ticked off. My brother wasn't even sixteen, let alone permitted to drive. He could have gotten in serious trouble for driving my uncle around. Garnet tried to calm me down, explaining that it was fine, because it was better than Uncle Jeff driving, since he'd been drunk for the last two days, plus his license had been revoked or suspended or something, he wasn't sure. With Sunshine's help, I explained to Garnet that laws didn't work that way, with “reasonable justifications,” or anyone would be able to drive, so long as they had an intoxicated person in the vehicle with them.

A flicker of understanding flashed across Garnet's eyes and then disappeared just as quickly. He tried, again, to convince me that any cop would understand what he'd done. Uncle Jeff invited us inside to have some refreshments— with his slurred speech, he pronounced them re-furbish-ishmints—but I declined on behalf of the group. I sent Garnet into the house to get his stuff. “Are you okay on your own?” I asked Uncle Jeff. “Wooh!” he yelled. “Good to know. Well, thanks for your help with Garnet. I'm sure he's learned a valuable lesson and seen many educational things.” “Wooh!” My brother came out with his backpack and we all got back in Cooper's car, me in the back seat this time, with my brother. “You stink,” I said to Garnet. He grinned. “Yeah, Uncle Jeff took me to some pretty crazy places.” Cooper waved out the window to my uncle, saying it had been nice to meet him, which was generous. As we drove away, my uncle was making grass angels on his front lawn. “He's usually a lot less drunk,” I explained to Cooper and Sunshine as we drove away. “Oh, who am I kidding. He's usually pretty much exactly like that.” Sunshine turned back and gave me a smile. “Every family has one or two,” she said.

I turned to Garnet and said, “So I suppose this little intervention has been a disaster. You're going to be drinking and doing drugs with a vengeance, and pretty soon you can move right in with Uncle Jeff.” Garnet crossed his arms. “Yeah, right.” “You looked like you were having the time of your life.” He looked right at me, his gaze unwavering. “I feel like one of those guys in a movie where he sees his future, and while it's super hilarious for everyone watching, it also makes you want to kill yourself.” “Did Uncle Jeff make you sad? He didn't hurt you, did he?” Garnet's lower lip started to tremble. “No, he didn't hurt me or anything, but why do people have to be messed up? Why can't the doctors fix whatever's wrong in their heads?” “Come here.” I reached for him, but he pushed my arms away. “Eww, gross, we're in public!” “We're not in public, these are my friends.” He stuck his hand on my face and pushed me away. We play-fought for a few minutes, exactly like we used to when we were younger and on long car rides with our parents. Our parents. As though he was reading my mind, Cooper turned his head back from the driver's seat and said to me, “We'll get back to your house, locate your cell phone, find your father, and then we'll get dinner.” Garnet frowned at me. “Huh? I thought Dad was with you.” “I haven't seen him since Sunday.”

He looked incredulous. “I've got some bad news. When we do find Dad, he might not be in a very good mood, because somebody put some horrible photos on the internet, of Mom kissing some musician in LA.” Garnet's face went pale. “For real?” I told him I didn't know much, and relayed all the details I had, short of actually showing him the pictures on Sunshine's iPad. He'd see them soon enough, there was no need to rush. I tried to reassure him, saying, “Everything will be normal again.” “What if Dad drove off a bridge or something?” “He'd never leave us,” I said, hoping my words sounded more convincing to Garnet than they did to me. Outside of the car, other people whizzed past us on the highway, caught up in their own problems. As we drove home, we listened to some music and Garnet chatted about all Uncle Jeff's colorful friends. The most colorful of all had been Uncle Jeff's girlfriend, a woman called Honey. As Garnet described the woman, and her children, I realized she was probably the one who'd scared him the most. Our uncle's pretty harmless and gentle, even when drunk, but the woman sounded like a nightmare. Back in Vancouver nearly an hour later—traffic had been lighter on the way home—I had my seat belt off and was itching to find my phone as we pulled up in front of the house. “Just wait,” Sunshine said, handing me her iPad. “I think I know where your father is.”

