My Parents Are Sex Maniacs Page 7

  “Right,” she says, opening the door. “Good luck.”

  11

  The next day I’m too plagued by anxiety and self-doubt to give Sienna’s downward spiral much thought. As I travel the bricked hallway to the Willowbrook Mall food court, my mom’s words echo in my head: I have faith in you. Unfortunately, this mantra serves only to heighten my anxiety. What if I let her down? Does that mean she’ll wallow in self-pity indefinitely? Will she never have a reason to wear normal pants again? And will I be doomed to a loveless future thanks to my lank, mousy hair?

  But it appears my initial instincts were correct when I meet Grant. He’s a stout Asian man who, between cell phone calls, hands me a uniform, takes down my pertinent details, and asks me if I can start Thursday at 5:00 p.m. My mom was right to have faith in me. I’m a natural! “Thursday at five sounds great,” I say, smiling brightly.

  Grant provides me a royal blue golf shirt with a black collar, the Orange Julius logo emblazoned on the breast pocket. I am to wear this with my own black pants. As soon as I get home, I hurry to my room and try the outfit on in front of the mirror. Oh god. Why couldn’t The Gap have called me back? The shirt is really big (I guess extra large means man-size) and the color is really unflattering. But I just have to remember that this job is a means to an end. I’m sure the uniform will look much better once my hair is highlighted. I walk to the living room, where my mom is lying on the sofa watching Trading Spaces. “Ta-da!” I say.

  She looks up. “You got the job!” she says, her voice happy but weary. “That’s great, honey.”

  “Thanks. I start Thursday.”

  “Wow. That’s so soon.”

  “Yeah.” I pause here, considering whether I should say something to prompt her own transformation, like, Maybe it’s time to throw those sweatpants in the laundry?

  But before I can speak, my mom says, “I’m really proud of you, Louise.” She gives me a heartwarming smile. “Would you mind making me a cup of peppermint tea?” and turns her attention back to the TV.

  The rest of the week drags in anticipation of my first day of work. Sienna is conspicuously absent for three lunch breaks. At least it is conspicuous to me, since I know about her developing friendship with Dean Campbell. Of course, I can’t say anything about it for fear that Tracey Morreau might get suspicious and go on a high school killing rampage. Judging by Tracey’s much less revealing clothing and her shuffling, melancholy walk, she’s clearly still mourning the end of her relationship with Dean. But that doesn’t mean she knows about Sienna. Given that my best friend’s face is still intact, Tracey’s probably in the dark about that.

  I spend my lunch hours working on the East Village back-drop for Rent. Since my dad’s fortieth, Sienna and I haven’t spent much time working on our fashion designs, and I don’t want to lose my drawing talent due to neglect. While I still pull my sketch pad out on occasion, without my Dolce, I can’t seem to draw any clothing. Instead, I find myself sketching nasty caricatures of Sunny Lewis-Marshall.

  Unfortunately, my new job is going to cut into the time I have to devote to stagecraft club. I break the news to our drama teacher, Mr. Sumner. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got an after-school job,” I explain. “I won’t be able to spend as much time on sets.”

  Mr. Sumner sighs exasperatedly. (Being a drama teacher, he is very dramatic.) “Well, I’m sorry to say that the timing couldn’t be worse. Graham Williams just dropped out as Angel, and Aaron and I are desperately trying to recast. It’s not easy finding someone in high school comfortable enough to play a transvestite, you know.”

  “I’m sure it’s not,” I say sympathetically.

  “And now our best set designer is leaving. We don’t need this, Louise, we really don’t.”

  “Well, I’ll still be able to help out at lunch.”

  Mr. Sumner gives an indifferent shrug. “I suppose some help would be better than none.”

  “It’s just that . . . ” I pause for a moment to heighten the impact of my words. “ . . . my father has left us,” I say. “I need to get a job to help out with the family finances.” I feel even worse after this bald-faced lie, but the words are out before I can stop them. I know for a fact that my dad, while apparently quite comfortable shirking his emotional responsibilities to his family, would never shirk his financial ones.

