Page 5 of Surviving You, Scotch and Sammy 1

“How are we doing here, Mr. and Mrs. Ricardo?”

My family’s gazes snap over to the young waiter I know for a fact goes to my school. More than that and more specifically, I know Marcus Macchio lives with the Turner family.

He tears his eyes from mine quickly, looking over me as though he has no clue who I am, though we both know that’s a lie. This town and our school aren’t that big. It’s probably best he doesn’t linger though. If he looked at me for more than two seconds, my daddy would likely go all caveman, assume he was fixin’ to whisk me away for a life of poverty, and he’d start the bullying tactics that he knows wins every time.

Bullying. Lawyering. Same thing in his world.

“We’re fine. Send another bottle of Dom to our table, and a lemon, lime, and bitters for my daughter.” My father turns away without a please or thank you or a second glance at Marcus.

“I can’t serve you alcohol, sir. I’m underage, but I’ll have my manager bring it over immediately.”

“So what exactly are they paying you for, son?”

Marcus ignores my father’s pompous tone, answering easily, “To bring your food and make sure you enjoy yourself.” His words are easy and light, but even I can see the false confidence in his features. “I’ll have your beverages brought over immediately, and I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Ricardo.”

Marcus turns away quickly, but not before his lips turn up in the smallest smirk and he winks. I can’t even be certain it really happened, it was over so fast and so unbelievably unexpected, but the nervous flutters in my belly tell me it really did. My face flashes pink and my eyes drop to my lap as I fuss with my napkin. It almost feels like he’s Turner’s proxy, continuing his date request barrage in his wake.

Crap, I wish I could say yes.

I click my nails against each other as I keep my head down and listen to my parents yammer. I’m embarrassed about my father’s behavior. I hate the heavy-handed way he speaks to people, the way he tries to act and sound bigger than he is to lord himself and his money over smaller people. I doubt they’re impressed. In reality, my father probably eats more meals than he knows with other people’s spit in it.

I slump back in my chair and peek up to watch Marcus walk away, arching my spine in a way I know my mother disapproves of, though she would never mention it here - what would the Jones’ think? – and I kiss yet another Friday night away while I daydream about a band of misfits getting ready to play a show at a shed clear on the opposite side of town.

– Scotch –

Dixie’s Ice Cream

“Wake up, losers. It’s time to go.”

I kick Angelo in the ribs as he cozies up in his sleeping bag on my bedroom floor, then I step over Luc and accidentally kick him in the ribs too. It’s not uncommon for the guys to sleep at my house, and the thick carpet my mom insisted my dad save for a decade means the floor is barely a hardship for them.

Angelo rolls over and grumbles as his long hair fans over his face. “Piss off, Turner.”

“Dixies is waiting. It’s ten a.m. and you know my mom will be up here with the vacuum any minute anyway.”

“Your mom is a pain in my ass,” Luc grumbles, snuggling up to his pillow like it was a big breasted bimbo while his white blonde hair spikes in a thousand different directions.

“That’s not what you said when she served roast beef up to your ungrateful ass last night.”

Luc meets my gaze with his own smartass smirk. “I love your mama, dude. Best cook I ever met.”

“So get up, Slim Shady. Go tell her thank you, then brush your hair cause we’re going out.”

He grunts and rolls over onto his hands and knees, then lifting his sleeping bag, he climbs out and stumbles across the hall to the bathroom.

One down. Two to go.

“Angelo. I won’t tell you again, bro. I have places to be and if we get there too late, Dixies will get busy and Sassy might serve me.” I shudder at the thought. “Ain’t no one taking my cash except Sammy.”

“I think you have a genuine illness,” he grumbles. “It’s not possible that you saw a chick and fell in love. I’m calling bullshit, bud. I’m saying she’s a shiny unavailable toy that you’d have forgotten about two years ago if she didn’t put up a fight.”

I watch him turn over and sit up as his hair falls into his face. I wait for him to scrub at the sleep boogers in his eyes, then meet my gaze again. “No. She’s not a toy and she’s not a passing phase. She’s my forever. You’re just jealous I found her already and you’re still looking.”

He shrugs the way he has a thousand times before when I speak of Sammy Ricardo. “We’re seventeen, bud. I don’t need my forever now, I just need to find a chick who’ll let me touch her boobs. And as far as your forever, I don’t believe you, but I’m your best friend, so--”

“So you’re on my wings. Atta boy. Get up, go take a piss, be downstairs in ten.”

“For fucks sake.” He climbs up from the floor and stumbles around, pulling his pants over his boxer shorts and sniffing shirts to see which is cleanest.

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