The Heartbreak Messenger (2 page)

Abby's eyes suddenly became a brighter shade of blue. “Oh, that's so sweet of him. Like a surprise date? Or a birthday party?”

I cleared my throat. “Well, I can't really talk about it. It's kinda hush-hush.”

“Quentin, come on, just give me a hint.”

“I can't.”

“Don't make me ask you three questions.”

“Don't you mean twenty questions?” I corrected.

“No. Just three. I saw this courtroom show the other night where the lawyer was explaining how you could get to the bottom of any case with just three questions … if you know the right questions to ask.” Everyone knows that Abby's life plan includes a successful career as a district attorney. “So are you going to tell me, or are you going to make me ask the questions?”

“I really can't, Abby. Because…” I hesitated. I never kept anything from her or Rob. But somehow this seemed like a good exception. I wasn't sure what she'd think about my little job for Marcus. “Because we have that grammar test on Friday that's going to kick your trash if we don't get busy.”

Abby groaned and plopped down at the picnic table. “That's a hopeless cause. Why bother?”

Because it just saved me from spilling the beans, that's why
. “Come on, open up,” I said.

Abby and Rob dug out their books. The three of us were in several classes together, which made homework a lot easier. Abby was really good with the math and science stuff. I had English and history in the bag. And Rob … well, he was there for moral support.

“You want to start with number one, Abby?” I asked.

“Okay.” She studied the page in her notebook. “Number one. Determine the adverb in this sentence. ‘Abby was dying to know what Quentin was secretly doing for Marcus and Melissa.'”

“Abby!”

“No,” she replied with a straight face. “In this case ‘Abby' is a noun.”

Rob snickered.

“Okay, Rob,” I said without looking up, “why don't you take the first one for us?”

“Please,” Abby said before Rob could respond. “Just tell me, is it romantic sweet, or fun sweet, or a help-you-out-because-I-love-you sweet?”

I snapped my notebook shut. “I'm not going to tell you. It's between me and Marcus. Just drop it, all right?”

Abby folded her arms. “Guys have no sense of romance. Fine, keep your secret. You know I'll just get Rob to tell me later.”

I eyed Rob fiercely. “He wouldn't dare.”

“I wouldn't?” he said.

I shook my head more confidently than I felt. “You wouldn't because I know a few things about you I'm sure you don't want shared.”

Rob's eyes widened and I knew my secret was safe with him.

“Embarrassing secrets will keep you from getting elected to public office, you know,” Abby said. “That's why you should never do anything you might be ashamed of later. Your past has got to be clean.”

“Like you?” I asked.

“That's right,” she said in a dignified voice.

I couldn't help myself. I jumped onto the table and cupped my hands to my mouth. “Hey, everybody! Abigail Patch sleeps with a Hello Kitty doll!”

Abby scrambled up onto the table and clamped her hand around my mouth. “That's not the secret I was talking about,” she hissed. Her lips were tight but her eyes were laughing.

“Humppffht,” I said through her hand.

“What?”

“Humppffht.”

“If I take my hand off your face will you behave yourself?”

I nodded.

She slowly removed her hand. I grinned. We both stepped off the table and sat on the benches.

“Do you really sleep with a Hello Kitty doll?” Rob asked.

Abby stuck her tongue out at him.

I threw back my head and shouted, “And she has a pink unicorn night-light!”

Abby slapped the side of my arm. “You promised to behave yourself.”

“I'm behaving just like myself,” I laughed.

Abby gathered her books. “Then I hope you behave like someone with better manners at the show tomorrow night. You guys are coming, right?”

“Yep,” Rob said.

“Wouldn't miss it,” I added.

Abby swung herself out from the table. “Okay. Good. I think I'm going to head early to art club. I'll see you tomorrow.” I watched her as she passed the garages and headed for the street.

She had said I might be ashamed of my secrets later. But there was nothing to be ashamed of in helping Marcus. No one would ever find out about it anyway.

