Any Way You Slice It (16 page)

“Great.” He nods. “So … your parents approve?”

“What?” The blood rushes to my face. “Why would you ask that? Of course. Of course they approve.”

It should be so much easier to lie to Troy Depalma, so why do I sound like an overcaffeinated hyena?

“It's okay,” Mark Wilder whispers, making the hand gesture that I think means for the camera to keep rolling. “It's a great human interest side of this story. It's going to play great with kids who watch this show. We might even come out and film a game.”

“No, you can't.” I'm fumbling with my microphone as I stand up, but I can't get it off my shirt.

“Whoa.” Depalma jumps up and pushes me back into the chair, but I step backward and knock it over.

It's like it's all happening in slow motion from outside my body. The camera guy moves in to get closer to my face. My hands are shaking as I try to disentangle myself from the microphone cord.

“Miss Spaulding!” Wilder is trying to save the shoot.

At that moment, a commotion erupts from the other room. Someone is screeching. I hear my dad's voice above the rest. “Okay, let's just calm down … oh holy crap.”

I finally succeed in separating myself from the microphone and sprint out of the bar, leaving Wilder sputtering. I take one step into the hallway that separates the two rooms, and splash into water that practically covers the soles of my sneakers.

The crowd has dispersed, but most of them are still standing on the sidewalk out front. Jules is sitting on the counter, covering her nose with her hand, trying not to laugh. Lori and Jake are standing on the seat of the front booth, both looking like they'd love to be outside with the crowd.

“What the heck happened?” I call to them.

Lori makes a grimace and gestures to the ladies' room. But it doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure it out. Dad emerges from the supply closet with a plunger and rushes past me toward the bathroom, where water is still flowing.

“Get in there!” Wilder calls from behind me, as the camera guy rushes after Dad. At the same moment, the front door opens and Warren strides in still wearing the apron I threw at him earlier.

“Get the hell out, McNeill.” Jake jumps off the seat into the water on the floor, splashing me and Lori. He takes two steps forward. “I know you had something to do with this.”

Warren scowls. “No effing way.” He pulls off the apron and tosses it onto the nearest table. “Nothing you can prove anyway, Gomes.” He flicks his head at me. “I'm still expecting that date, Spaulding.”

I can't see Jake's face because his back is to me. And he speaks so quietly, I have no idea what he says.

But Warren blanches. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Yeah, I would.” Jake waves his hands as if to shoo Warren outside. “Get the hell out.”

Warren narrows his eyes. “Only because I don't want to stand in sewage.”

“What the … ?” A man I've never seen before gingerly tiptoes past Warren as he's leaving. The dude is trying to avoid getting his expensive shoes wet, and not remotely succeeding. He's tall and lean, wearing a pinstriped suit and bright-blue tie with short-trimmed thinning hair. “Are one of you Penelope Spaulding?”

I raise my hand. I've got no energy for anything more for anyone associated with
Local Flavor
or the Restaurant Network.

“Great.” He strides forward and shakes my hand, but the effect of professionalism is lost in the splash of water. “I'm Paul Steen. I'm here to talk to you about your interest in Johnson and Wales University culinary program.”

Forty-five minutes later, Jake and Lori are sitting with me on a table in the dining room, like an island in the middle of our flooded restaurant. As much as being hip to hip with Jake should be amazing, I can't enjoy it.

Lori scrolls through something on her phone. “Anyone want to take a quiz on who'd be the last survivor on a deserted island?”

“My dad is going to kill me.” I hang my head so far, my neck cracks. Jake looks at me, a horrified expression on his face. “After everything.” I gesture around at the ruined restaurant. “And I botch my interview with the dude from the culinary school.”

Lori pats my shoulder. “What a doof. Why the hell would he show up here, at night, to talk to you about college? Makes no sense. And besides, you sounded fine.”

We hear movement from down the hallway.

