He nodded, his arms still folded. I could tell by his expression that he thought I was insane. Which is when I knew there was no point trying to explain because I couldn't talk my way out of this situation and come out looking like a normal person. I stood up and pushed away from my chair. "Urn, I'd better get going or I'll be late for English. See you around."
"Yeah, see you, Juliet."
We were able to get Molly and Polly an appointment in the salon. Dotti cut their hair shoulder length, adding layers and highlights. Then she did the eyebrow waxes. And yes, Molly shrieked during the process. Polly did one eyebrow and tried to chicken out and not do the other. We had to convince her that she couldn't walk around with uneven eyebrows.
Then we went shopping, and I found them some nice shirts that didn't cost a whole lot—which was a feat of willpower, considering I just wanted to sulk the entire time.
I couldn't believe I had met the guy again. He had looked even better than I remembered, and now he thought I was crazy. How could I fix that?
Samantha kept gushing about how wonderful the twins looked, and even they seemed happy with the end results, eyebrows and all. I could barely manage to get out a few compliments though. My thoughts kept returning to the guy.
I knew where he worked. If I went to the Hilltop, say on a daily basis, sooner or later he'd have to be my waiter, right? And once he was my waiter I could . . . well, I wasn't sure what I could do. Maybe give him a certified doctor's note swearing to my sanity along with a really big tip.
I was as pitiful as Molly had said. I'd spoken about three sentences to him and was willing to spend my entire college fund hanging out at a restaurant. And all this for a guy who most likely wouldn't take another look at me once he learned I was only a senior in high school.
When Samantha dropped me off at my house, I paused before shutting the car door and asked her, "So . . . do you want to go out to dinner at the Hilltop tomorrow night?"
Molly and Polly made quite the entrance when they walked into school in the morning. A lot of girls told them how nice they looked. The guys were silent on the matter, but even this was a good thing. No one called them Roly and Poly. I did hear the term Holy and Moly floating around, but I figured that was a compliment.
Polly smiled a lot, and told me her parents agreed to buy her contacts. Molly pointedly told me there was no way she was wearing contacts and seemed suspicious about the attention she received. But despite all of my coaching, when I saw them in the hallways between classes, both girls still shuffled their feet and kept their eyes downcast. "Watch your posture," I'd whisper to them as we passed. "You're confident, remember?"
When that didn't produce results, I took Mr. Metzerol's methods to heart and threatened to smack them in the back if they didn't straighten up. Instead of listening to me, I think they just avoided me in the halls.
At lunchtime Mr. Metzerol complimented me on their appearance though. "You're a miracle worker," he said. Of course, that was the last nice thing I heard him say. I sang my song for him again, and judging from his dour facial expression I hadn't improved since yesterday.
I got another lecture on using my diaphragm. He also told me my notes were breathy and in my throat as opposed to in my forehead, where I should be feeling them. Really. He told me that. I was supposed to feel the notes in my forehead. Which is why artistic people are so annoying, because they say these sorts of things and expect the rest of us to know what they're talking about.
Still I thanked him, promised to do my scales, my exercises, and to try and produce sound emanating from the region of my eyebrows.
After school we had cheerleading practice. Or at least we were supposed to—what we really did was practice our song. We had to do some sort of cheer routine for the halftime of the next game, but instead of coming up with a new routine, we decided to just modify our "Shoop Shoop" song and dance. Rachel, Aubrie, and Samantha would do the backup part wearing football uniforms, and I'd change the words of the song so they described a winning football team.
Easy enough and we wouldn't have to learn new dance moves.
After rehearsal I had just enough time to get home, do my homework, my chores—and all right, I admit it—primp nervously in front of a mirror before I drove to the Hilltop.
Samantha and Logan were meeting me there. Samantha because she'd been the one standing within three feet of me when I rashly decided to track down 'the guy,' and Logan because they'd barely spent any time together recently. Samantha used to work at the bookstore with Logan but had quit when school started up so she could spend more time on her studies. And she did study more—well, when she wasn't moping around because she didn't see Logan at work anymore. Anyway, Samantha insisted Logan come too because the Hilltop was "their restaurant." They went there on their first date.
I asked Aubrie and Rachel if they could come too, but they already had study plans with some guys from the team—something that Rachel sighed repeatedly about. "Can't you go to the Hilltop another day?" she asked. "Samantha already got to watch you make a fool of yourself this week."
Rachel has so much faith in me.
Anyway, it was just Samantha, Logan, and me. For once I was glad they were so engrossed in each other, because that way Logan didn't harass me about the pathetic depths my love life had reached. Although as we walked into the restaurant he did say, "Have you tried the guys at Taco Time? I bet they'd be cheaper to stalk."
I ignored him and we walked up to the hostess. Samantha and I had this part of the night perfectly planned.
"Table for three?" the hostess asked. She didn't look much older than us, definitely a college girl.
"Yes," Samantha said, "and if it's possible we'd like the same waiter we had last time."
"What's his name?" the hostess asked.
Samantha snapped her fingers and put on a look of consternation as though the name had escaped her. She turned to me. "What was his name?"
I shook my head. "I've forgotten, but he had brown hair, blue eyes. He was tall . . ."
The hostess considered this. "Was he an older guy with glasses?"
"No. He was young . . . and he had a nice smile . . . " I hoped the hostess would produce a name but instead she shook her head like she too was stumped. "Donald and David are both blond. Randy has red hair. John and Cleave have brown hair but brown eyes . . . Are you sure it was this restaurant?"
It had been this restaurant, but either he wasn't a waiter here or the hostess had forgotten him. And since she was a female and he was a hot guy I doubted she would forget him. So who was he? My hopes fell. "Maybe not," I said, and then I let her lead us to a table.
Dinner consisted of me glancing around the restaurant half a dozen times just to make sure I hadn't somehow overlooked the guy, and me feigning interest in the salt and pepper shakers so I didn't feel like a third wheel in Logan and Samantha's conversation.
Maybe he worked here as a busboy or a chef. Only there wasn't a way for me to casually ask about him now that I'd told the hostess he was a waiter.
Besides, Rachel was right. The whole thing was a stupid idea. It wouldn't have worked anyway.