“So when you gonna do the deed?” Rob asked, as if reading my mind.

I touched the twenty-dollar bill in my pocket. “Tomorrow. After school.”

 

Chapter 3

I stood in the parking lot of the Burger Joint for a few minutes, surveying the situation. There weren't any cars pulled up to the drive-in spots. The picnic tables were also empty. There was only one customer inside. And the air was fat with the mouthwatering scent of burger grease. It was like the place was waiting for me.

You can find the usual fast-food stops in our town: McDonald's and Taco Bell and whatnot. Rob's brother delivered Chinese food for the Golden Wok, which is good. But for a real treat you go down to Fifth and Main to the Burger Joint. The Burger Joint has a sit-down restaurant on the inside, white picnic tables with large orange umbrellas on the outside, and a row of parking spaces with intercom boxes you can order from. They serve the French fries in big wedges with plenty of salt, and they stick an oversized toothpick through the middle of your burger. They even used to have the waitresses sailing around on roller skates like back in the good old days, but after one of the new waitresses lost control and took out a grandma with a walker, they did away with the skates. Which is a shame.

I'd eat at the Burger Joint every day if I could, but Mom works as a mechanic and my dad's been out of the picture since pretty much forever, so it's not like we're rolling in money. We don't go there very often. Mom calls it a “splurge” and saves it for special occasions, like birthdays or the end of the school year or stuff. But the day after I made the deal with Marcus, I headed down there right when school let out. Melissa was a waitress and I wanted to get the job over with before the afternoon customers started coming in.

I spotted her in the restaurant through a window. She and another waitress filled ketchup bottles behind a counter.

Right away my hands started to sweat. My heart beat like a bongo. I hoped that my face wasn't getting splotchy, which sometimes happens when I get nervous. Or embarrassed. Or when I eat walnuts.
Easy, Quentin,
I told myself.
You're just delivering a message. That's all. You're not talking to a girl. You're speaking for your client.

Both waitresses had their backs turned as I walked up to the white picnic tables. I figured Melissa would like as much privacy as possible when I delivered the message, so I moved to the table farthest from the building. I sat down and tried to look casual.

A waitress spotted me and came out of the restaurant, a paper menu in one hand. She wasn't Melissa. She looked as old as my mom, with her hair tied up and tucked under her cap and white sneakers on her feet. She walked all the way to my end of the picnic area and slapped the menu down on the table. “What'll it be for you?” she asked.

My hand only shook a little as I reached for the menu. “Um … actually I was hoping I could see Melissa.”

The waitress smirked. “Oh. I see.”

Not likely
. She turned and walked back into the restaurant. I brought the menu up and peeked over the top. She was talking to Melissa, pointing toward me. Melissa nodded and headed out the door.

As she came closer, my mouth went dry. It felt like my tongue had turned into a gym sock. But I timed it perfectly so that I looked up from the menu just as she arrived.

She smiled at me, a cute smile, one you might flash at a three-year-old. “I know you,” she said. “You're one of Robbie McFallen's friends.”

I nodded smoothly. “Yeah, that's me.”

She pulled out her order notepad. “So what can I get you?”

I cleared my throat. “Actually I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes.” I pointed to the bench on the other side of the table.

She dropped her smile. “I'm kinda working right now.”

“You really need to hear what I have to tell you.”

Melissa studied me for a minute, shot a glance at the restaurant window, and stepped closer. She didn't sit down. “Make it quick.”

Here was my chance. All I needed to do was say the line, pat her on the shoulder, and walk away, twenty dollars richer. But as she locked eyes with me—hers deep brown with a raised eyebrow—my mouth just couldn't form the words. So I stalled. Small talk.

“So how long have you been working here?” I asked.

That seemed to throw her off, and she relaxed a little. “Almost a year. Are you looking for a job?”

“No, not really.” So much for small talk. There was only one other thing I knew about Melissa, and I figured it might point us in the right direction. “And, uh, how long have you been dating Marcus McFallen?”