“Well, I was trying to do you a favor!” We hear Paul Steen's voice before he emerges from the back, looking annoyed. “Tell your dad to call me when he's not standing in sewage.”

Dad yells from the bathroom. “I don't need any more favors today! Get out of my restaurant!”

Ugh.

Dad comes out thirty seconds later. “Why do these Restaurant Network people feel the need to rub salt in the wound?”

I blink at him for second. “That wasn't a Restaurant Network dude. He was from Johnson and Wales. He talked to me for half an hour before we sent him back there.”

I think for a second that Dad's going to pass out. “No.” He shakes his head and turns around. “No. Oh, Christ. I didn't recognize him. I'll have to call and apologize in the morning. I hope I haven't ruined your chances.”

It's the best thing I've heard all day.

It's been dark for two hours, and we're still sitting on the table. It's like none of us wants to get wet, so we don't move. “I just want to know why he did it.”

Lori shrugs. “Warren?”

I nod. “Obviously.”

Jake looks at his hands.

“The whole school's been talking about how you made him vacate the building using only a meatball sandwich a few weeks ago,” Lori says.

We lower our voices as the camera guy walks by again. He's already filmed us a dozen times at our perch on the table as he follows the plumber through his repair. I'm pretty sure they must have also caught the exchange between Dad and Mr. Steen. Troy Depalma left long ago, but I can only imagine what footage they'll decide to use of the flood.

“I did what?”

Jake opens his mouth, and shuts it again.

“Yeah.” Lori stretches her legs out straight and looks down at the swirling brown water covering the linoleum. “Story goes he came here to challenge Jake and the team to some sort of grudge match and apparently you interrupted. He's been the butt of a ton of jokes about how he's easily distracted by girls and meatballs. You can imagine how those go down.”

I bump Jake's arm. Which isn't difficult since our elbows are touching already. “Did you know?”

He nods. “I thought you did, too.” He's still looking down, but glances at me out of the side of one eye. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you.”

I'm not really sure what to do next. Lori's feet are stretched across the seat in front of her and she's leaning against the wall with her head back. She glances up and catches my eye.

“So, he flooded the bathroom.”

Shrugging, Lori says, “We know it's Warren, but there's nothing we can do about it. We've got no proof.”

Jake looks at me with a totally pathetic expression.

“Stop the pity party. It's not your fault.” I reach over and put my hand on his shirt, rubbing his back.

“I'm sorry, you guys.” He puts his head in his hands again. “I had a feeling he was going to try something. You should have been able to count on me to have your back, and I totally botched it.”

I shake my head. “No you didn't. I should have known something wasn't right—I never should have let him stay tonight. I figured he was safer where we could see him.”

Jake sighs. “I try to keep my head down and mind my own business, but it just doesn't seem to do me any good—I attract trouble like grease on bacon.”

I put an arm around each of them. “Don't be so dramatic. It happened. We're here now. No one got hurt. This whole day will be the stuff of legend we'll tell our kids someday.”

No, I did not just mention Jake and me having kids someday.

He looks up at me and blushes, which makes me look at Lori, who's chuckling.

“It would be nice, though, just once, if Warren could get a taste of his own medicine. He's spent too many years bullying other people. It would be nice to see him get what he deserves.”

She can't be serious.

I cringe. “I don't like the sound of that. I've seen a lot of movies where the devious plan goes horribly wrong and the good guys end up in worse trouble. Or dead.”

Jake punches me and laughs. “What movies are you watching?”

Maybe it's the completely sincere way he says it, or maybe it's just where we're sitting. Now I'm laughing, too. “You're kidding, right? Just promise me when things get dark and the bad guy walks in with a chain saw, one of you won't say, ‘let's split up.' 'Cause I'm not doing it.”

After the night we've had, it feels good to laugh.

When Jorge comes out of the kitchen, the three of us are clutching our stomachs. He's wearing hip waders, and I'm tempted to ask him where he had those stashed. “Are you guys crazy? This is … this is …” And suddenly he's doubled over, too.