Chapter 24 As we sat in the car, I read the blog post on Sunshine's iPad. I tipped the screen to share it with my brother. “That guy looks like Dad,” Garnet said. “That is Dad.” Our father was in a series of photos, punching some guy at a sidewalk restaurant, and then being led away by the police. Garnet turned to me. “Dad's in jail?” As stunned as I was, at least jail was better than dead at the bottom of the ocean. By that point in the day, after being terrified, worried, then angry, I was pretty numb, so nothing would have surprised me. I scanned the article, reading as fast as I could. “Looks like Mom bailed him out.” “Go, Dad!” Garnet said. Sunshine said, “At the risk of sounding insensitive, it was kind of a romantic gesture of him to go down there. He

must have flown, because that's a long drive otherwise.” Garnet smacked his fist in his hand. “Dad was totally defending Mom's honor.” “Bro,” I said. “Beating people with your hands is not the answer.” Cooper turned and said, “Garnet, I have to agree with your sister.” Sunshine, shaking her head, said, “That's so crazy that your private family drama gets into the news.” Cooper said to his sister, “You sure you'd want that for yourself? Getting into the music industry.” She shrugged. “If that's the price to pay.” Garnet said, “I'm hungry.” I said, “Since we've suffered emotional trauma, with our father being arrested, I think we can use the emergency credit card to order in.” “Sounds fair,” Cooper said as he opened up his car door. Cheerfully, I said, “Just another exciting day in the Martin family!” ~ I invited Cooper and Sunshine into the house, where we found my cell phone more or less where I should have looked in the first place: between the cushions of the sectional in the TV room. I excused myself to the formal dining room, where I plugged the phone's charger into the socket and called my father's phone. A woman answered—my mother. I felt like I hadn't talked to her in years.

“Mommy, I miss you,” I said, my voice trembling. “Oh, Dottie,” she said. “I'll be home in a week or two. Everything's going to be fine.” I heard my father the background, demanding to know who was on the phone. He sounded … happy. I told her what I'd read online, then asked, “Is Dad in a lot of trouble?” “There were no charges pressed,” she said. “He's still in trouble from me, for being a dummy.” “That's a bit rich, coming from you.” Sweetly, she said, “Dah-ling, do you know what I'm doing right now?” “No. What?” “I'm patting dry my dreadlocks. My long, distinctive-looking dreadlocks.” I put my hand on my head, scratching my scalp. “Those photos weren't you,” I said. “Bingo,” she said. “Either they did something with digital images, or they got hold of some old photos from years ago. I don't know. Promise me you won't go into showbiz.” “I promise.” “I love you,” she said. “Who did Dad punch?” “My gay publicist. I mean, my publicist. I only mention he's gay so … oh, hell. My gay publicist.” She was giggling quite a bit by this point. “Your father came in like Hulk Hogan and

punched my sweet, little, skinny, gay publicist right in the nose.” “My father, the bully,” I said. “Oh, my publicist was delighted!” she said. “He had a bump in his nose he'd always wanted to get fixed. So because your father broke it, we're going to pay for one of those nose jobs for the guy. He couldn't be happier.” “We're buying some guy a nose job, and now everything's fine?” She sighed. “I haven't gotten much accomplished with the album.” “What did you expect? You don't have us there to tell you how amazing you are.” After a pause, she said, “Your mother can be stupid at times.” “I wouldn't know anything about that.” “Of course not,” she joked, and the distance between us disappeared. “Mom, when I thought you guys were getting divorced, I was so upset I threw up! I totally barfed!” Her voice turned stony. “You weren't wearing my clothes, were you?” “No,” I lied. She giggled again and told my father to stop whatever he was doing. Ew. I said goodbye to my mother and left the phone on the table to finish charging.

My company was waiting in the other room, but I sat for a few minutes in the empty dining room, at the table we only used for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. We were still a family, and there'd be more dinners. Maybe not forever, but there were more to come. The news that my parents were fine hadn't made me happy. Maybe it would sink in later, but having bad news canceled isn't the same as getting good news. The pressure lifts, but the ghost of the feeling remains. ~ I ordered a big pile of Chinese food, the Dinner for Six special from our favorite place. The Dinner for Four would have been enough, but there's something about having more food than you can possibly eat that makes people happy. I joined Sunshine, Cooper, and Garnet in the TV den, and relayed the details I'd gotten over the phone. I told Garnet I would have called him in, but it sounded like Mom and Dad were getting frisky. He wrinkled his nose. “They still do that? They're too old.” He turned to Cooper and Sunshine and asked, “Do your parents still do it?” “Worse,” Sunshine said. “They talk about it. Like, at the dinner table.” Eyes wide, Garnet turned to me and said, “Hey that's what —” He didn't get out the rest, because I had my hand over his mouth. ~ The food came and we ate it on the sectional in the TV

room with our feet up. Everybody kept spilling greasy noodles and those hot-pink chicken balls on the sofa, sending me running back and forth to the kitchen for wash cloths. I could see why my mother didn't allow us to eat in that room.

