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“MT, you okay?”
“Yeah, I just remembered something.”
“You did? What?” She sounds apprehensive.
“I just remembered that I like surfing.”
Summer laughs, sounding relieved. It strikes me as odd, but I can’t work out why.
“Well, duh. Of course you did. You’ve been surfing pretty much since you could walk. You lived right near the beach back home. How did you forget that?”
As soon as Summer says it, I know it’s true. That I never reallyforgot. I shake my head.
“No, I mean, I remember that I loved surfinghere.I’ve been to loads of the beaches on this island.”
This time Summer gives me a tight smile and a terse nod. “That’s right, you did.”
“Huh. Who knew?”
That realisation is hard to get my head around. Actually, I think the meds have kicked in. I’m feeling a bit…spacey. Maybe she gave me too much? By accident, of course.
She reloops her arm through mine and drags me on. I’m grateful for the contact actually, it helps me to keep putting one foot in front of the other. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
We continue on our way, and before long Summer is leading me towards a restaurant which looks way too fancy to let me in.Suitesthe gold script sign on a black – is that real marble? – background declares.I feel uncomfortable just standing outside the place. I swear the pavement is different here. Shinier, smoother. Polished. I really don’t want to go inside. It doesn’t seem like the sort of place any college students would go. We’re going to stand out horribly.Like a sore thumbas the saying goes.
I actually understand that one. I hit my thumb with a hammer in class once and it throbbed for hours afterwards. It didn’t matter what I did to take my mind off things, all I could concentrate on was mysore thumb.
“Come on, MT. I don’t want to be late.”
Summer drags me through the door which is actually being held open by a tuxedoed doorman – I didn’t know restaurants had those, I thought it was just fancy hotels – and marches over to the maître d’ as if she owns the place.
Summer may have said this is the nicest place her boyfriends will have taken her, but she’s no stranger to dining in venues like this. It’s the sort of place our parents love. Stuck up and judgemental, if the look the maître d’ is giving me is anything to go by.
The only difference being that Summer’s parents would always take her with them, while mine never would. I was far too much of an embarrassment to be willingly seen in public with.
“Table for seven under the name of Smith.”
Smith? How very…ordinary. I don’t mean that in a mean way; my name is a mouthful enough. I’d love to be called something so simple like that. I wonder which of Summer’s five guys is Mr. Smith. I giggle to myself when it reminds me of the film with the secret agents and their aliases.
My train of thought then jumps to my professor and my cheeks flush. Everyone just calls him the prof or professor, that if it weren’t for his emails, I wouldn’t even know his teacher name. Which is Mr. Leah. I find it ironic as it means weary and conjures up images of King Lear. He was an asshole too. Big time.
“Right this way, please.” The man sniffs before leading us through another set of doors and into the opulent restaurant. It’s white walls, white table cloths, sparkling crystal glasses and chandeliers, gold cutlery. Disappointing in its bland, rich, uniformity.
If I owned a crazy-posh restaurant, I’d want it to stand out from all the others.
We’re led to the far side of the restaurant, to an empty round table with high backed, curved seating around it. Looks like a booth to me, but no doubt somewhere this fancy would never use such a common term.
“I hope this banquette is to your liking, miss,” the maître d’ sniffs.
“Do you need a tissue?” I ask. He blinks at me, somehow managing to look nonplussed and deeply affronted…or maybe I’m reading him wrong?
“Sorry?”
“You keep sniffing. I have a tissue in my bag if you’d like one.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Sniff. “Miss.”
He leaves after that, and Summer and I take our seats. Summer tuts at me, but I can see a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
