“So what’s up, man? Did you get the job?” Caleb asks as he rings up my book.
I hand him my debit card, trying to keep my expression calm. Inside, though, I’m a tornado. Because I know what’s coming. I know exactly what Wesley will say next. And I can’t think of a way to stop him.
“Yup. In fact Q and I work together,” he says.
And there it is. Another secret spilled by Wesley James.
Caleb’s eyebrows fly up into his hairline. “You work at Tudor Tymes, Quinn? You never mentioned that.”
It’s not exactly something I go around broadcasting. Most of my friends don’t even know, with the exception of Erin. I was teased in middle school, so I’ve learned not to give anyone any ammunition. Working in a medieval restaurant is just asking for it.
“I loved that place when I was a kid,” Caleb says. “Which character are you?”
Wesley chuckles. “She’s a wench.”
“I am not a wench,” I say, glaring at him. “I’m a royal servant.”
“Please.” Wesley drains his coffee. He shoots the empty cup over the counter and it sinks perfectly into the small metal garbage can behind Caleb. “She’s definitely a wench. She wears a corset.”
They both stare at me, like they’re picturing me in it right now, which is totally humiliating. I cross my arms over my chest to block their view. “Yeah, well, he’s a pirate magician.” I make a face like, isn’t-that-the-stupidest-thing-you’ve-ever-heard, but Caleb doesn’t catch it. He’s busy shoving my book into a recycled tote bag.
“You’re still doing magic, dude?” he says.
“Helps with the tips,” Wesley mutters.
“You mean it helps you steal tips.” I take the bag from Caleb. “We should probably get going. I don’t want to be late for practice.”
“Yeah.” Caleb takes off his name tag and slides it into his pocket. “You ready?” he says to Wesley.
Wait, what?
“Wes is coming with us. He’s thinking about buying my truck, so I told him to come for a test drive. You don’t mind, do you?”
Mind? Of course I mind. But I don’t know how I can tell Caleb that without seeming like a total freak.
And so that is how I end up wedged between them, Caleb on one side and Wesley on the other. I’m scrunched over on the bench seat as close to Caleb as possible, but Wesley’s knee still somehow keeps brushing against mine.
“How come you’re selling your truck?” I ask Caleb.
He grimaces. “The payments are killing me. And with London coming up…” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Europe is not cheap. Sure, the band is holding fund-raisers to offset some of the cost, but each of us is still expected to kick in almost fifteen hundred dollars. Not all of our parents can afford it. Some of us have to sell our trucks or get jobs in medieval-themed restaurants.
We drive down California Avenue, past boutiques and coffee shops, bakeries and thrift stores, past a whole lifetime of memories. I let Wesley and Caleb carry the conversation—mostly about horsepower and gas mileage, eventually segueing into a debate about the Seattle Seahawks that I don’t even try to follow, until we reach West Seattle High. Caleb and I climb out and Caleb tells Wesley to pick us up after practice. So I guess I haven’t seen the last of him today.
Our footsteps echo in the halls. It’s so weird to be here in the summer, when the school is deserted. The walls are freshly painted, no flyers or posters to clutter them up. It even smells different. Cleaner.
We slip into the band room. Erin’s at the back with the other saxophones. She smiles until she notices I’m with Caleb then she shakes her head. She doesn’t think I should hang out with him so much, considering he likes me and I haven’t made up my mind about him yet.
On paper, Caleb is perfect for me. There are a million reasons why I should like him. He’s smart and responsible. He’s not bad to look at. He plays the clarinet. We’re a match made in band geek heaven.
But.
He does not make my knees weak. Or my heart race or give me butterflies or any of those other clichéd feelings you’re supposed to have when you like someone. But I’m hoping that will change.
I’m almost finished assembling my clarinet when Mr. Aioki pulls the door closed and steps up to the podium. He taps his baton against the metal and lifts his arms. As the rest of the band members raise their instruments, I quickly place my reed against the mouthpiece and slide the ligature over the top to keep the reed in place, trying to ignore the annoyed expression on my band teacher’s face.
The sound of Beethoven’s March in D Major floods the room, pushing Wesley and everything else out of my mind.
four.
Dad’s already in line when I arrive at the crumpet place. We’ve been meeting here for breakfast every Saturday morning since the divorce.
“Hey, ladybug,” he says, giving me a hug. He smells like aftershave. A good sign. He must have won at the track last night. When he loses—which happens often—he reeks like beer. “There’s a free table over there.”
I hurry over and snag the table that overlooks the guy making the crumpets. While Dad places our order, I watch the guy behind the window squeeze thick yellow batter into the tiny, round metal pans and then place them on the griddle.
“So,” Dad says, setting a blackberry-jam-covered crumpet in front of me and sliding into his chair. “How’s your mother?”
“Good.” It’s the same answer I give him every time he asks, which is every time I see him. He still seems to think he has a chance of winning her back. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s never going to happen.
Dad dumps a packet of sugar into his mug and then stirs his coffee, his spoon clinking against the porcelain. “And how’s the job going?”
I shrug. I should probably tell him that the Jameses are back in town, but he’s between jobs again and it might make him feel bad. No need to remind him about the past. It’s bad enough I have to deal with it.
“I’m going to London in the fall with band,” I say. This is the first time I’ve mentioned the trip, even though I’ve known about it since last semester. There hasn’t been much point in talking about it with him until I was sure I’d have enough money to go.
“Really? That sounds fun.” His voice wavers. He’s already worrying about how he’s going to pay for it.
“I should have the full amount saved by the time school starts,” I say.
His face relaxes. “I didn’t realize you guys were so good.”
“Eh. We’re okay. It’s not a competition or anything. It’s just a tour.”
Dad leans back in his chair, a faraway look in his eyes. “Did I ever tell you about the time I went to Amsterdam with—”
“—your high school choir. Your club came in fourth but it was still the best life experience ever.”
He smiles. “Well, maybe not ever. But close,” he says.