Now she looked confused. “Seven months and two weeks. Why? What is this about?”

Seven months and two weeks! Marcus had been dating this girl for over half a year and was now sending someone else to end it.
What a jerk.
I pushed the thought from my mind.
Focus
.

I took a deep breath. “Melissa, I have some bad news.”

Her face flooded with concern. “Has something happened to Marcus?”

“Marcus is breaking up with you.” The sentence jumped out of my mouth on its own, which was good, because I didn't think I could have said it otherwise. The guilt was starting to get to me.

Melissa stared at me for a full minute. Then she sank into the bench across from me. “He sent you to tell me that?”

I nodded slowly, trying to look sympathetic. To be honest, I was expecting more of a reaction from her. Tears, for example. Or at least angry fists shaking curses to the sky and Marcus McFallen. Her eyes weren't even moist.

In fact, she laughed. A hard laugh that was lemon sour in the middle. “I love Marcus, but who knows why. That boy has no backbone.” She put her elbows on the table and placed her chin in her hands. “I just can't believe that he … well, no, I can believe that, too.”

The guilt quickly drained away, making a sucking sound in my ears like the last of the bathtub water. That had been a lot easier than I'd expected. I'd found a private setting, I'd given her the message without tripping over my tongue, and she didn't even need to cry on my shoulder.

She suddenly looked up at me. “Did he pay you to do this?”

I also hadn't expected
that
. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. How was I supposed to respond?

She saved me the trouble. Shaking her head, she said, “Well, at least he was willing to cough up some money for me. Must have been worth it to him.”

Melissa stood. She straightened her apron and pulled out her order pad and pencil. For a moment I thought she was going to ask me for my order, like nothing had happened. Instead she said, “Here's some free advice for you, little messenger. Someday, if you break up with a girl of your own, you're going to want to use flowers and chocolates. Flowers at least say, ‘Thanks for the memories.' And chocolates, well, you don't want to leave a girl completely alone.”

Then she turned and walked back into the restaurant.

Maybe I hadn't watched enough chick flicks, or maybe I had a heart of concrete. Maybe I was even more clueless about girls than I knew. I think most other people would have watched her walk away and felt a little pang of remorse, or at least felt sorry for her. But she'd taken it so well that I didn't feel any of that. Instead I thought about her free advice. My mind started working like a mechanic welding together a new differential case. The next time I break up with a girl … flowers … chocolates …

Twenty dollars in my pocket.

I wasn't sure how—yet—but this had some real potential.

 

Chapter 4

I thought about ordering a burger right there at the Burger Joint, since they do have the best hamburgers around. But I didn't want to call out the other waitress again, and I sure couldn't order from Melissa. Instead, I hiked down to McDonald's and got a Big Mac and three cheeseburgers, to go. And an order of large fries. I had money to burn, after all. Then I made my way over to Mick's where I knew Mom would still be cranking away. It wasn't dinnertime yet, but a hot burger early was better than a cold burger on time.

Mom's been a mechanic for years, having grown up with five car-crazy brothers. She was getting paid to work in a garage even before she graduated from high school, and even after she and Dad got married. But when I was born, she quit. She could have gotten someone to watch me, but she said she didn't want to come home to her baby with her hands smelling like grease and her fingernails looking like charcoal crescent moons.

But when Dad up and left, she put her coveralls on and headed back to the garage. Mick offered her a good salary and all the hours she wanted if she would work the night shift. She didn't like the idea of leaving me alone for so long in the evening, but we worked it out. Like garage bay dinners, for example.

I strolled into the bay where Mom was working on a Subaru up on a hydraulic lift. Looked like a muffler problem. “Hey, Mom. I brought dinner.”

She stuck her head out around the edge of the car. “You brought dinner? What for? We've got stuff in the freezer.”

I walked over to the little table in the corner of the bay and laid down a fresh sheet of newspaper. The comics section. I brought out the burgers and the large carton of fries, stacked up the ketchup packets, and placed a napkin on each side of the table.