Page 41 of Kitty Season
“Nothing really. Just something Brady did.”
“Speaking of Brady.” Noah throws the last of the breakfast plates into the dishwasher, then stands aside for Lotte to re-do it correctly. “What’s going on there?”
Shit, they heard.
“Nothing,” I snap. “Nothing’s going on. Nothing at all. Why? Did you hear something? Because you really shouldn’t eavesdrop Noah. Bad form. Bad, bad … form.” Am I backing away in a similar manner to Brady earlier? Yes. Yes I am.
“Actually I was talking about Big D’s form last night, but I’m much more interested in whatyouthink I was asking about.”
“Me too.” Lotte squeals. “Dish Quinny.” Two peas in a nosy pod, they sit themselves at the island bench, elbows resting on the marble, chins propped on their clenched fists.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That’s me.
“Yes you do.” That’s Noah.
“No I don’t.” Me again.
“We think you do.”Andthat’s Lotte.
“Look, just because you’re sex-crazed and bonking like bunnies every chance you get, doesn’t mean we all are.”
“Who’s we, and who said anything about sex? I didn’t. Did you, Little D?”
“No, I don’t believe I did, Noah.”
“Well. I—” My brain searches for some lame-ass excuse but only succeeds in conjuring flashbacks to a hockey game where I awkwardly waffled on about dim sum to Claire for twenty minutes. Lying is not my forte. Acting like a brat is. So I stomp my feet, huff, and slap my hands across my chest. “I just presumed because … because, just because I’m a strong, intelligent, independent and sexually confident young woman with a penchant for hockey boys, everyone assumes I can’t be friends with one. It’s classic bunny slut-shaming, and I won’t stand for it.”
There’s not a snowflake’s chance in hell either of them are buying it, but I’m faking it till I make it the hell out of here. “Thank you for breakfast and your gifts, but if you’ll excuse me, I think I might treat myself to a birthday mani-pedi.”
Escape and the staircase is in sight when Lotte overzealously clears her throat and hollers, “I presume you mean after midday, because I’m certain such a strong, intelligent, independent and sexually confident young woman with a penchant for hockey boys, like you, wouldn’t need reminding of her shift at Bookz and Beanz in forty-five minutes.”
Shit.
“Am I a natural service person? No. Am I hard working? Not particularly. Am I allowed near the coffee maker thingy? Or the sandwich toaster. Or anything else hot? No.ButI have figured out the till. Word has spread that I no longer give full refunds if a coffee goes weirdly cold thirty minutes after it was served. I’ve lasted two whole days longer than Dad predicted, and that, my friend, makes the snickers, princess jibes, and the scolds worth it.”
“Quinn.” Amidst rattling pots and curse words, Callie summons me from the kitchen. “Can you give me a hand out back for a second?”
“And could you give me my frappe right this second? You’ve been monologuing for like five minutes.” I drop the can of cream and scramble to hand the overflowing drink to its owner. “Shit, sorry. Sure thing, Chip. Enjoy!” Of course. Trust me to uninvitedly debrief all over Chip Kwon, head of BC BooBoo; Boston College’s gossip page on Insta. He’s sure to keep it all to himself.
It’s true that things are getting better, but it’s also fair to say that the road from princess to waitress is a rocky one littered with far more burns, cuts, blisters and daggers than I would ever have imagined. Especially today, when I have Troye’s whispered words and the possibilities of the night ahead clouding my mind.
So while the physical dangers remain, hence only making cold drinks four shifts in, the rumbling resentment in the ranks over my hiring has dimmed to a sympathetic, running joke. I can’t even say the hostility directed at me was undeserved. Almost every hockey jock on campus has been in and tipped me twice as much for doing half the work as they have the non-millionaire coach related staff. Most of that money was snuck back into the tip jar every chance I got, but then Mika busted me, and that went over as well as my suggestion for a sexy calendar shoot to raise funds for the hockey team’s end of season trip.
As a precautionary measure, I shove my hands into the fire resistant mitts Callie gave me last shift, and push my way through the saloon-style doors. “Yes, the frother stick-thing was set to the wrong temperature, but I swear I didn’t touch it.” I don’t think I did anyway.
Callie grins and pulls a tiny blue box with white ribbon from her pocket. “I know you didn’t. That’s not why I called you back here. This is.”
“Is that a Tiffany’s box?”Am I drooling?Wiping my chin with the back of my left hand, I inch forward and hold out my right.
“Don’t get too excited, Quinny. I found the box in a dumpster outside my dorm and thought of you … but I did clean and sanitize it,” she adds when my face screws up of its own accord.
“That’s so … thoughtful. Thank you, Callie.” Trying not to wince, I plaster on my most serene, princess face and take my street trash from Callie’s open palm. I don’t want to. I’m as sure that you can’t sterilize a cardboard box as I am certain that licking the bottom of my shoe would be more hygienic. But I also want to fit in, and if dying of a plague-soaked gift box related death will get me there, second hand dumpster germs and a well attended wake it is.
Thank God I have my gloves.
Box in hand, I step back and study it.
“Did you just sniff it, Quinn?”Shit, did I?
