Crush du Jour (6 page)

Me
:
(slightly panicked gasping noise)

Me
:
(after calming down)
Right, but, um, are you going to pan them in the
Tribune?

Mom
:
(hearty laughter)
Of course not!

Me
:
(under my breath)
Oh, thank freaking goodness.

Mom
: After all, they get two more chances to change my mind.

Right.

One minute I was a mildly neglected latchkey kid who had a string of crushes and an empty piggy bank. Now, suddenly, I had two jobs that, frankly, I wasn’t all that good or experienced at, and one
huge
crush that seemed completely ill advised. Even worse, I was living a lie.

Okay, maybe that’s putting it a little bit melodramatically. I’m not a manipulative mastermind, after all. But like it or not, I
was
working the art of misdirection.

For instance, since my mother never outright asked if I was working as a waitress at one of the newest, most overhyped (in her opinion, anyway) restaurants in town, I didn’t bring it up with her. And when Seth asked me what my parents do for a living, I talked my absentee father up, big-time. I told him my mom was “a foodie,” which was just vague enough not to be a lie.

Suddenly my calendar was looking like a five-course meal. And it was only going to get worse. I had to hope that my appetite held up.

Six

The thing about being an uptight, overly scheduled, hyperorganized sort of person is that sometimes you kind of come across like a butt-kissing geek.

I, for instance, was so wired for my first day as a waitress at Hype that I’d arrived a full thirty minutes early for my shift. It was a tad embarrassing; Seth had told me to come “a little bit” ahead of time so that I could get the tour and other orientation sort of information and stuff. Still, there’s a yawning chasm between “a little bit” and thirty minutes. Thank goodness Seth didn’t know the full, actual truth: that I’d popped straight up in bed at seven fifteen that morning only to sit, pretty much motionless in
that position, until my alarm went off two hours later. That’s how nervous I was about my first evening shift at Hype.

Sometimes even I am horrified by the depths of my own dorkiness.

When I arrived at the restaurant, everyone appeared to be in a full predinner swing. Waiters and waitresses sat quietly at a table in the back of the main dining room, methodically rolling place settings up in freshly pressed cloth napkins. Busboys replenished the sideboards with salt, pepper, and other condiment-y stuff.

The space itself was what you might expect for a sophisticated urban eatery: long, slim, mod wood tables stained dark, ultra-angular chairs covered in bright, contrasting fabric. Square sconces dotted the walls, creating a quiet but elegant mood. I could see why this place would be popular among Philadelphia’s young professionals.

I only hoped that Philadelphia’s young professionals were generous tippers.

“Laine! You found the place!”

Seth’s face popped into frame just in front of me. Startled, I tried not to jump. I didn’t want Seth to think that his face
was unwelcome in my personal space.

“Your directions were great. And also, I live nearby.”

I lived right near Seth’s father’s restaurant. It was like we were destined to date. Seriously, the universe was practically throwing us into each others’ paths.

I needed to have a frank heart-to-heart with the universe, stat. I had to inform the universe of my pledge of a crush-free summer, and the fact that my mother and Seth’s father were sworn, if unknown, enemies. The universe was making things very difficult for me, after all.

Seth’s eyes twinkled at me, taking me in. Those were some sparkly eyes. Almost hypnotic, even. He was looking better and better to me every time I saw him. In fact, I was starting to develop the sneaking suspicion that if and when Seth and I did get together, it would be way more of a main-course sort of deal, rather than an appetizer. This only made things more complicated.

Maybe I could talk to the universe in, say … September? You know, have one last, crushtastic fling with Seth and then buckle down for my senior year. That wasn’t asking too much, was it?

I guessed that it wasn’t—as long as what happened with Seth
was
truly a fling. And that seemed less and less likely the more I got to know him.

Focus
, I commanded myself. Yes, it was a shame that my tendency to jump from crush to crush faster than Lindsay Lohan changes hair color was totally at odds with my otherwise buttoned-up personality. But I did have some shred of self-control. I wasn’t completely at the mercy of my hormones. And right now, the promise of cold, hard cashola was slightly more appealing than Seth’s chiseled cheekbones.

