Read Online Smart Mouth Waitress by Dalya Moon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dalya Moon
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Love & Romance
Ads: Link
you,” Courtney said. “You guys just need to spend more time together.”
“What do you mean, you told her ? Did she say something about me?”
“No,” she lied.
Courtney is a terrible liar—her whole face practically twitches—so I knew she was lying. If Britain had been talking about me, that meant she was threatening me to my face as well as sabotaging me behind my back.
“You two young lovers have fun,” I said. “I've got bus tickets that'll get me home.”
She didn't make any effort to convince me to stay, and Marc was nowhere to be seen, so I headed for the exit before my night could get worse.
Outside, I caught a B-Line full of every creepy, smelly weirdo within Metro Vancouver. At least the bright interior lights mercifully dimmed once we got rolling, and the B-Line is pretty fast, because it zips along Broadway with minimal stops. I'd be at my home near Main Street in no time.
To pass the time, I read all the back-lit advertisements for exciting careers in tourism or dentistry, as well as a disturbing but almost-pretty ad for donating your lungs. I turned back to the career ads, wondering if the models were people in those careers, or simply models. They weren't good-looking enough to be fashion models, but they weren't quite average-looking either. Could I get a job as a slightly-better-looking-than-average model for career ads?
When I was in high school, I thought I'd have things figured out by graduation. So many other kids knew exactly what they wanted to be, from veterinarians to hockey players. A lot of their career goals were ridiculous and unlikely, but still, I envied them their dreams.
The only thing I'd always known about my future life was I didn't want to be like either of my parents. I didn't want to diagram water pipes and talk about retirement, nor would I choose to be chewed up and spat out by the entertainment industry.
Done with the ads, and wanting to avoid conversation with the guy who'd just sat next to me, I pulled out my phone. The guy had light brown dreadlocks and wore sandals that highlighted his gnarly yellow toenails. He was maybe twenty, but had the toenails of a much older person.
Minutes passed, and he still hadn't said anything to me. I nearly started a conversation myself, just to make things normal, when I realized he wasn't talking to me because I didn't have my dreadlocks anymore. We were no longer in the same club, insta-buddies.
That gave me mixed feelings: relief tinged with loneliness.
On my phone, I scrolled through my emails, looking for messages from my mother. A new one from her came in as I was looking at the screen. We do have a psychic connection at times—one that mystifies my father. The text read check out this arm candy , and she was standing next to that skinny guy who's in Maroon 5 and also on that singing show, The Voice . He's got that pretty-boy, sexy look: Adam Levine.
He had the Moves Like Jagger , and his arm around my mother.
While you might think it's cool to meet rock stars, or hear about meeting them from a family member, it's tempered by that uneasiness you might get from seeing a dude—a hot one who always has his shirt off in music videos—touching your mom. She's a person in her own right, but she's still your mom .
I showed the photo to the guy sitting next to me—the guy with the dreadlocks, and tried to explain the whole situation, but he was not very chatty. He said, “I'm German, no English.”
“Sure you are,” I said, returning my attention to my phone.
It wasn't the worst bus ride of my life, but things were not right in the universe that night, and I was in a strange emotional state—kind of a full-moon feeling. I wanted to go to the country and bay at all the stars you can't see in the city. I wanted to row a boat out into English Bay and be alone.
Instead, I went home, washed up the dinner dishes, and did laundry. Like a good little housewife.
Chapter 7
Wednesday at work, I was off my
“What do you mean, you told her ? Did she say something about me?”
“No,” she lied.
Courtney is a terrible liar—her whole face practically twitches—so I knew she was lying. If Britain had been talking about me, that meant she was threatening me to my face as well as sabotaging me behind my back.
“You two young lovers have fun,” I said. “I've got bus tickets that'll get me home.”
She didn't make any effort to convince me to stay, and Marc was nowhere to be seen, so I headed for the exit before my night could get worse.
Outside, I caught a B-Line full of every creepy, smelly weirdo within Metro Vancouver. At least the bright interior lights mercifully dimmed once we got rolling, and the B-Line is pretty fast, because it zips along Broadway with minimal stops. I'd be at my home near Main Street in no time.
To pass the time, I read all the back-lit advertisements for exciting careers in tourism or dentistry, as well as a disturbing but almost-pretty ad for donating your lungs. I turned back to the career ads, wondering if the models were people in those careers, or simply models. They weren't good-looking enough to be fashion models, but they weren't quite average-looking either. Could I get a job as a slightly-better-looking-than-average model for career ads?
When I was in high school, I thought I'd have things figured out by graduation. So many other kids knew exactly what they wanted to be, from veterinarians to hockey players. A lot of their career goals were ridiculous and unlikely, but still, I envied them their dreams.
The only thing I'd always known about my future life was I didn't want to be like either of my parents. I didn't want to diagram water pipes and talk about retirement, nor would I choose to be chewed up and spat out by the entertainment industry.
Done with the ads, and wanting to avoid conversation with the guy who'd just sat next to me, I pulled out my phone. The guy had light brown dreadlocks and wore sandals that highlighted his gnarly yellow toenails. He was maybe twenty, but had the toenails of a much older person.
Minutes passed, and he still hadn't said anything to me. I nearly started a conversation myself, just to make things normal, when I realized he wasn't talking to me because I didn't have my dreadlocks anymore. We were no longer in the same club, insta-buddies.
That gave me mixed feelings: relief tinged with loneliness.
On my phone, I scrolled through my emails, looking for messages from my mother. A new one from her came in as I was looking at the screen. We do have a psychic connection at times—one that mystifies my father. The text read check out this arm candy , and she was standing next to that skinny guy who's in Maroon 5 and also on that singing show, The Voice . He's got that pretty-boy, sexy look: Adam Levine.
He had the Moves Like Jagger , and his arm around my mother.
While you might think it's cool to meet rock stars, or hear about meeting them from a family member, it's tempered by that uneasiness you might get from seeing a dude—a hot one who always has his shirt off in music videos—touching your mom. She's a person in her own right, but she's still your mom .
I showed the photo to the guy sitting next to me—the guy with the dreadlocks, and tried to explain the whole situation, but he was not very chatty. He said, “I'm German, no English.”
“Sure you are,” I said, returning my attention to my phone.
It wasn't the worst bus ride of my life, but things were not right in the universe that night, and I was in a strange emotional state—kind of a full-moon feeling. I wanted to go to the country and bay at all the stars you can't see in the city. I wanted to row a boat out into English Bay and be alone.
Instead, I went home, washed up the dinner dishes, and did laundry. Like a good little housewife.
Chapter 7
Wednesday at work, I was off my
Similar Books
