Not true. It is that bad. And someone will definitely notice.
I pick up a butter knife. Wesley takes a step away from me—as if I’d actually stab him in public!—and I smooth icing over the hole. It’s not perfect but it’ll have to do. And if the parents complain, I have no problem telling them that it’s Wesley’s fault.
On the way out of the kitchen, I toggle the light switch near the door, making the lights flash, a signal to the rest of the staff that it’s time to sing.
Wesley carries the cake out and sets it in front of the birthday boy. Bruce and Rachel wander over and we break into a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday” while Rachel tunelessly strums the lute.
I forgot to bring plates so I send Wesley back to the kitchen to grab some. Turns out there is an upside to working this party with him after all—I get to tell him what to do. While he’s gone, Alan arrives. A personal visit from the king is part of the premium birthday package.
“Well now. I hear ’tis young Sean’s birthday,” Alan says, patting the kid on the shoulder. “You know what we do to little boys on their birthdays?” He leans down so his wide, bearded face is only inches from the kid’s. “We put them in the stocks!”
Sean starts to wail and the jester’s hat bobs on his head, causing the tiny brass bells to ring. “I don’t want to go!”
“Oh, come now, lad!” Alan booms. “It’s great fun.”
No, it’s really not. I don’t blame the kid for crying. I may have shed a tear or two the time I was stuck in there.
Just then, Wesley returns with the plates. And I get an idea. The best, most brilliant idea ever.
“It’s okay, Sean.” I pat the kid’s bony shoulder. “You don’t have to go. We’ll send Captain Grimbutt instead.”
Wesley’s eyes narrow. “Grimbeard. And send me where?”
Sean nods so enthusiastically, his hat falls off. All the kids stomp and cheer.
“Send me where?” Wesley repeats. I point to the huge wooden contraption in the corner, a single spotlight glinting evilly off the metal locks.
He swallows. “Uh … the thing is, I’m sort of claustrophobic…”
“Not to worry.” I smile sweetly at him. “It doesn’t actually lock. And we won’t leave you in there long.”
Just until the end of my shift.
Alan booms for Bruce, our “guard.” He marches Wesley over to the stocks, unceremoniously shoves his head and hands through the holes, and snaps the gate closed. Wesley glares at me as best he can with his head bent at such a weird angle.
Feeling victorious—how do you like working at Tudor Tymes now, Wesley James?—I go back to serving the six-year-olds. I’m so busy keeping up with their demands that I forget about Wesley for a few minutes. Until I’m walking into the kitchen for more bread and I catch sight of him, hunched over and uncomfortable, his eyes squeezed shut. I guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he’s claustrophobic.
My elation at getting him thrown in the stocks starts to dissipate. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I want revenge, sure, but I don’t want to kill him.
I walk over and bend down so Wesley can see my face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says, but he doesn’t open his eyes. His brow is scrunched up and sweaty, and all the color has left his cheeks.
I’m torn. As much as I want to help him—and, strangely, I do want to help him—I don’t want to end up in the stocks myself. If Alan catches me trying to spring Wesley, I’m done for.
“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” I say.
He grunts.
I reach out to put my hand on his shoulder, but pull back before I make contact. What am I doing? Wesley James has been back in my life for five minutes and already I’m going soft. I should leave him here, let him do his time. It’s no less than he deserves.
But he looks so miserable, I find myself heading to Joe’s office to ask him to set Wesley free—Joe’s the only one Alan will listen to. He’s clearly annoyed that I’m bothering him, but when I tell him I can’t work the birthday party all by myself, he sighs and comes with me.
“Thanks, Q,” Wesley says after Joe springs him. I’m not sure whether he’s thanking me for getting him sent to the stocks in the first place or for getting him out. There’s no time to clarify—not that I really want to know anyway—because the birthday party has started to unravel. I spend five minutes coaxing a crying little girl from underneath the table while the rest of the kids clamor around Wesley, begging him for balloon animals.
An hour later, the kids are all gone and we’re cleaning up. Or I’m cleaning up and Wesley’s fooling around. I’m about to blast him for being lazy when he hands me a lumpy brown balloon with round orange eyes and two long white tusks.
I blink. “What is it?”
“It’s a Gruffalo.” He smiles and points to the sharp lines he’s drawn near what I gather is the thing’s mouth. “Those are his terrible teeth. And see, here are his terrible claws.” He maneuvers the balloon monster in my hands so I can see the drawn-on claws. “You really can’t tell?” He looks so crestfallen, I start to laugh.
For some reason, Wesley and I were obsessed with that book. Even though it was way too young for us, we made Gran read it over and over, the entire summer, because we liked the melody of her British accent.
I stop, mid-laugh, and straighten my face. He’s obviously trying to jog a nice memory by giving this to me, remind me of a time when we used to be friends. I hate that it worked.
I toss the balloon on the table and finish clearing up. Wesley stands there for a second, confused, I think, by my sudden mood swing. I feel him watching me. I don’t want him to see that he’s reached me at all, so I busy myself with sweeping bread crumbs off the table until he finally gives up and wanders away.
*
An hour later, I’m waiting outside in the parking lot. Mom’s supposed to pick me up, but she’s not here, which is odd. I check my voice mail. She’s working overtime at the hospital and I should call my dad to come and get me.
Great.
I know it’s not her fault—my mom never passes up overtime. She can’t afford to. But calling my dad? Pointless. He’s probably at the track.
I’m debating whether I should try Erin when a white minivan pulls up to the curb. The passenger-side window rolls down and Wesley sticks his head out.
“Need a ride?” he asks.
I narrow my eyes. “So you can exact your revenge? No.”
“Are you always this distrustful?”
“Yes.”
He unlocks the door. “Come on, Q. Get in.”
I could still try Erin, but it will take her at least half an hour to get here. I really just want to get home, so I sigh and climb inside. The floor mat is covered in Cheerios and little crackers shaped like fish. Two car seats are strapped to the bench seat in the back, a bursting diaper bag shoved between them.
“Whose van is this?”
“My parents’,” he says. “They bought it after my sisters were born.”
“You have sisters now?”
He nods. “Two. Twins, actually.” He pulls into the street. “Ashby and Emily. They were sort of a surprise.”