Only slightly, but still. Slightly was something.

There he went with the smiling again. Dimples erupted right and left. Seth and the universe must have been in cahoots.

“C’mon,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder and beckoning me toward the kitchen. “I’ll show you around.”

If Seth thought I was weird or high-strung for showing up to work so early, then he must have thought I was completely, fullblown bonkers once I was tossed into the pit with the rest of the Hype waitstaff.

In theory, my working at Hype was the best possible solution for everyone. Obviously, I needed to make some extra cash, and Seth’s father was downright desperate for a warm body to cover tables three through seven. Voilà! Two birds, one stone, problem solved.

But that’s a lot of tables, three through seven. Especially for someone who’s never worked in a restaurant before. I was in over my head before my first official shift even began.

First, there was the issue of the Hype uniform, of which I’d been blissfully unaware until now. I’d changed outfits at least sixty-three times before I left for the restaurant (in fact, trying on every single combination of outfits in my closet had been my single most aggressively pursued pastime, once I actually got out of bed). I needed something professional but comfortable. Something clean and simple—but something that might actually make me look pretty if, for instance, Seth or … someone else happened to notice me.

I know, I know—I wasn’t supposed to be caring about the opposite sex. But you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, right? Old habits die hard.

Seth walked me through the restaurant and introduced me to the rest of the staff. I was informed that the kitchen staff was really the lifeblood of the place and that it was important to stay on their good side. The manager on schedule for that night was hiding away in his basement office, taking advantage of the early-evening lull to tackle some paperwork. The only people whose names I could remember were Damien, the bartender, and Callie, a waitress who’d been with Hype since the grand opening—and who definitely didn’t seem to appreciate my coming on board.

I had just launched into an inner monologue in which I congratulated myself for being so cool and collected (and perfectly accessorized) in front of my new coworkers, when Seth dropped a minibomb on me.

“You’re going to have to get dressed.”

I did a panicked assessment of myself. Had I actually left the house naked? That would have been crazy ironic if I’d left the house naked after trying on every single outfit I owned. I patted my legs and was relieved to feel them covered in the soft cotton of my lucky plaid skirt. I was being insane. For real. I mean, Damien would
have looked at me a whole lot differently if I’d been unclothed when we were introduced. He was a flirt with a capital
F
, like me. I just knew it, even after the innocuous “hey” we’d greeted each other with.

What can I say? I have a special radar for cute boys who could potentially keep up a steady chatter of innuendo-laden banter. It’s a gift, like the way Anna can solve geometric proofs in her sleep.

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Your uniform,” Seth explained. “Everyone wears black polo shirts and black pants.” He waved a hand up and down his front to demonstrate his own compliance with this rule. He also wore a bright red apron with lots of little pockets for pen and paper that I assumed was also part of the required outfit.

“I, uh, didn’t bring mine.”

Seth laughed. “I should have told you— we’ve got a set for you. At least, they
should
fit. What size are you?”

Clearly, Seth had no idea that asking a girl what clothing size she wore was tantamount to buying her a South Beach Diet cookbook or shipping her off to fat camp. I mean, I don’t have major self-esteem issues
or anything like that, but who wanted to be talking body type with a hottie of the opposite sex?

Well, at least talking about clothing sizes was the exact opposite of blatantly flirting.

“I wear a medium,” I offered as a vague but appropriate response to a loaded question.

“Hmm.”

Oh, jeez, did he not believe me? Did he think I was too skinny? Not skinny enough? Maybe he was thinking about my ankles. I’ve always suspected that my ankles are thick. In the summer I have a really hard time finding sandals that make my feet look delicate rather than like huge, puffy loaves of bread.