Darn you, Mom, for being so right about stuff! Sunshine mentioned she wouldn't mind a grown-up refreshment, so I went to the laundry room and raided the liquor stash, bringing a few bottles into the TV room. I said, “Hey, watch this,” then I took the cap off the vodka bottle and began to guzzle it. Garnet jumped up and tried to take the bottle away from me, while Cooper and Sunshine sat watching in shock. After I'd finished the bottle, which was entirely water, I set it on the coffee table, wiped my hand across my mouth, and said, “I was really thirsty.” “We have to induce vomiting,” Sunshine said, her face ashen. Cooper grinned and looked at me sideways, his eyes narrowing. “That was water, wasn't it?” I did my Uncle Jeff impression, saying, “Would ya like some ref-urb-urbishments?” Cooper grabbed the bottle and sniffed it. “You are an odd duck, Peridot Martin.” I shrugged. “I tried to be normal for a while, but it didn't take.” ~ Sunshine had a couple of drinks, but nothing crazy. Cooper had one of my father's beers, but I didn't touch a drop,

because I wanted to stay sharp. After eating, we flipped through channels and watched some reality TV show about people giving out parking violations, and another show about people buying abandoned stuff in storage lockers to make money. Hanging out like that, with two sets of siblings, was cool, like hanging out with cousins, though Garnet kept trying to get a peek at Sunshine's cleavage. I had impure thoughts too, and I wanted to get closer to Cooper, but he kept either my brother or his sister between us. He was so casual and friend-like toward me, I wondered if I'd imagined him kissing my wrist earlier that day. When the two of them left the house around midnight, because Sunshine had school in the morning and Cooper had to get up and meet with a painting client, I was no less confused. What a strange day. Garnet was asleep on the rug in the TV room, and I had to drag him up to his room. I could have left him on the floor, but that didn't seem right. In my mother's absence, it was my job to look after him, and I had let him down once already. I hoped the Uncle Jeff excitement would teach my father better than to take parenting advice from me. If Garnet started drinking and partying, what would be my solution for that? Sending him off to smoke meth with hookers? The kid was heavy, but I got him up the stairs and tossed him on his bed in his black bedroom. I pushed up on his light switch, but nothing changed. The funny thing about a black room is you keep going to flick the light switch on, even when it's already on. Then, when you turn the light off, the room is scary dark.

Over in my room, I got ready for bed. I held my wrist, where Cooper had kissed it, next to my cheek. Did it still smell like him? No, that was ridiculous. It smelled like my arm. I did my final check on Facebook for the evening and was surprised to see a message from Marc, asking me what I'd been up to since the morning. Even though he lived in the suite underneath Cooper's family and was friends with Cooper and Sunshine, apparently he hadn't heard anything about the excitement. The little green light showed he was online, so I typed back:

Managing a family crisis. Remember how I thought my parents were splitting up? Everything's cool. Turns out they aren't. Marc: After I saw you today, I googled your mother and

saw all sorts of crazy stuff. It was so weird to see your dad in those pictures. He actually punched someone in the face. I've never punched anyone. Me: Me neither. Marc: What else is new. The fact that Marc was asking a question without using a question mark really bothered me, but I let it go. Me: My brother was kidnapped, but unfortunately, they

sent him back. Marc: I guess you'll have to keep him. Me: BLEH! Boys! Yucky! Marc: Boys can be nice. Or should I say “Men.” At that, I giggled at my laptop screen and twirled a strand of

my hair, pulling it to my mouth. Oh, he was definitely flirting. It was so on. Me: Tell me more about men. What sort of things are they

useful for? Marc: Killing spiders. If you have any spiders over there

that need smashing, I could smash them for you. Me: With your big, strong arms? His response took some time, and I chewed nervously on my hair, a habit I thought I'd lost along with the dreadlocks. You're probably wondering why I was text-flirting with Marc when I'd been connecting with Cooper that day, and moments before had even been sniffing my wrist. I did like Cooper, but I wasn't over Marc. Feelings don't turn on and off like taps. It was like how the news that my parents weren't divorcing had made me feel better, but hadn't returned me to the pre-worried state I'd been in beforehand. I was in that weird headspace, that mixed-up, goofy state. Typing messages to Marc didn't even feel real. It was just me, typing some letters on a keyboard, alone in my room. The idea of another person on the other end of the internet was just that, an idea. As of now, I understand how I got confused. That night, after all the family drama, I was swept up in the idea of Marc. In a moment, I'm going to tell you what I said to Marc. To understand why a girl would say such a thing, you have to understand my background. Being on the plump side when I was twelve or thirteen had been a blessing in disguise, according to my mother, because the reporters and photographers treated me like

