Be who we are

5. Parlez-Vous Français?

Ferris decided that Cameron's suggestion to go out to lunch was a good one; but what he decided wasn't good was Cam's idea of just stopping at a pizza place or a hot dog stand. No, he shoved us in a cab and told the cab driver something in a hushed voice so we couldn't hear it… and it turned out he said to bring us to the fanciest restaurant in the area. So there we were, standing in the very posh lobby of a French restaurant by the name of Chez Quis; Sloane, Cameron, and I all stood huddled by a wall near Ferris, who leaned over the maitre'd's podium, reading down the list of reservations. I could tell that the two on either side of me felt just as uncomfortable as I was. We were farunderdressed for a place like Chez Quis; most of the women were wearing expensive looking sundresses with pears looping the collumn of their throats as opposed to Sloane and I who were wearing the oh-so-fancy combination of t-shirts and and denim. The men were finely dressed in business suits and silken ties while Cameron and Ferris donned sports jerseys and sweater vests. So in hindsight… we're a bunch of sore thumbs.

"Are you okay with this?" I asked Cam, bouncing up and down on my toes. Sucking his lips into a tight pucker, he shook his head adamantly while he anxiously wrung his plaid cap.

"Not one bit," he replied.

"Sloane?"

"Nope," she sighed out, nervously rubbing one of her temples.

"Good, 'cause neither am I."

We were given the once-over by a waitor in a tailcoat, a judging look in his eyes; I quirked an eyebrow at him and crossed my arms, trying to scare him off. His eyebrow twitched upward in response before he kept on walking, ignoring our presence all together. Cameron grabbed the front of his jersey and pulled it away from his body, shaking it about like he was trying to cool himself off.

"Can we please get the hell out of here? This place gives me the creeps," Cameron told Ferris, looking around nervously. "Why didn't you say we were coming––"

Just then, a blond man with a thin mustache and a pretentious look on his face passed between us and stepped up behind the podium Ferris stood in front of.

"Hello, may I help you?" he asked in an uptight yet lazy voice, clearly unamused to see a bunch of teenagers in his lobby. Ferris flashed a bright grin that made me want to punch him.

"You can sure as hell try," he replied. "Hi. I'm Abe Frohman, party of four for twelve." He shook hands with the Maitre'd, 'discretely' passing him off a one dollar bill. I hid my face behind my hand and groaned lowly; the blond man snorted and dropped it like it was a piece of filth. And seeing as it had come from Ferris' pocket, it might as well have been. "Is there a problem?"

"You're Abe Frohman?" he asked sceptically.

"That's right, I'm Abe Frohman." Another bright smile.

"The Sausage King of Chicago?" By the look on the man's face, he could see right through us.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He just had to choose the one name on the list that happened to be someone of notable influence, he just had to… Ferris' smile dimmed and he let it fall, worry flickering through his eyes.

"Yeah, that's me," Ferris confirmed again. If we weren't in the middle of a goddamn fancy restaurant I would have smacked him right then and there. The maitre'd narrowed his eyes at us.

"Listen, young man, entre nous, I'm very busy here. Why don't you take the kids and go back to the club house?" C'mon, Ferris, just drop it… Instead of dropping it, he just scoffed.

"Are you suggesting I'm not who I say I am?"

"I'm suggesting you should leave before I have to get snooty."