Madly In Love

Chapter Seven: Let's All Play The Blame Game

Chapter Seven:

Let's All Play The Blame Game

I’m going to apologise. Pacing the worn black carpet of my bedroom, I toy with the phone, rolling it between my hands and gnawing on my bottom lip. This is undeserved torture! I shouldn’t be the one ready to tear my hair out, she should. I should be screening her calls and spreading nasty rumours.

But I’m not; I’m sitting on my unmade bed, worrying about how she’s taking it. If her dad’s back yet and if he’s messed with her. I’m worrying about school tomorrow and how I’m going to be received there. If she’ll sneer at me or look painfully saddened that I’m not a part of her crazy life.

Of course the probability that she will show me any emotion other than contempt is less than unlikely. She’s probably found a new friend. One that knows the latest about Brad and Angelina or what the hell bump-it’s are.

I hate her new friend already.

Throwing myself backwards I moan and groan and kick my legs childishly. Why? Why me? I’m a good person, most of the time. I work two jobs, get good grades. I’ve never smoked, never been stoned. So why was I being punished?

Okay, maybe I’m being a little melodramatic, but I feel so hollow. My life without Meredith this past weekend has sucked. Just like they always do when we fight, but I’ve never waited so long to mend things and it’s sort of killing me in a teenage-angst type way.

“Isabelle?! It’s time to go!” My mom’s voice pulses through our cardboard walls and I groan some more as I struggle upright.

Taking my sweet time, I grab my jacket and slowly slip it on, catching my sour expression in the little mosaic mirror opposite me. The mosaic mirror Meredith got me for my tenth birthday, my hands slip over the cool surface of my beat-up cell. One call wouldn’t hurt.

“Isabelle Ray! If you are not down these stairs in three seconds…!” Letting her threat hang in the air around me, I drop my cell into my pocket, snatching my bag and fleeing from my room. It was over three seconds, but from the reproachful stare of my mother’s dark eyes, I see I am mildly forgiven.

As she ushers me out our creaky front door, I can’t help but sigh in disdain. My mother mirror’s me with her own sigh of exasperation.

“I know you don’t want to take this shift. I get it! I was young once. But I’m sure everything will be fine.” She says, trying in vain to make me feel better.

But as if the heavens know the outcome, they start pouring down sheets of cold rain, I bolt for the rickety pick-up in the drive-way, mom out on my heels.

We both breathe relief as she slams her door closed and shakes off the rain. “Okay sweetie, the weather isn’t on our side, but you’ll be fine!” She leans her arm over and rubs my damp shoulder. Smiling over at her, I take in her flowery scrubs and her crinkly eyes. Another late shift at the hospital. And I smile wider; because even though I’d much rather eat my own liver than take this shift at Pickety’s. My mother has to dote on bratty little kids with busted knees and idiots how’ve had too much to drink.

As she pulls up in front of the café, I lean over the gear stick and hug her side. “Good luck with work!” I say, before hopping out the truck and running like a mad woman towards the café doors.

The bell above the door rings loudly as I rush inside, already shrugging out of my rain-sodden coat. Just as I hook it on the coat stand, Mickey thumps around the door to the kitchen, a dirty rag in his hand and frown on his face.

“You’re let, Ray. You ain’t got no watch?” He asks in his hoarse, smoke ravaged grumble.

Shaking my head, I use the great strength within – the very same strength that has stopped me from calling Meredith – to not roll my eyes at this old man and flip him off. “Guess I forgot, Mick.” I say, my tone slick with sarcasm as I flip the strap of my apron over my head and fold my pony tail through the gap in my work cap.

He snorts condescendingly, flipping the rag over his shoulder and scowling at me, “You best remember or you can forget to come in.” He spits through his gums and I want to lean over and strangle him. Today is not the day for Mickey’s attitude.

“Well then I guess it’s a good thing you don’t own the place, Mick. Or I’d be out of a job.” I smile over at him, patting his tense shoulders as I take my place behind the counter. He has no audible answer, but as he walks past me to go back into his kitchen cubby, I think he mumbles ‘Damn right’.

*~MIL~*

Rubbing the rag over the grease covered table, I huff and haw. Today has been the worst day. As I struggle not to fold myself into the tempting brass seat, I contemplate why the whole of Grenver chose a day when the heavens open to come to our Podunk café. I want to scream at them for their idiocy. But apparently, that’s bad customer service.

Blowing a way-ward strand of hair from my eyes, I straighten my achy back and look over to where Micky smirks back.

“Got another customer, Ray. You best be on your heels, wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.” He drawls spitefully and this time, I do flip him off. My middle finger salutes him as I stomp past towards the occupied booth at the back of the place.

A mop of black hair greets me as I stop beside the booth. His shoulders are hunched as he scribbles away furiously. It’s almost funny. Snorting quietly, I fold some hair behind my ear and clear my throat.

A familiar face pops up sharply. Dropping the yellow pencil on the table to push his thick framed glasses up his nose.

I know his name; it’s on the tip of my tongue. His cheeks redden and his nose scrunches as I stare at him. I know him.

Just then, he looks at me imploringly, silently asking what I’m doing at his table. Snapping back to reality, I wave my little notebook at him and try to smile through my embarrassment. “I’m Isabelle, I’m your waitress?” I say to him with question, my eyebrows raised as I wait for it to click. When is does, his cheeks go ruddy once more and he lowers his eyes with a shake of his head.

“I just want to write. I’m fine.” He says clearly, dismissing me and I stutter, not knowing what to say.

“Um, sorry sir, but we have… uh, a policy. You have to order something.” I shrug, looking on as he contemplates this with rosy cheeks and wavering blue eyes.

Finally he nods, twiddling his fingers as he thinks, “Just some iced tea then, thank you.” With that, he again lowers his head, lifting his pencil and resuming his scribbles.

Just as I swing around in some sort of confused shock, I swing back on my heels. “Do I know you?” The question is like chili on my tongue as I squint at him in anticipation, waiting for his answer. His head lifts slowly as he nods and something builds within as he opens his mouth to answer.

“We’ve gone to school together all our lives. Dexter?” He says in a slow and calculated tone and behind that tone I think I see a little hurt that I don’t know him. “We sit together in Spanish.” He finishes and I turn swiftly, rushing off with his order crushed in my sweaty hand.

As I bite the pad of my thumb, I am filled with such a revolting sense of guilt. Am I really that self-involved? Do I dismiss everyone because of the company I keep? Is it so bad that I can't even recall the name of a guy I've sat with so long? I cute one too! 

Looking over to his table I watch as I scribbles on his book and shakes his hair every now and then. I;d remember him. Maybe he's lying. Of course, there I am, blaming the opposite party when I'm obviously to blame. Because now that I think about it, he does sit with me in Spanish, I remember the many times he's leant me a pencil and I can't even recall his name. Dexter. 

Maybe I’m a bad person after all. Maybe I deserve all this rain.