the kid I was, and left me out of pictures and stories. When I was fourteen, and still carrying the so-called baby fat, I overheard some boys at school talking about my bum. I was horrified, but kept listening, as they talked about how the seam of my pants was splitting. I thought they were exaggerating. When I stood up and turned to face them, the boy I had a crush on, Scott Weaver, said, “Ne ne, ne ne.” The other boys laughed, but I didn't know why. I ran to the bathroom. To my horror, I found the seam on the butt of my favorite jeans had pulled apart. There were two letters visible, ne—the middle part of my Wednesday dayof-the-week panties. Haylee and Courtney came running into the bathroom, as they'd heard from someone else about what had happened. Courtney told me to wrap my sweater around my waist, but I didn't want to, because I was just wearing a tank top underneath, and everyone would see my chubby arms. Haylee took off her own cardigan and gave it to me. Then something in me kind of clicked. I had a change of thoughts, a change in attitude. Feeling calmer than I'd been in years, I decided I wasn't going to care what people thought of me. My famous musician mother was obsessed with reading reviews of her work and analyzing articles about herself, and I was definitely not going to be like her. I accepted the cardigan from Halyee, but I didn't wrap it around myself. I folded it over my arm and held it in front of me as I unzipped my pants and marched out of the bathroom.

I marched right up to where Scott Weaver and his pals were hanging out in the hallway eating their chili dogs, and I said, “Hey, Scott. I understand you were trying to read something today.” He made that jerk face that jerks always make when someone talks back to them. He said, “What, like a book?” He looked to his friends, who laughed, because I guess the idea of Scott reading a book was hilarious. “Yeah, you were trying to read a word. Here, let me give you a better look. Just sound the letters out one by one.” I turned my back to the boys and whipped down my pants, revealing the word Wednesday. “Can you say that word, Scott?” I called back. “Try sounding it out. The first d is silent.” The boys were all quiet. I pulled up my pants and did up the button, then turned around and said to their stunned faces, “Wednesday.” As I walked away, I knew I had discovered something powerful. In fact, I had all the power, because I wasn't afraid to shock people. Saying outlandish things, shocking people and tipping them off balance makes everyone a lot easier to deal with. Which brings me back to the text conversation I was having with Marc. After a big pause, getting back to me on the spidersmashing topic, he typed: Yes, with my big, strong, arms.

Tell me there's a spider there right now and I'll come over. What I did next was attempt to tip him off balance so I could

regain the power. It wasn't intentional so much as it was a pattern—something I always did. Me: My parents are out of town and I'm naked and horny.

Why don't you drop what you're doing and come over this instant? As soon as I clicked the Enter button to send the message, I regretted what I'd said, but it was too late; the message had been sent. I considered typing j/k along with a charming emoticon or two, but I didn't. I was proud of myself. Marc had been keeping me off-balance for weeks, with his friend-zoning, then talk of kissing, then flirty messages. I'd given him the mighty shove he deserved. In the seconds before he responded, I realized something. Have you heard about the coin-toss thing? It's what you do when you can't decide between two things. You take out a coin and decide if it lands Heads, you'll do one thing, Tails, the other. In the time it takes for the coin to flip up in the air and come back down to your hand, your heart speaks to you. Your heart speaks. And you know what you want the outcome to be.

Chapter 25 As I waited for Marc to respond, I knew I wanted him to refuse my offer. I would then say I was joking and tell him I really liked his friend Cooper. I could even ask him things about Cooper, like what bands he liked. What Marc said next was not that he was coming over to smash spiders or do other things. No, it was much worse. Marc: Cooper came down to hang out and he's reading

our messages over my shoulder. What a perv. I slammed shut the top of my laptop and jumped off my bed. I flailed around my bedroom, only stopping when I banged my foot against the frame of my bed, possibly breaking the middle toe on my right foot. I grabbed the laptop, opened it again, and hastily typed in: I

