staff for making such a ruckus. What is the matter with you?
Sorry Mom.
I hesitate at the double doors that lead into the lobby and peek over my shoulder. No one is looking in my direction except for an elderly couple with disapproval written all over their faces. The chair I knocked over has already been picked up. Girlfriend #3 says something and my dad and Brian laugh. I open both doors and slam them behind me as hard as I can.
Bridget the receptionist ends up driving me to town. She isn’t happy about it but the twenty dollar bill wave in front of her face shuts her up.
All the way down the mountain she sneaks sideways glances at me, as if she expects me to do something crazy like hit her over the head or jump out of her rusted out ’89 Oldsmobile while it’s barreling down the road at fifty miles an hour.
When we finally pull into the pot hole riddled parking lot in front of the grocery store she makes a show of locking the car and pocketing the keys after I get out.
“I have to pick up a prescription at the drug store,” she says. “It shouldn’t take long. I’ll meet you back here in half an hour.”
I nod and we go our separate ways. Outside the resort Bridget is very different from inside the resort Bridget, not that I’m surprised. It is scary how easily people can change their personalities to suit their environments. As I walk briskly across the parking lot I wonder which Bridget is real – the bubbly one who sits behind the desk and greets people or the sullen faced one who thinks I am going to steal her car?
The grocery store is curiously busy for a Monday morning. Weaving around the foot traffic I pull a cart out of the cart line and swing it towards the far left aisle where the fresh fruits and veggies are. A lady with a squalling toddler is blocking the oranges, so I veer around her and grab a tote bag of apples instead. The apples look brown and feel a little mushy, but Girlfriend #3 will just have to live with what I get her. Any idiot knows apples aren’t in season.
I’m on my third aisle – canned goods and pastas – when I see him. He is crouched down in front of the spaghetti, easily identifiable by his horn rimmed glasses and sweater vest. It’s a different color than the one from last night, but it still screams geek.
Before I am whip my cart around and make a beeline for the opposite direction, Sam straightens up, a box of spaghetti in hand, and sees me. His eyes light up with recognition behind his dorky glasses and he ambles over.
“Good to see you again,” he says, all kinds of polite.
“Uh, goodtoseeyoutoo,” I mumble. I can’t quite look him in the eye, not after how I acted last night. Why do I have to be so damn rude all the time?
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Shopping.” Just in time I bite off the duh . “My dad’s girlfriend is on this organic kick and they don’t have what she wants at the resort.”
“You didn’t mention your dad’s girlfriend last night,” he says.
“Sorry. Next time I’ll be sure to give you a full report.”
One corner of his mouth quirks. “Are you like this all the time?”
“Like what?”
“Full of sass and vinegar.”
It is such an unusual expression that it takes me a couple of seconds to think up a reply. I always know what to snap back when people call me a bitch, or a brat, or – my personal favorite – a queer goth chick. But full of sass and vinegar? That one takes the cake.
Sam waits patiently, his crooked smile unwavering.
“You are so weird,” I say at last. My shoulders slump. That was lame, even for me.
“Tell me about it,” he says sincerely, taking me by surprise. “What do you have to get next?”
I consult the hastily scribbled list grocery list Girlfriend #3 passed to me on her way to the indoor heated pool and try to ignore that all the I’s are dotted with hearts. “Uh, eggs and milk.”
“Eggs and milk. A staple on any grocery list. Do you mind if I walk with
Sorry Mom.
I hesitate at the double doors that lead into the lobby and peek over my shoulder. No one is looking in my direction except for an elderly couple with disapproval written all over their faces. The chair I knocked over has already been picked up. Girlfriend #3 says something and my dad and Brian laugh. I open both doors and slam them behind me as hard as I can.
Bridget the receptionist ends up driving me to town. She isn’t happy about it but the twenty dollar bill wave in front of her face shuts her up.
All the way down the mountain she sneaks sideways glances at me, as if she expects me to do something crazy like hit her over the head or jump out of her rusted out ’89 Oldsmobile while it’s barreling down the road at fifty miles an hour.
When we finally pull into the pot hole riddled parking lot in front of the grocery store she makes a show of locking the car and pocketing the keys after I get out.
“I have to pick up a prescription at the drug store,” she says. “It shouldn’t take long. I’ll meet you back here in half an hour.”
I nod and we go our separate ways. Outside the resort Bridget is very different from inside the resort Bridget, not that I’m surprised. It is scary how easily people can change their personalities to suit their environments. As I walk briskly across the parking lot I wonder which Bridget is real – the bubbly one who sits behind the desk and greets people or the sullen faced one who thinks I am going to steal her car?
The grocery store is curiously busy for a Monday morning. Weaving around the foot traffic I pull a cart out of the cart line and swing it towards the far left aisle where the fresh fruits and veggies are. A lady with a squalling toddler is blocking the oranges, so I veer around her and grab a tote bag of apples instead. The apples look brown and feel a little mushy, but Girlfriend #3 will just have to live with what I get her. Any idiot knows apples aren’t in season.
I’m on my third aisle – canned goods and pastas – when I see him. He is crouched down in front of the spaghetti, easily identifiable by his horn rimmed glasses and sweater vest. It’s a different color than the one from last night, but it still screams geek.
Before I am whip my cart around and make a beeline for the opposite direction, Sam straightens up, a box of spaghetti in hand, and sees me. His eyes light up with recognition behind his dorky glasses and he ambles over.
“Good to see you again,” he says, all kinds of polite.
“Uh, goodtoseeyoutoo,” I mumble. I can’t quite look him in the eye, not after how I acted last night. Why do I have to be so damn rude all the time?
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Shopping.” Just in time I bite off the duh . “My dad’s girlfriend is on this organic kick and they don’t have what she wants at the resort.”
“You didn’t mention your dad’s girlfriend last night,” he says.
“Sorry. Next time I’ll be sure to give you a full report.”
One corner of his mouth quirks. “Are you like this all the time?”
“Like what?”
“Full of sass and vinegar.”
It is such an unusual expression that it takes me a couple of seconds to think up a reply. I always know what to snap back when people call me a bitch, or a brat, or – my personal favorite – a queer goth chick. But full of sass and vinegar? That one takes the cake.
Sam waits patiently, his crooked smile unwavering.
“You are so weird,” I say at last. My shoulders slump. That was lame, even for me.
“Tell me about it,” he says sincerely, taking me by surprise. “What do you have to get next?”
I consult the hastily scribbled list grocery list Girlfriend #3 passed to me on her way to the indoor heated pool and try to ignore that all the I’s are dotted with hearts. “Uh, eggs and milk.”
“Eggs and milk. A staple on any grocery list. Do you mind if I walk with
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