"Maybe next weekend," I said, vaguely. He hadn't mentioned a thing, I realized now, about seeing me again. What did that mean? Did he not like me? Or was it just that it was my turn to ask him? Never having dated before, I was not sure how these things worked.
And there was no use asking Ruth. She was even more clueless than I was.
"I still can't believe," she was saying, "that you're seeing a Grit."
"You're such a snob," I said. "What does it matter? He's totally cool. And he knows everything about bikes."
"But he's not going to college, right? After he graduates?"
"No. He's going to work in his uncle's garage."
"Jeez," Ruth said. "Well, I guess it's okay if you just use him for sex and free bike rides."
"I'm hanging up now, Ruth," I said.
"Okay. You working tomorrow?"
"Is the Pope Catholic?"
"Okay. Wow. I can't believe he kissed you."
Actually, I couldn't, either. But I didn't tell Ruth that. Or about how, when he'd done it, I'd practically fallen off the back of his bike, I'd been so surprised. Just because I'm in detention a lot doesn't mean I'm experienced.
I hope it didn't show.
C H A P T E R
8
Every Saturday, and most Sundays after church, I have to work at one of my dad's restaurants. So does Michael. So did Douglas, before he went away to college, and got sick. I guess all kids whose parents own restaurants have to work in them at some point. It's supposed to teach us to have a work ethic, so we don't go around thinking everything just gets handed to you on a platter. Instead, we're the ones handling the platter. And the dishes. And the steam table. And the cash register. And the reservation book.
You name it, and if it has to do with food service, I've done it.
That particular Saturday, though, I was kind of spacing it with the cash register, so Pat, the manager, stuck me on busing. Hey, I had a lot on my mind. And no, it wasn't Rob Wilkins. It was the fact that, when I'd woken up that morning, I knew where Hadley Grant and Timothy Jonas Mills were.
My mom had thrown out the old milk carton, the one with Sean Patrick and Olivia Marie, and bought a new one. And I knew where the missing kids on the new one were, too.
It was freaking me out a little. I mean, where were these dreams coming from? It was so random to just wake up with all this information about a couple of total strangers in my head.
I wasn't going to call again. Once had been bad enough. But twice—well, that was pushing it. I mean, I didn't even know whether or not the information I'd given Rosemary had been accurate. What if it turned out to be totally bogus? What if, by some fluke, that really hadn't been Sean Patrick O'Hanahan? What if it had just been some random kid, and I'd totally freaked him out. . . .
No. It had been him. I remembered the way he'd gone so pale beneath those freckles. It had been Sean, all right.
And if I'd been right about Sean …
The first break I got, I was on the pay phone by the ladies' room, on hold with 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU. I couldn't believe they'd put me on hold. How many people could be calling in on a Saturday afternoon? Jeesh. I only got a five-minute break, and I hadn't even gone to the bathroom yet. The minutes were ticking by, and a family had come in and sat down at one of the tables I hadn't bused yet. They were sitting there, pushing all the empty glasses and used plates into this big, precarious pile. I swear to God, people do not know how to act.
Finally, this woman picked up and asked how she could help me. I went, "Rosemary?"
"No," the woman said. She was white and Southern, I could tell. "Rosemary's not in today. This is Judith. How may I help you?"
I said, "Oh, well, I think I know where these two kids are. Um, Hadley Grant and Timothy Jonas Mills?"
Judith went, "Oh?" in this way suspicious voice.
"Yeah," I said. The family at the table I still hadn't bused was starting to look around in an angry way. One of their kids had tried to drink the leftover ice in one of the used glasses. "Look, Hadley's at—" And I gave her the exact address, which happened to be in Florida. "—and Timothy's in Kansas." I gave her the street address. "Did you get all that?"
"Excuse me, miss," Judith said. "Are you the—"
I said, "Sorry, gotta go," and hung up, mostly because the family was starting to pile the dirty plates on a table that had just opened up beside theirs, but also because I thought Judith had been about to yell at me about Sean and Olivia, and that I did not need.
But after I hung up, I felt better. Just like yesterday. I felt like a weight had been lifted off me.
At least until Pat told me I couldn't bus anymore, and sent me in the back to wash dishes.
The rest of the weekend passed pretty much without incident. On Saturday night, Ruth came over, and this time she actually brought her cello. We played a concerto, then watched some videos she'd rented. Mike came down for a little while and teased us about our taste in movies. Ruth only likes movies that have a beauty makeover in them. Like Pretty Woman, when Julia Roberts gets all the clothes. I tend to like movies with explosions. There's only a few movies that have both. Point of No Return, with Bridget Fonda, is about the only one. We've seen that movie nine times.
Douglas popped in, too, for a few minutes, on his way to the kitchen to dump off some cereal bowls that had been in his room for a few weeks. He watched the movie for a little while, but then my mom caught him, and started asking if he felt all right. So he had to run back upstairs and hide.
Around eleven o'clock, I could have sworn I heard the purr of Rob Wilkins's Indian outside our house. But when I looked out the window, there was no one there. Wishful thinking, I guess. He was probably totally freaked-out by what an inexperienced kisser I am, and would never ask me out again.
Oh, well. His loss.
Sunday, after church, my dad dumped us off at Mastriani's to help with the brunch crowd. Well, me and Mike, anyway. Douglas doesn't have to go to church anymore. Instead, he stays home and reads comic books. I know Douglas is sick and all, but I wouldn't mind staying home on Sunday morning and reading comic books. Or watching TV, even. But I never tried to kill myself, so I have to go to church. And I have to go in a dress that matches my mother's.
It's enough to make a girl think there might not actually be a God.
The only thing that happened on Sunday was that we ran out of milk, and my mom sent me and Mike to the store to buy some. Mike let me drive on the way there, but then, on the way back, he totally wouldn't let me near the wheel. But you know, I think speed limits are really just suggestions. If there's nobody else on the road, you should be able to go as fast as you want. Unfortunately, Mike—and your friends at the Department of Motor Vehicles, who keep refusing to give me a license—disagree.
At the grocery store, I picked out a milk carton that had some kids on it I hadn't seen already, just as a kind of experiment. It was slotted to expire in two days, but the way Douglas chows, I knew we'd need more by tomorrow, anyway. Douglas can eat an entire family-size box of Cheerios in one sitting. It's a wonder he isn't fat. But he's always had a very high metabolism, like Mr. Goodhart.
Also at the grocery store, we ran into Claire Lippman. She was standing by the magazine rack, reading Cosmo, while her mom was rooting through the corn in the vegetable section. Mike stared at her longingly for a while. Finally I got sick of it, and poked him and said, "Just go talk to her, for God's sake."
Mike went, "Oh, right. About what?"
"Tell her you can't wait to see her in Endgame."
"What's that?"
"It's a play. She's in it. She plays Nell. She has to sit in a plastic trash can all during the show."