hope Cooper knows I was just joking! Marc's green light was off; he'd logged out. ~ So, after I finished (metaphorically) pooping my pants, I changed out of my pajamas (I'd lied to Marc about being

naked) and threw on some clothes from the floor. I had the address of the house where the Cooper family and Marc lived, thanks to Marc's business card. In my mother's Land Rover, I pulled up to the house, which was only thirty blocks or so away from my place. It could have been built by the same builder who'd constructed our house back in the early 1900s. The house was even the same color as ours, an earthy shade of green, with cream trim. We don't have a basement suite, though, so the extra door at the bottom of the house jumped out at me. That was Marc's place, where Cooper was—or at least where he had been a few moments earlier. I jumped out of the Land Rover and dashed across the street, my heart pounding. Crap! I really liked Cooper, and I'd screwed up everything. Timidly, I knocked on the door. From the other side, a guy yelled, “Go away Sunshine, this is a boys-only party,” followed by laughter. I knocked again and someone yelled for me to come in, so I turned the handle and slowly pushed in the door. Marc looked surprised to see me. Cooper seemed surprised, and happy. Breathlessly, I said, “Cooper, did you see what I wrote to Marc on the computer? Just now?” Marc grabbed his laptop from his bed—the entire suite seemed to be one open room, with the kitchen sharing the bedroom—and invited Cooper to come look. “No!” I charged them and grabbed the laptop away. Cooper's expression changed, and it was clear to me he'd

figured enough out to be hurt. “Can I talk to you, privately?” I said to Cooper. Marc shook his head and commented on how messed-up things were whenever I was around. I didn't argue, but grabbed Cooper's arm and pulled him toward the door. “I do stupid things,” I said when we got outside. He didn't respond so I pulled him further away from the warm house and down the wet sidewalk, under the streetlamps. “I do stupid things too,” he said. “Taking my clothes off for that drawing class was pretty high up there.” I was still holding his arm, and I slid my hand down to his and squeezed it. “I thought that was amazing. Crazy, but amazing.” His voice serious, he said, “Yeah, but when I saw those drawings you did, I didn't feel so amazing.” I stopped and pulled him to a halt. “Cooper. I've never drawn a person who wasn't a stick figure. Don't tell me you were bothered by my drawings of you. I'll die. I'll just die if you were.” He didn't look me in the eyes, but turned his face toward the hedge we stood near. “People draw what they see. And you made me really fat.” “You were offended. No! Don't be offended! I'll die!” He looked around to check that nobody was listening. “And you made my dick really small and shaped like a boomerang. That's how you saw me, wasn't it?” I put my hands over the lower half of my face to cover my smile, but I couldn't stop the giggles. He lightened up, and with a hint of a smile, said, “Guys have

feelings too. Like, about their bodies.” “Cooper! I'm bad at drawing. No, I'm the worst! Plus I was nervous. Your mother was right there next to me. Besides, didn't she say the model shouldn't look at the drawings unless invited to? I never said you could look at them.” He crossed his arms and put his chin on one hand. “I guess I should know better.” “Yeah, you're the artist,” I said. “I thought you looked really good naked, and I'm sorry my drawings didn't do you justice, but you can't hold that against me.” “No.” “I'm glad we're being honest,” I said. “Now, what else?” “My feet are cold.” I looked down and saw he wasn't wearing any shoes or socks. I knelt down and put my hands on the tops of his feet. He laughed. “What are you doing?” “Warming your feet? I'm so sorry. Ugh, I do everything wrong.” He reached down and helped me up from kneeling. “Do you want to go somewhere and talk?” I pointed to the Land Rover, just down the street. “We can sit in the truck.” He felt he'd be warm enough once he had his feet off the cold concrete, so I clicked the doors open and we climbed into the front seats. He said, “I know today was a bit of a crisis for you, but I had

a nice time driving to New Westminster, spending quality time with your family, and the Chinese food was okay.” “Cooper,” I said. “Oh, Cooper.” “Yes?” “I have to confess that I did have some feelings for your friend Marc. Not anymore, but I did. He was being weird tonight, on the computer, and I said some things to him. I didn't mean the things, but sometimes I say stuff to people as a sort of defense mechanism.” “What, like you push people away? No … I don't think you do that.” “No, I don't push away, exactly, but I do shock people sometimes. I guess … it's easier to give people a real reason to not like you, instead of having them not like the real you.” He looked at me sidelong. “This is sounding rather philosophical.” “Maybe it is. Maybe I'll never understand why I sent Marc that message, but after I did, I knew I didn't want anything to do with him.” “He's a great guy,” Cooper said. “Are you trying to sell me on him? Don't you like me for yourself?” He flashed a big grin and popped open the glove box nervously, then shut it again. “Marc's not that great.” In the pause that followed, I remembered my night drinking with Haylee, and the drunk dialing. I asked Cooper what I'd said to him that night, or if he knew what I'd said to Marc. He said that neither of them had talked to me, but I'd left