And
why
, oh why, was I being plagued with these thoughts? Obviously, my pledge to myself meant absolutely nothing. I couldn’t even trust my own little inner voice. It was bad enough that I was so easily distracted that Seth sometimes had to tell me things three times in a row. It was bad enough that Seth had a chemical effect on me during our class on Saturdays. But now I was going to be constantly sidling past him by the pick-up window, past the break room, or at the computer at the end of the
bar. With my big old bread-loaf feet. Seth was adorable, but that wasn’t supposed to matter to me right now—I had more than enough going on without being distracted by the latest cute boy to cross my path.

He couldn’t be a crush. And he couldn’t be a boyfriend (the mere mention of the word gave me shivers—the bad kind of shivers, that is).

Well, then—we were just going to have to be coworkers. And coteachers. And cocookers.

The combo sounded bland, even inside my head.

“Well,” Seth’s voice cut into my mental monologue, reminding me yet again that focus was probably really important here at Hype. It was my job, I’d decided, to surreptitiously raise the caliber of the service at Hype. I could do that, at least, if nothing else. I mean, I was an overachiever. Kicking butt at whatever I tried my hand at was sort of second nature.

My phone call with my mother, when she had complained to me about her first visit to Hype, weighed on me like a sixteen-ounce package of potato gnocchi that’d been boiled, strained, and left in a bowl at room
temperature for two hours too long. Mom had nothing good to say about Hype, which meant that sooner or later, unless the situation at Hype did a complete one-eighty, she’d be publishing a negative review.

My skin crawled just thinking about it. Even though Seth and I couldn’t be involved romantically, a bad review from my mother probably wouldn’t go over all that well.
Especially
since I still hadn’t told him what my mom does for a living.
And
we still had to teach together at the rec center. Meanwhile, Mom would freak when I told her that I was working at Hype. Not because I took on an extra job. (Well, probably not—although she was one of those people who were of the belief that I tended to spread myself too thin. She always said I was sixteen going on forty-six). No, she’d freak because it was weird for me to keep this job from her. Just like it was weird to hide my mom’s job from Seth.

Oh, boy. I was in over my head. This was all going to come back to bite me in the butt, right?

“Laine?” Seth snapped his fingers in front of my face.

Whoops.

“Training. Check.” I mock-saluted him, which, thankfully, made him smile.

“Just for today, you’ll be shadowing someone,” he explained. “It should give you a feel for how the shift tends to break down.”

I nodded. “Cool.” I wanted—and desperately didn’t want—to shadow Seth. I had a feeling that would involve creating all sorts of kooky reasons to knock into him or otherwise initiate physical contact.

He patted me on the shoulder, and I allowed my fantasy to take off. Maybe we’d even get married here at Hype one day.

This line of thinking was so the opposite of my personal anticrush oath. Grr.

Seven

“Callie.”

I realized I’d been standing with my eyes closed. I blinked them wide open again. My name wasn’t Callie. Seth knew my name. Didn’t he?

“Hey, Seth.”

Oh.

That was another voice. Another voice entirely. Another
female
voice, to be precise. And it belonged to a female person.

Ugh.

It was a good thing I didn’t have romantic designs on Seth, because I got the feeling that if I had actively pursued him, Callie might have had a thing or two to say about it. She clearly hated me, and more
than that, she was used to getting her own way. I could tell both of these things simply by looking at her: Her lush, caramel-colored waves were the waves of a girl for whom things were done. No one with hair like that ever had to prove herself to someone else.

I disliked her. Intensely.

It seemed that the feeling was mutual.

“Hi.” She practically hissed at me. Callie squinted her hazel eyes at me suspiciously.

I wanted to tell her to chill out. She didn’t need to worry about me. I’m no circus freak, but, as I’ve mentioned, I’m quirky whereas she is more modelesque. So it wasn’t like I was going to bump her out of the running for the “Miss Hype” competition running through my mind. And besides, I was Not. Crushing. This. Summer. Period. And you can’t compete with someone who’s forfeited the game, right?

“I guess I’ll be mentoring you, Lynn,” Callie said, smirking and shaking my hand with her own French-manicured fingers.