Twenty-One
Twenty-One
“Okay, ready?” Tiffany asks impatiently.
“No!” I scream, my eyes closed in terror.
“On the count of three!”
“No. No. No,” I beg her, trying to block her hands.
“One, two…”
“Wait, wait! Give me a minute. Just a minute,” I whine.
My friend snorts, rolling her eyes. “You say the same thing every time. We’ve been here twenty minutes, Nessy, my hand is cramping up.” Then, without warning, she shouts “three” and rips the wax off my crotch.
“Ah! I hate you!” I scream, squeezing my legs together and covering my face with my hands.
“There you go, smooth as a baby’s butt.” Tiff grins, proud of the job she’s done after twenty minutes of tears (hers) and protests (mine).
“Is she still in one piece?” I ask.
“Ready to go for a ride!” she says enthusiastically, closing the jar of wax.
I get up slowly from my bed and pat her arm.
“Don’t you know? I closed up shop and threw the key into the sea.”
She bursts out laughing. “Oh, come on, we all know you’re hiding a spare in your bra.” She winks at me as I get dressed. “You want me to believe that after no fewer than three dates with Mr. Boring you still intend to keep her locked up in your panties?”
“First of all, don’t call him that. Also, excuse me for preferring to build a certain kind of relationship before giving him my virtue,” I inform her haughtily.
“Your virtue was gone years ago. And I don’t seem to recall you going to all that trouble with Thomas.”
I could kill her for bringing him up. It’s been a month since we last spoke. Or rather, yelled. “Yes and look how well that turned out. I don’t want to rush it this time.”
“I get that, but you’re going at a snail’s pace. You and Logan have been out three times and you haven’t even kissed him yet. Why not just admit you’re bored stiff?”
“Because I’m not.”
“Come on, Nessy, we all know. He’s perfectly nice, of course. But not what you’re looking for,” she says.
“And what exactly am I looking for, Miss Mind Reader?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I don’t know, but I think a pair of green eyes and a lot of tattoos might crystallize the idea in your head.” She giggles as I glare at her, curling my lip.
“You’re wrong. I’m over that.” I turn my back to her and stand in front of the mirror to fix my hair.
“Of course. And I’m Mother Teresa of Calcutta. Just look at the way you blush every time you accidentally pass by him,” she teases. “Or the way that, every time he sees you with Logan, he suddenly becomes more unbearable than usual. I don’t know why you two try so hard to stay away from each other, when even the scenery can tell that you want to do the exact opposite.”
“I don’t care how it looks. He behaved badly with me and didn’t even pretend to be remorseful. All he did was rub my face in all his conquests. Logan, on the other hand, is exactly the kind of guy I need right now: he’s good, sweet, polite, thoughtful, romantic…”
“Boring,” she mumbles, covering the word with a mock-cough.
I ignore it.
“Do you realize that he has shown up for every one of our dates with a rose? I have never in my life received roses, and it’s wonderful. It makes me feel important!” I tell her, my eyes dreamy. Tiffany turns her back to me and pretends to retch.
“I can see you, you know,” I say dryly.
I throw a pillow at her, which comes right back at me.
Tiff opens the bag of gummy bears I brought from the kitchen, sits down on the bed, and pops one into her mouth with an expression of delight. “So where’s the big boy taking you tomorrow night?”
“We’re going out for Indian food and then to the movies.”
Tiffany’s eyes widen. “But didn’t you tell him that you don’t like Indian food?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it; I just find it a bit too spicy for my taste.” She nails me with a “who are you trying to fool?” expression. “Okay! I don’t like it, but I don’t see the problem. I can just order plain rice.”
“Ah, so it’ll be a nice dinner of nothing for you. That’s sure to be unforgettable,” she mocks me. “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”
“Because he was so happy to take me to this Indian restaurant with ‘inimitable cuisine,’ which, according to him, I can’t miss. You should have seen him, even you wouldn’t have been able to say no to him.”
