My cheeks redden. “Yes, but not in the way that you mean.”
“Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you were.” Erin places our order with the barista then hands him a ten-dollar bill. For once, I don’t protest when she pays. This afternoon I need the caffeine more than my pride. “He’s mad cute,” she says, dropping her change into the tip jar.
“Not my type.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Mad cute is not your type? Since when?”
The whir of the blender keeps me from giving her an answer. We collect our drinks from the counter—two iced mochas, heavy on the whipped cream—and make our way down to the beach. As we walk on the wide cement path that lines Alki Beach, back toward Erin’s house, I fill her in on my plan.
“Don’t you think getting him fired is a bit harsh?” Erin says, pushing a strand of her short dark hair out of her eyes. “I mean, this all happened a thousand years ago. It’s old news.”
“It doesn’t feel like old news to me.” I move aside to avoid being flattened by a shirtless guy on Rollerblades. “A reminder: My parents would still be together if it wasn’t for Wesley James. He needs to pay.”
“Quinn—”
“I’m serious. And every miserable thing that’s happened after they broke up is his fault, too.”
“Do you hear yourself? That’s insane. You can’t seriously hold Wesley responsible for your parents’ prob—”
“Yes I can,” I cut her off. “It all stems from what he did. All of it.”
Erin sighs. “Okay. But getting him fired is not going to bring your parents back together.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. It will not change anything and it won’t make up for all the hurt. But it will make me happy. And if I can make Wesley’s life even a tiny bit miserable, then it’s time well spent.
“Quinn, I really think you should try to let go of this. For your own sake. It’s not good to hang on to all that negative energy.” She stops to dig a pebble out of her sandal. “You know what we should do? Cleanse your aura.”
“My aura is fine.”
“Hm. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to clean it up a bit,” she says. “It also wouldn’t hurt to focus on something else. Or someone else.”
“Like Caleb?”
“So you do like him.”
I hesitate. “I like him. I’m just not sure if I like him like him.”
“Well, we’ll be in London for a whole week, barely any parental supervision,” she says, dancing around me. “Perfect opportunity for some sweet band-geek love.”
My heart plummets. I usually tell Erin everything, but not being able to go on the trip? I can’t even put it into words. I feel bad that I’m hiding it from her, but I don’t think I can talk about it without crying yet, so I murmur, “Yeah, perfect,” and listen to her run through a list of what she needs to pack and what she can buy there, until we’re back at her house and she’s forgotten all about Wesley and my dirty aura.
eight.
Alan leans forward on his throne, casting his gaze around the restaurant. “Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot,” he says. “That it do singe yourself.”
Okay, if I believed in signs, I might take that as one. Especially when Alan’s eyes land on me and he slowly shakes his head, like he knows all about my evil/brilliant plan to get Wesley fired.
But I don’t believe in signs. And there’s no way Alan knows anything, not unless he’s a mind reader. Which does not seem likely.
Still, my hands shake a little as I set the basket of bread in the middle of table six.
Alan pushes himself off his throne and continues with his soliloquy—a single spotlight following him across the stage—while I recite the list of ingredients used in our roasted potatoes for the third time.
“Garlic, olive oil, and oregano,” I say. “That’s basically it.”
“Basically?” The woman raises her over-plucked eyebrows. “You don’t know for sure?”
My cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling at her. “No, I’m sure. That’s it. Three ingredients.”
She still doesn’t believe me, so I tell her I’ll double-check with the chef, but I don’t really plan to because I already know what he’ll say: garlic, olive oil, and oregano.
On my way to the kitchen, I veer behind a wide stone pillar. The perfect spot for spying on Wesley.
He’s serving a group of girls who look to be about our age. One of them—a redhead in a yellow dress—is laughing a little too hard at whatever he’s saying. I know from experience that nothing Wesley says is ever that funny, so I gather she must be into him. Or maybe she just has a pirate fetish.
Wesley pulls a chocolate coin from behind her ear—seriously, it’s such a lame trick, I don’t think it even deserves to be called a trick—and she squeals. He smiles, takes off his hat and places it over his heart, gives her a little bow. When he hands Red the coin, I catch the girl beside her rolling her eyes. This girl is the only one at the table not wearing a paper crown. What she is wearing, however, is a very surly expression. One that tells me she’d kill to be anywhere but here.
I know the feeling.
I used to love working at Tudor Tymes. Well, maybe love is a strong word, but I really liked it. Tudor Tymes was my thing—no one else from school worked here. No pressure to act cool—a good thing, since that’s hard to do in a medieval costume. But ever since Wesley was hired, it’s been stressful. And now he’s joined band and I have to share that with him as well. It’s infuriating.
The very idea that Wesley James, of all people, is going on my dream trip kills me. He’ll be in London, checking out Trafalgar Square, riding the London Eye, and watching the Changing the Guard at Buckingham Palace. And I will be stuck here. Forever.
The only thing that’s given me any pleasure lately is my plan. I’ve spent most of the past week dreaming up ways to get Wesley’s ass canned. As far as I can figure, my best strategy is to get customers to complain about him. As many as possible, as often as possible, until Joe has no choice but to get rid of him.
And I think Surly Girl can help me. I don’t think it will take much to push her over the edge. She looks like complaining is part of her DNA.
I peek back at my table to make sure they aren’t watching for me—the last thing I need is to make my own customers angry. But the woman is busy poking distrustfully at the basket of bread while her two kids duel it out with plastic straws.
I turn back as Wesley pulls his order pad from his back pocket. This is it. Showtime.
I grab a silver pitcher from the water station and hustle over to his table. The first thing he’s supposed to do is fill the guests’ water goblets but, as usual, rules don’t mean anything to Wesley. Something that is definitely going to work in my favor tonight.
“Need some help?” I smile, holding up the pitcher.
Wesley glances up from his order pad. He gives me a slow smile. An I-knew-you’d-come-around-eventually smile that makes me want to slap him. “That would be great,” he says. “Thanks, Q.”