  “Oh, Louise,” he says, looking at me with eyes full of pity. He reaches for my hand and gives it an intense squeeze. “I’m so sorry. Of course we can make do without you. And if you ever, ever need to talk, my door is always open.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble and hurry away. Already I’m wondering how I’m going to avoid Mr. Sumner when I return to school with a full head of highlights and beautifully shaped hair.

  But bad news travels fast in theatrical circles, and when I go to my locker after fourth period, Aaron has heard about my resignation. “Sorry to hear you’re leaving stagecraft club,” he says, leaning against his closed locker.

  “Well,” I say, feeling guilty again, “I can still help out at lunch.”

  “And sorry to hear about your dad leaving.”

  A lump forms in my throat and I focus on my combination lock. Aaron continues, “My parents got divorced when I was seven. It’s tough, but it’ll get easier.”

  I can’t look at him. If I do, I’m afraid I’ll dissolve into tears. Instead, I give a mute shrug. Aaron seems to sense that I’m on the verge of an emotional breakdown. He reaches out and gives my shoulder a little pat. “You’re a really great set designer, Louise. But you’re right, family’s more important.” I watch him stroll leisurely off toward his next class. As usual, I can’t help but wish that he was taller.

  On Thursday, Sienna is once again absent at lunch. My concern for her safety and decision-making abilities mounting, I wait for her return in the school’s front lobby. Seconds before the bell rings, my worst suspicions are confirmed when I hear the loud rumble of Dean Campbell’s primer-colored jeep. It pulls up out front and Sienna stumbles out of the passenger door.

  “What are you doing?” I growl, holding the door open for her.

  “What?” she says, through an enormous wad of Juicy Fruit.

  “What do you mean—what? Tracey Morreau could have seen you with Dean.”

  Sienna makes some dismissive spitting noise with her lips.

  Though I agree that Tracey Morreau is slightly less frightening now that she is sniveling all the time and mumbling to herself, Sienna’s lack of concern for her personal safety can only mean one thing. “You’re stoned again, aren’t you?”

  “No!”

  I lean in close and smell her breath. Through the fruity gum, I get a distinctive whiff of beer. “Oh my god! You’re drunk!”

  As usual, Sienna rolls her eyes at my completely justified concern. “I’m not drunk. I had a couple of drinks.”

  “At lunch?”

  She shrugs, attempting to walk past me. “Lots of people drink at lunch.”

  “Not eleventh-graders!” I say, grabbing her arm. Technically, this is not true. There are many lunchtime drinkers at Red Cedars, but most of them have serious issues, like kleptomania and rage at authority figures.

  Sienna slowly extracts her arm. “Will you calm down? Dean and I had lunch and a couple of beers. It’s no big deal.”

  “Suddenly, you’re drinking at lunch and it’s no big deal?” I snap. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Nothing, Mom!” she says venomously. I recoil from her words as if she’d slapped me. It’s one thing when the other girls mock my sensible and responsible (a.k.a. mothering) tendencies, but this is Sienna! She’s not supposed to turn on me.

  Sienna doesn’t apologize. She just says, “We’d better get to class. We’re already late.”

  12

  After school, as I change into my Orange Julius uniform, I vow to put the day’s unpleasantness behind me. And maybe Sienna is right. Having a couple of drinks at lunch is not that big a deal. When we live in New York, we’ll probably
drink at lunch all the time. Sienna is just . . . practicing, I guess. But my negative thoughts are harder to shake than I anticipated. It doesn’t help that I look like a complete dork in this uniform. And what’s worse, my mom has obviously welched on our deal. I had assumed that the news of my employment would be met with a symbolic burning of the sweatpants or something. This is supposed to be a new chapter of her life as well. But as I head to the bus stop, she only tears her eyes from Dr. Phil long enough to say, “Good luck, honey.”

  When I arrive at Willowbrook, I take a deep breath and approach the booth. “Hi,” I say to the lone occupant, a girl of about eighteen with bright red hair and an unfortunate complexion. “I’m Louise. I’m starting today.”