them both pretty much the same voice mail. “Here, I'll play the message for you,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. With Cooper's phone held up between us, we both listened to my message, which was incomprehensible babbling and giggling, followed by what sounded like “Happy New Year!” The message was familiar. Ah! I was the crazy lady on Uncle Jeff's voicemail. Apparently, I had dialed a lot of phone numbers that night to spread my good cheer. Cooper said, “You must have mixed up your vodka with your water that night.” I put the keys in the ignition to get them out of my sweating hands. “Do you wanna go on a date with me some time?” Cooper reached over and ran his finger across my forehead, pulling a loose strand of hair away and tucking it behind my ear. “As long as you don't draw me naked.” “Never again,” I said. “Just photos.” He seemed pleased with that, and he leaned in toward me. I leaned in to meet him. And then Cooper kissed me.

Chapter 26 If that little scenario in my mother's Land Rover had been one of my dirty sex fantasies, we would have mashed faces for a few minutes, then jumped into the back seat and ripped off the bottom halves of our clothes and mashed our private parts together right then and there, parked on the street outside his house. What really happened was about two hours of clothes-on making-out, mostly in the passenger seat, punctuated by some talking. I pretended my hands were cold, even though they weren't, and slipped them up inside his shirt. Touching his naked chest and collarbone and even his armpits was heavenly. I'd never touched anyone's body like that, except my own, and it was every bit as exciting as getting to second base should be. He slid his hands up inside my shirt too, and I just about died from feeling it happening while also knowing it was happening. Honestly, I didn't even consider taking it to the next level, because the level we were at was so wonderful, I couldn't imagine it getting better. ~

Cooper was my official date to see The Hunger Games, and we went on the Thursday night after the Monday we'd kissed in my mother's Land Rover—kissed for so long, my lips were actually sore the next day. He sat next to me at the movie and held my hand, just like a real boyfriend, which he was. I'd planned to see it with Courtney, but I told her to give my ticket to Britain and enjoy. Cooper and I both loved watching The Hunger Games, and he gave me a sympathetic hand squeeze during the sad parts. He hadn't read the books, so we went for sushi after the movie and I explained some of the parts that weren't totally clear in the movie, like about why Gale had to put his name in multiple times in exchange for extra food. After a good post-movie discussion, Cooper told me about some philosophy book he was reading, and we sat at our little table drinking green tea until the restaurant kicked us out at closing time. He was interested in what I had to say and vice versa. Time just evaporated when we were together. He dropped me off at my house, and we made out in the car again, but I didn't invite him in and he didn't ask. ~ On Friday, which was my day off from work, we had my house to ourselves while my brother was at school. My parents were both still down in LA, as my father had cashed in some of his holidays at work. Cooper brought over an easel and some of his paints, and we planned to do some painting and sketching in the back yard, but he dropped those things by the front door when he came in and we found some other things that were more interesting.

After an entire day of building up the sexual tension with kissing and squeezing and groping, we found ourselves on my bed, where I just happened to have some protection stashed under my pillow. “How convenient,” he said. I'd like to report back that we didn't have intercourse that day, and decided to wait until we were twenty-five and married, or at least until we'd been officially dating a bit longer, but let's be honest here. I was eighteen, almost nineteen, and the world thought I was responsible enough to drive a 4500-pound Land Rover up and down the city streets … not that I was thinking about driving trucks at all by the time everything happened. You can skip this next part if it's TMI (Too Much Information.) Ginger, from work, had warned me that it could hurt, or not be very pleasant the first time, especially if my hymen was intact. I'd been to a gynecologist once before, and according to the nice doctor lady, it was there, but she'd assured me it wouldn't be a problem and I seemed otherwise healthy. Our first time started out really nice and I was practically begging for it, but things took a turn for the serious once the action started, because it did hurt. I wondered if I hadn't made a terrible mistake, but we got cleaned up and I washed the blood away, and by the next day, when my brother was over at his friend Kyle's house, I felt ready to try again. You know that saying, practice makes perfect? We're not perfect at sex yet, so we're going to have to keep practicing.