“Doubt it. Anyway, what are you going to wear?” she asks, blasé, while eating another gummy bear and sitting on the bed.
“I don’t know, something simple. Logan likes me as I am; I don’t need to twist myself up to get his attention—”
Tiff rolls her eyes and I glare at her. I join her on the bed, lying down next to her and stealing a candy.
“Tell me, what did he ever do to make you dislike him so much?” I ask, chopping a bear in half with my teeth.
“Nothing, it’s just…he’s too perfect, you know?”
I give her a confused look and shake my head.
“Believe it or not, Prince Charmings don’t exist, honey. Very often, they’re just hiding behind clever masks and they turn out to be the worst of them all. And you can be so naive at times, that…”
“That you worry about me,” I finish the sentence for her, gently.
“Maybe.” She looks at me sideways and laughs affectionately.
“You don’t have to, Tiff. It’s true, I was naive with Travis and Thomas, but only because I was blinded by emotions.”
“I wasn’t talking about Thomas. He was an asshole to you, but he never tried to pretend he wasn’t an asshole. He showed what he was from the start. Can you say the same about Logan?”
She’s not completely wrong. Thomas never promised me anything; I was the one who believed it could be more than it was. And when it comes to Logan…I think for a moment and then nod. “My instinct is to trust him, but I promise you I’ll give him the third degree tomorrow night, if that will help you feel better…Mom,” I tease her, nudging her with my elbow.
Not only have I cut ties with Thomas for the last month, but Travis also seems to have finally disappeared from my life. I haven’t heard from him since Tiffany threatened to tell their father everything if he didn’t stay away from me. Of course, I have also avoided any Beavers games like the plague, since the team is filled with guys I’d rather not see, but apparently I’ve come out of it otherwise unscathed. Well, except for the tiny detail that my mother and I only speak to each other in monosyllables ever since I confessed everything to her. Everything except the identity of the boy who was in my room that accursed Sunday night. If I had told her that while she was taking a bath, I was achieving ecstasy in the arms of a “ne’er-do-well” (as she would surely call him) she would have kicked me out.
“So, are you ready? Alex will be here any minute,” Tiffany announces, shaking me from my thoughts. I’m very ready. In fact, I can’t wait. After a month of looking for work, Matt was finally able to get me a job interview at his uncle’s bar.
“Waxed, primped, and perfumed. Let’s go!” I reply, full of enthusiasm.
Twenty minutes later, we find ourselves in front of a bar north of the city. A buzz of rock music emanates from the building. Strange, bars are usually pretty empty at this time of day. Parked outside are two Harley-Davidsons, one red and one black. I’ve never been to this place before.
I leave my friends to wait for me in a nearby park and, as soon as I enter the bar, I am hit with the smell of hops, lumber, and fried food. To my right is a long, solid wooden counter with a set of taps and leather stools, upon which a few patrons are seated. The walls are also wood-paneled, with small, darkened windows.
“Hey! Do you need a seat?” asks a girl with a head full of blue and black braids.
“Hi, I’m Vanessa Clark. I’m here to talk to the boss; I have an appointment with him in five minutes.”
“He’s in his office.” She points upstairs. “I’ll go grab him now. Is there anything I can get you in the meantime?” she asks as she finishes arranging some clean mugs.
“A soda, thanks.” I smile at her. She pours the soda into a glass and hands it to me along with a bowl of chips. Then she heads upstairs.
After a few minutes, I hear footsteps behind me and a deep, British-accented voice exclaims, “Vanessa, at last we meet! Matt tells me many good things about you. Pleased to meet you, I’m Derek Ford.” He extends his hand, and I take it. He’s probably in his forties, well groomed, with a thin beard covering his chin and jaw. He has the same dark eyes as his nephew only with more crow’s-feet around them. “Come, sit,” he says, and we settle at a dark wood table. “Tell me, what brings you to these parts?” he asks, folding his hands on the table.