  “Hey,” she mutters, opening the half-door to let me inside. She hands me a rectangular plastic pin. “Put this on.”

  It says: Please be patient. I’m new.

  As I fasten it to my breast pocket, I read her pin: Hello. My name is Jackie.

  “Russell is supposed to be training you,” she says, “but he had to make a phone call or something. He’s probably just shopping. He’s such a slacker.”

  “Oh.” I laugh nervously.

  “So, I guess I can show you some stuff.” She looks around, seemingly at a loss as to where to start. “The frozen stuff is there.” She indicates the freezer with a wave of her hand. “The powders and stuff are here . . . ” she halfheartedly gestures to a row of plastic bins affixed to the wall. “Cash register . . . blenders . . . hot dog machine . . . ”

  This is training? God, I hope that Russell guy gets back here soon. Jackie leaves me to attend to a customer and I take a deep, calming breath. Okay, it’s apparent that I’m going to have to learn by example. I watch intently as my coworker ladles syrupy strawberries into an ice-filled blender.

  Suddenly, there’s a presence behind me. Jackie shoots a look over my shoulder. “It’s about time,” she grumbles.

  I turn to face the returning Russell, whom I sincerely hope will be a more hands-on trainer than Jackie. But what meets my eyes steals my breath away. Oh god! I suddenly feel a little faint. My first day of work and now I am faced with this. Russell, my coworker and trainer, is the most gorgeous guy I have ever seen!

  “You must be Louise,” he says, giving me a slow, crooked, young-Elvis type of grin.

  My cheeks are on fire. “Yes. Hi.”

  “Russell Finney. Nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand. Oh god, he wants me to touch his hand! To touch his skin, that warm, caramel-colored skin that is covering his body. That strong, taut body that looks hot even encased in an Orange Julius uniform! God, I’ve really got to get this shirt taken in. Bravely, I stick out my hand and he takes it. Luckily, I don’t suffer a seizure from the jolt of electricity his touch sends through me.

  Jackie interrupts the moment. “You’d better get training her. It’s going to be super busy in about an hour.”

  It takes every bit of strength I have to focus on the task at hand. Luckily, Russell is such a good teacher that I’m feeling infinitely more capable as our training session progresses. He is also witty and charming, making the tasks painless and even fun. Of course, being mauled by a grizzly bear would be painless and fun if I could stare at Russell’s chiseled cheekbones, his khaki-colored eyes, and soft, light brown hair. There’s something so perfect, almost pretty about him, like a young Brad Pitt. I have found him! Here at Orange Julius, I have found “my type”!

  Eventually, Russell says, “You’re a quick learner, Louise. I think you’re ready for your first customer.”

  “Really? Do you think so?” I gush, my face getting all hot and red again. “Well, you did such a great job training me so . . . maybe I can try.” Judging by the roll of Jackie’s eyes, I’m laying it on a bit thick. But it’s true. He did do a great job training me, and I feel ready. I serve my first customer a Raspberry Julius and a jumbo dog without mishap. This just might be the greatest after-school job a girl has ever had!

  Jackie is off at seven, leaving Russell and me alone. Of course, we’re not alone alone. There are approximately two hundred people in the food court, but still, I feel there is something intimate about being the only two behind the Orange Julius counter. But I can’t let our chemistry distract me. I’m new at this and I can’t afford to screw up. There’s no need for concern though. Russell and I seamlessly assemble hot dogs and blend smoothies, like a well-oiled machine. What a team!

  When the dinner rush has slowed, Russell makes himself a hot dog. “Want one?” he asks.

  “Are we allowed?” It might sound lame, but I can’t risk being fired for hot dog stealing. This job is more important to me than ever.

  Russell says, “We can just say we dropped a couple dogs on the floor.”

  I can’t do it. “I’m not really hungry,” I say, then change the subject. “So, how long have you been working here?”

  He slathers mustard on his hot dog. “I moved here from Phoenix six months ago. I’ve been at OJ for about four.”

  Phoenix. How exotic.