~ It's been just over a month since my first time, and I'm glad it was with someone I cared about. I didn't know I loved Cooper at the time, but I'm pretty sure I do now. Love is funny. Like my father's ADD, there is no test for love. You can fill out one of those questionnaires in a magazine or on a website, or possibly consult a psychologist, but nobody can prove conclusively that someone is or isn't in love. My parents came home last week and they've been walking around in a daze, holding hands, and acting like a couple of honeymooners. They actually are newlyweds, because they renewed their vows while they were down in California. The only bad news out of all of this is Mom's big comeback album has been put on hold. She did confess to me and Garnet that she was writing all sorts of very personal songs about what they were experiencing with their renewed love, and she wasn't sure how he'd feel about it—how he'd feel about being in a song. “He'd love it,” I said. “I wish someone would write songs about me,” Garnet said grumpily as he ate his post-soccer-game grilled cheese sandwich. Mom and I gave him a big hug and assured him he'd meet a special girl one day. Garnet's a good-hearted kid, and since his two adventure-filled days with my uncle, he's been taking his school work more seriously. Things may change down the road, but for now, my life is pretty sweet. Tonight, Cooper and I are going on a doubledate with Haylee and Andrew to see The Cabin in the Woods, which Andrew has been talking about non-stop.

We invited Courtney to come along, even though it meant bringing Britain, but she politely declined. From what little we've discussed her life at work, which is just when our shifts are changing over, she and Britain are still dating, but they do argue a lot. I'll try to not say “I told you so” if and when they split up. I was hoping a break-up would have happened by now, but it hasn't. I guess my life can't be too perfect, with absolutely everything wrapping up exactly how I'd like it to be, now can it? I feel resolved in my heart, at least, because as her friend, I choose to be a pal and at least pretend to accept Courtney's choices. I avoid Britain, but when I see her, I make an effort to not antagonize her ... much. I don't know if I even want Courtney back as a close friend. We'll always have a connection, because of our past, but I don't know if there's much future for us. I never believed my parents, when they'd said they grew apart from their high school friends, but I'm starting to think they weren't wrong. People do grow apart, and they do change, just not always in the ways you want. Marc is still in my life, because he's Cooper's friend. The two of them actually came in together the past three Monday mornings. Each time, they brought two copies of the crossword puzzle and raced to see who would finish first. So far, Marc's won two out of three, but he has had more practice. I think Marc will make someone a nice boyfriend, some day. Maybe he just needed more time to get over Sunshine. I've been hanging out with her a bit, and she is pretty amazing. My mother likes her too, and yes, I did ask my mother if she could help Sunshine out with her music. To my surprise, my mother said she'd be delighted to, and that ever since watching the taping of The Voice, she'd been itching to mentor someone.

That was how Sunshine became my mother's protege. So, watch out, music world! Cooper likes hanging out at my house, and I like being over at his place. I especially like his mother. She's been trying to get me into art, so I may take some art classes in the fall. Cooper talks a lot about the science of compatibility, and says he wants to make sure we have a fundamentally sound relationship so that in a year or so when the hormone stuff cools off, we'll still have something together. We force ourselves to go out on real dates, out in public, instead of pawing at each other like sex-mad fools. I get all giddy inside when he looks at me. Some girls fantasize about being with an artist, and I think it's because artists see beauty, and when you observe yourself through an artist's eyes, you see your beauty as well. Aww, now I'm sounding like an ad for soap or something. I do love Cooper, and I can't imagine a time when the sight of his freckled shoulders won't make me want to bite him on those nice shoulders. Maybe it's being around my parents, who've been together twenty years and are still making goofball faces at each other, but I'm a big believer in love. Oh, one last thing. I just broke the news to poor Toph that I found someone to have my first time with, and he'd have to find another prospect. He was, understandably, devastated. That's why today's special is Heartbreak Pancakes, which are regular pancakes, but topped with peanut butter and honey. Instead of the honey, you can have them with our “maple” syrup, which comes from Costco and contains no

actual maple. You guys can toss those Starbucks coffees in the garbage bin outside, or you can bring them in, but I'll have to add a dollar twenty-five surcharge to your bill. Take a seat right here. My name is Perry, and I'll be your waitress today. ~ the end