For some reason this makes us laugh even harder.

It's ten o'clock, and the emergency plumber finally gets the water to the offending toilet turned off. “You'll need to call the building inspector tomorrow to make sure you're clear to open up, but you shouldn't have any more problems with the water.” He sloshes his way out the back door.

Dad might be crying when he emerges from the bathroom, where he's been watching the plumber work for the last two hours. When he sees Jorge and the three of us laughing our asses off, he opens his mouth. We're about to get an earful. But instead he holds out a mop, and then smiles. “Some help here, you guys?”

I wheel the bucket out of the supply closet and start pushing water around the floor with the mop. I feel a weird sense of déjà vu.

Lori moves paper towels around the floor with her foot. It takes a while and I have to dump the bucket almost a dozen times, but eventually the floor is dry and actually looks cleaner than it has in years. A few of the tiles are curling up, but maybe it means that Dad will have to replace the floor. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

I call back to the kitchen. “Dad, we're leaving, Okay?”

“Thanks for all your help tonight.” He stands at the kitchen door, with a roll of cash register tape in his hand. Mom's been on him for years to upgrade to digital technology, but he likes to do the books “the old fashioned” way and refuses. Consequently, closing up takes longer than it should. No way could a little flood dissuade him from his routine.

I turn the sign on the door to closed, and we step into the night air.

“Walk home?” Jakes asks.

Lori waggles her keys. “It's freezing. I can drive you guys.”

“Actually, some fresh air might be nice.” I give Lori a look that I hope tells her to get lost.

“Oh, right. Fresh air.” She nods. “Got it.”

She gives me a quick hug and punches Jake's shoulder before skipping over to her car. She rolls down her window as she revs the engine.

“Catch you guys later. I'm spending the rest of the night Googling ways we can get revenge on Warren.”

After Lori leaves, I look at Jake and shiver. We stand in silence for a few awkward seconds before he takes off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. Walking home in the frigid air, half wet from mopping up the flood, might not have been the best idea I've ever had.

But when Jake's hand brushes mine, it's all worth it.

“You okay?” I ask as we cross the street. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, and my toes get tingly when I catch him looking at me. I turn my gaze down at the sidewalk, but it's too late.

He clears his throat. “I need to finish telling you something.”

Two cars whoosh past and drown out his next words. I'm afraid I missed something. “What did you say?”

He makes a funny sound before he speaks again. “I've held on to this for a long time.” He takes a deep breath while I hold mine. “I would take it back if I could. I would go back in time and erase it. In a second, if I could.”

“Take what back? What would you do?” I'm not trying to sound angry. I just need to understand exactly what he's apologizing for.

“I never planned on being that person. But after the thing with your hair…” He winces. “People looked at me differently. It's like they respected me or something. And I really liked it. It made me feel like someone. It made losing your friendship almost worth it.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Since you weren't talking to me anyway, at least I had something to show for what I'd done. But I was too stupid to realize it wasn't respect.”

“What was it?” I ask the question, but I know the answer.

“It was fear.” He sighs. “They were afraid of me. Then I threw myself into hockey because the guys on the team
did
respect me. They weren't afraid of me when I slammed somebody into the wall.”

“I wish …” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I'm not sure what I'm about to say, but I start again. “I've been a terrible friend, Jake. I'm sorry for everything. You don't deserve the reputation you have, and I've never done anything over the years to help.”

He puts his hand up. “Stop.” He gestures back and forth between us. “It goes both ways, Pen. You were eleven and you decided you'd rather not hang out with a kid who'd sliced off your hair. There's nothing wrong with that. Even though I've had plenty of opportunities, I haven't tried to change your mind over the last four years.”

“More important”— he clears his throat for the second time, and I wonder if he's coming down with a cold—“we're here now. We're friends now.” He grabs my hand quickly, like he's afraid he'll change his mind if he slows down. He squeezes it and lets go—but I'm not letting him off that easy.