Page 12 of You Had Me at Hello World
“Sorry!” she calls in her lilting customer service voice. She excuses herself and hurries away. I frown. The manager can be such an ass. He once made Mom cover a dine-and-dasher out of her own paycheck.
The evening starts off low-key. A regular couple comes in and flash around photos of their fat-cheeked grandchild at a tulip farm. Some college kids, sun-dazed, collapse in a booth and linger for hours. A boisterous toddler spills a bottle of Kikkoman less sodium soy sauce and his embarrassed parents tip two twenties.
An hour passes. I write a concluding paragraph about how striving for the American Dream is totally pointless. Lola looks at more prom dresses she will never buy.
“Char.” She pushes her laptop screen toward me. “You’d serve so hard in this.” The dress is emerald green, with rhinestones sewn into the bodice. My eyes fall to the price—eighty dollars, but hey, at least there’s free shipping.
Jesus. Isn’t Shein supposed to be cheap? Isn’t that the point of their human rights violations? Even if I were going to prom,I’m not going to drop six hours of minimum wage on something I’ll wear once.
I shrug. “Lo, nobody is taking me to prom.” I’m not a girl who boys want to rent a tux for. They don’t want to gasp after seeing me all glammed up, they don’t want to slip a corsage on my wrist, they don’t want to awkwardly sway to John Legend with me. And that’s fine. That stuff seems like more trouble than it’s worth. John Legend is overrated anyway.
“Darlin’, forget Drew,” she says, as if I haven’t already forgotten him. “Hey, I know. Wyatt Callahan is going alone. You could be his date.”
“Wyatt Callahan, the dude who got caught masturbating in a supply closet last year?”
“I mean, he’s probably washed his hands by now.” But after Lola sees my scrunched-up nose, she relents. “Okay, okay. I can ask Rachel if she knows any other seniors without dates.”
“Nah, don’t bother. We can go together next year when we’re actually seniors.”
She flattens her lips into a slash. “Char, I need to tell you something.”
But before she can say more, my attention is diverted by a commotion several tables away.
A scowling man—a boy, really, he doesn’t look that much older than me—towers over my mother. “I don’t understand.”
“So sorry, sir, but your card declined,” my mom says. The corner of her mouth wobbles, which is how I know she’s frightened.
“Try it again.”
A crease appears between her eyebrows. “Maybe you have other form of payment?”
He tries to sidestep her, but she shuffles her body closer so he can’t leave. Then he shoves my mother hard enough that she stumbles back. He bolts for the exit.
Both Lola and I jump up. My feet bring me out the door, with my best friend right behind.
The coastal wind ices my throat. It feels like my rib cage is shrinking around my lungs. In gym class, I run an eleven-minute mile. The guy is already so far ahead, it’s going to be impossible to catch up.
But Lola is on the track team, and she sprints ahead. When he stumbles over a crack on the sidewalk, that gives her enough time to catch up. She launches herself at him, and they both fall to the ground. With a renewed burst of energy, I propel myself forward and sit on his legs. Quick, shallow gasps force themselves out of my throat. Now that my body finally has permission to stop, it wants to complain about pain everywhere. I can barely collect my thoughts.
Lola sits on his torso.
“Crazy bitches,” the guy mumbles.
For the first time, I see him up close. His glasses rest askew upon his hooked nose. His face is gaunt, his cheeks mottled by ice pick scars. He looks familiar.
My phone rings, but I decline the call.
“Torres?” Lola spits out.
I try to place the name. Torres. Zach Torres. A senior when we were freshmen. Teacher’s aide in my study hall, which meant he playedLeague of Legendswhile the actual teacher on duty indulged his hairnet fetish by sneaking off with the lunch lady.
Wasn’t Zach valedictorian? I thought he got a scholarship to a private school. Notre Dame or Vanderbilt or somewhere. I guess they must’ve been impressed by his Bronze 2 rating in League.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in college?” I blurt out.
“How’s that your business?”
For someone who’s pinned on the sidewalk, he sure has a lot of sass. I shift my weight on his legs. “Well, given that you just dined-and-dashed on my mom, we can call the cops and make it their business instead.”