Thank you! If you've enjoyed this book (Smart Mouth Waitress, Book 2 - Life in Saltwater City), please consider posting a review on Amazon. I loved writing Practice Cake, the first Life in Saltwater City book, and including details from my home, Vancouver. I wanted to continue with something similar, but not a sequel. I came up with the title, Smart Mouth Waitress, and wrote the opening, in which two characters from Practice Cake cross paths with Peridot Martin, on the east side of the city, and inspire her to try some changes in her life. The protagonists of the two books are both eighteen, and they share a connection in their names. Maddie's last name is Bird, and Perry's last name is Martin, which is a type of bird. SMW is the first book I've published that doesn't contain a Star Wars reference. (That I'm aware of.) Peridot was such a fun character to write, because she says what's on her mind, and she's a jerk sometimes, but she doesn't mean it. I love her relationship with her younger brother, Garnet. The ending of the book surprised me. Maybe you saw it coming, but I didn't. I love it when characters surprise me! If you'd like to read more interviews about Smart Mouth Waitress or my other work, visit www.dalyamoon.com.

Also available from Dalya Moon:

Practice Cake (Book 1 - Life in Saltwater City) - There’s one thing Maddie finds more tempting than red velvet cake: her co-worker, Drew. All it takes is one of his sly winks or a playful hip-check by the cooler, and she’s incinerating the cookies. Her boyfriend would not approve. When a reality TV crew descends upon the bakery, her simple summer job

gets even more complicated. Chock full of imperfect people behaving badly, Practice Cake is light-hearted and brimming with humor.

Each book in the Life in Saltwater City series is a standalone novel with a different main character. Read reviews or download a sample now from Amazon.com ~

Charlie Woodchuck is a Minor Niner - It’s 1988, and Charlie Woodchuck is the most minor of niners. At thirteen, she’s the youngest girl at Snowy Cove High School, and so clueless, she wore leg warmers and acid-wash jeans on her first day. Big mistake! Almost as big a mistake as signing up for a boys-only shop class. Doy. Just when she thinks the first week of high school can’t get any more weird, Charlie discovers she may be adopted. According to her Science textbook, her eyes should be blue, not brown. Now the girl with the boy’s name will have to use her detective skills to uncover the mystery of her identity. She’ll need the help of best friend Stacy, expert blackmailer, and new friend Ross, expert class clown. Before the year ends, Charlie will face down the biggest bullies of all: the all-powerful members of Snowy Cove’s School Board. The Board doesn’t like what Charlie’s been up to, and they’re all out of doughnuts. Recommended for: Middle-grade or Ages 12+; Adults enjoy it too, especially if they went to high school in the '80s. Read reviews or download a sample now from Amazon.com ~

Poke (Book 1 of The Paranormal Poke Chronicles) Magic. Power. Secrets. Everybody has something to hide.

Zan is a boy with a strange power: the ability to see all of your secrets, past, present, and future … if you’re a girl. Oh, and if you put your finger in his belly button. With that specific, intimate touch, Zan is able to visit the Secret Town of any girl. There’s just one problem. He never likes what he finds. When Zan meets Austin, a mysterious girl with long hair and a contagious enthusiasm for life, it doesn’t take long for her curiosity to get the better of her. Zan braces himself to see the worst, but then the unexpected happens. In his vision, he doesn’t see anything. How can he be in love with a girl who has no future? Read reviews or download a sample now from Amazon.com ~

Swarm (Book 2 of The Paranormal Poke Chronicles) Magic. Power. Secrets. It’s Halloween, and all seventeen-year-old Zan wants to do is see his girlfriend smile when he gives her a four-month anniversary gift. Instead, he stumbles upon a murder scene while experimenting with his bee-control defensive power. That night, a crow brings him a message from the deceased, asking Zan to solve the crime. Zan is no ordinary high school boy, and he believes he can use his magical powers to find the killer. His other unusual talent, besides summoning magical bees, is the ability to discover any girl’s secrets, from the past, present, or future. He just has to get the girl to put her finger in his belly button, a feat that is sometimes easy, but often not. Even with his visions, Zan won’t find this murder easy to solve, especially when his bees keep trying to sting him to death, or feed him to death, or both.

Plagued by disturbing visions, he can’t tell who, or what, is plotting against him. As he unravels ancient secrets with the help of a mysterious book, Zan gets closer to the killer, and will be forced to choose sides. Read reviews or download a sample now from Amazon.com ~ I'd love to hear from you! Check my web site for my email and twitter account. Dalya Moon - www.dalyamoon.com