  “My dad was a golf pro in Phoenix,” Russell says. “One day he was helping this tourist lady perfect her swing and then next thing you know . . . he’s moved to Langley and he’s living with her.”

  “He sounds a lot like my dad,” I say. God, we have so much in common.

  “Your parents split up?” Russell asks.

  “Yeah,” I say almost thankfully. I mean, I’m not happy about everything that’s happened, but at least it’s providing me with a bonding moment with Russell.

  “Mine split when I was thirteen,” Russell explains, taking a bite of his hot dog. “My dad moved up here, and my younger brother and I stayed with my mom.”

  “Was it hard when your dad left?”

  “It was weird at first, but he was never home anyway. He was always working . . . or ‘screwing his clients,’ as my mom says.”

  “My dad wasn’t around much either. He’s in real estate.”

  “The weird thing was that my parents never really fought,” Russell elaborates. “I thought everything was fine, and then one day . . . she just kicked him out.”

  “That’s exactly like my parents,” I say. “Except that my brother walked in on my dad getting a blow job from my mom’s best friend at his fortieth birthday party.”

  Russell nearly chokes on his hot dog. “Your poor mom . . . and your poor brother!”

  “I know. He’s going to be such a psycho when he grows up.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “Oh, like, a month ago.”

  “That’s awful!” Russell says, placing his hot dog on the counter. “You must be so hurt . . . and angry.”

  To my horror, I feel the emotion start to build in my chest. I can’t fall apart in front of Russell. I don’t want him to think I’m an emotionally unstable basket case from a dysfunctional family . . . even if that’s what I am. I take a deep breath. “Yeah ... I mean, my dad basically destroyed my family . . . and my best friend’s family. But then he’s still my dad, so I still sort of love him, I guess . . . in a way. It’s complicated.”

  Russell reaches over and gives my shoulder a squeeze. It’s just a friendly squeeze of support, but still, it is caring, physical contact. I feel the tears welling in my eyes and I hurriedly search for the wiping-up cloth.

  “Hey,” Russell says as I scrub frantically at a permanent mustard stain on the counter, “we’ve got customers.”

  I turn and see my mom and Troy. “We’d like to place an order, please,” my mom says with mock formality.

  “Why of course, madam.” I play along. Looking down, I’m pleased to see she is wearing jeans. Actual jeans and a clean sweater! This is such a good sign.

  Troy says, “I’ll have two jumbo hot dogs and a Strawberried Treasure Smoothie. And make it fast.”

  “Right away, sir.” I reply.

  Russell approaches behind me. “These demanding people must be your family.”

  “How’d you guess?
” I laugh.

  “Let’s see . . . ” he says, “your older sister and your younger brother?”

  My mom laughs, charmed. “Well, thank you very much, but I’m her mom.”

  “You must have had children very young.”

  “Oh yes,” my mom giggles, “I was just a teenager.” When Russell moves to the freezer, she gives me a look that says What a delightful young man and I feel my cheeks get red.

  As I efficiently complete Mom and Troy’s order, I experience a real sense of optimism. My mom is out of the house and wearing proper clothing. My job is going well so far, and I’ve just met the most attractive, interesting guy I’ve met in . . . well, ever. Sure, my best friend is dating a creepy, older guy and meeting him for boozy lunches, but there are worse things, right? Maybe things are going to be okay after all? Yes, we’ve had a difficult month, but it looks like we’re on the mend. Maybe my dad was right—everything will turn out okay.

  13

  Of course I’m dying to tell Sienna about Russell! The next day, I find her at her locker before first period. I’d prefer to talk to her before she is surrounded by the rest of her entourage, and before she’s had her daily noon-hour drinks. “Oh my god!” I say as I recount my first day of work. “Russell is so good-looking and still so funny and nice and cool!”

  “That’s great!” Sienna says.

  “I mean, I didn’t think you could get all those qualities in one guy.”

  “Like Dean,” she says, and I stifle my reaction.

  “Right,” I say as enthusiastically as possible. “I guess I never thought I’d find my ‘type’ in Langley. Like, I always thought I’d have to wait until New York, but now, here he is, at Orange Julius.”