“I’m a sophomore in college, and I’m looking for a job that will allow me to have a bit of independence,” I say with a certain nervousness as he watches me attentively.
“That’s a mature move, it does you credit. Most kids your age only think about having fun and ruining their livers. What is your availability? I’m guessing college takes up a lot of your time.”
“A part-time position would be ideal.”
“You should know, during the week it’s busy here but manageable. On weekends, it’s pure chaos. I can offer you part time in the evenings with the possibility of more hours on the weekends if there are extra events. What do you say?”
“Yes, I can do that,” I reply enthusiastically.
“Very good. Have you ever poured draft beer?”
“Erm, no,” I admit, embarrassed. I regret not having attended more parties. “But I’m a quick learner!” I hasten to add.
“You know that a lot of OSU students come in here, right?”
“Oh, yes?”
“Is that a problem? I mean, serving your classmates could be unpleasant.”
“No, no problem.” Apart from Alex, Tiffany, and Logan, and two blowhards whose names begin with T and end with S, no one at school knows I exist. Serving a few students won’t tarnish my nerdy loser rep.
“All right, then. I’d say we can set up a trial week and see how it goes.”
“That would be great, thank you so much, Mr. Ford.”
“First thing: if you start working here, I want you to call me by my name,” he says, smiling.
“Gotcha, Derek.” I smile in turn.
“Second thing, much more important: remember to always bring that smile with you. It’ll be your calling card with every customer you serve. If you use it the right way here, you can ensure yourself some good tips by the end of the day.” He winks at me.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply, trying to sound as convincing as possible, torn between enthusiasm and performance anxiety.
“Excellent!” Derek slaps his hand on the table. “I don’t think there’s anything else. The locker rooms are downstairs. After last call, we clean up and close out the cash register, but Maggie will explain all those boring things in more detail.” He gestures to the blue-haired girl who had just greeted me. “Your uniform will be given to you on your first day, come a little before opening hours if you can. Are you okay to start tomorrow?”
I nod fervently, all the while with a dumb grin plastered on my face. For the first time in months, I feel confident and proud of myself.
After two weeks of work, the Marsy has become almost like a second home. Sure, my under-eye rings are at their peak, and I have to study on the bus to keep up with my classes, but having a little independence is an achievement.
As I wipe down the bar, the front door jingles. I look up and spot a man in the doorway. It’s James, a regular who comes in to watch the football game on our screens. His presence reminds me that, despite the skimpy yellow cheerleader uniform that I am forced to wear to get tips, I do actually enjoy this job because of all the new people I am getting to know, who chat and share stories with me. I watch him head for the bar and sit in his usual seat. He’s wearing the same sort of elegant, designer clothes that he typically wears. The Bluetooth earpiece he always wears and the black leather briefcase he carries make him look a bit self-important—and definitely out of place at the Marsy—but I only had to exchange a few words with him to see that he is not nearly so haughty as he appears.
“Hey, James!” I greet him with a smile. “Shall I get you the usual?” A creature of habit, he always gets the same thing: barbecue wings and a nice cold pint.
He confirms with a nod, returning my smile. He’s handsome for a guy in his fifties, with light hair and blue eyes, and just a few frown lines on his face.
“You sure know how to keep your customers satisfied.” He chuckles, lays his briefcase on the counter, pulls out his laptop, and starts typing away on the keyboard, without even looking. If I understand correctly, he works in the publishing industry, and someday I would like to ask him for advice. When he flexes his arm, the sleeve of his jacket rides up a bit and, for the first time, I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on his wrist.
My mind immediately goes to Thomas, and I feel my heart clench. I would be lying if I said that I was immune to his charms or that I don’t long to be near him whenever I think of him. After the way he treated me, though, and especially after the Travis ordeal, I vowed to make better choices when it comes to men. And this is the mantra I repeat to myself every morning before getting out of bed. Then all I have to deal with is my heart beating wildly, my legs shaking, and my stomach turning upside down every time I see or hear about him.