Lucky Caller(22)

I followed Celeste around for the whole evening—plates of salads in each hand, clearing dishes as she dictated—and meanwhile, a wedding happened around us.

It was kind of an odd feeling, to witness an event like that but be so peripheral to it. I couldn’t help but glance toward the head table now and then throughout dinner, to where the flower girl—maybe five or six—sat with the bride and groom. She appeared to be the bride’s daughter, and wore a crown of flowers that matched the bride’s bouquet. The little girl kept turning excitedly to the groom to point things out to him over the course of the meal. When it came time to cut the cake later that evening—three figurines sitting atop it—the three of them held the cake cutter together. The little girl got the first bite, and beamed up at the couple. They beamed right back.

I kept catching glimpses of Jamie across the room over the course of the evening too, murmuring something to one of the other waiters, both of them laughing quietly. Running his hands through his untidy hair. Retrieving fallen napkins. Offering an arm to an elderly woman as she made her way out of her seat.

It wasn’t until the end of the night—the guests having cleared out, the wedding party having packed up the gifts and gone—that Jamie approached me. We were finally done cleaning up, and had been dismissed for the evening.

“What’d you think?” he said.

“Good,” I replied, pausing to wave to Celeste as she headed out. Jamie turned and waved too. “It was good.”

Truthfully, my feet ached. I had sweat through my shirt.

Still, I liked it.

“Should probably hit the road,” Jamie said. “Long commute home.”

He then made a face like he knew how cheesy that was, but I smiled.

As we waited for the elevator, he said, “So … Is your mom gonna have a wedding like this?”

I thought of the flower girl, the three figurines on top of the cake.

“Nah.” I watched the numbers above the doors track downward. “I think it’ll be pretty … informal.”

According to Mom, all she and Dan needed was an officiant; Rose, Sidney, and I would be the only guests. Their main stipulation was just to wait for warmer weather so they could have the ceremony out by the canal that ran through downtown. It was picturesque—sloping green lawns, arched bridges crossing at certain points. Mom had always wanted an outdoor ceremony.

“It’s fine, I’m not trying to be a bridesmaid or anything,” I added after a moment.

“You’d have to make a speech.”

The maid of honor tonight had stood up, un-crinkled her speech, and then promptly burst into tears.

“Rose would definitely be maid of honor,” I said. “She’s the favorite.”

“Parents don’t have favorites.”

We stepped into the elevator. “See, you can think that ’cause you’re an only child.”

It was a careless thing to say, and I felt instantly guilty about it. I actually didn’t know for sure that Jamie was an only child. Maybe he had siblings somewhere, or half-siblings. The truth was, I had no idea what the situation was with his parents. I didn’t even know if Gram and Papa were his maternal or paternal grandparents. He never talked about it, and Gram and Papa had never offered. He had lived with them at the Eastman for at least as long as we had been there.

I asked my mom once, when I was eight or so, and she’d said, “It’s not our business. Okay? That’s their business.”

“When does someone else’s business become your business?”

“It doesn’t,” she had replied. “Unless they choose to make it that way.”

But in this moment, Jamie just shrugged good-naturedly. “Fair. No one to compete with. But if there really are favorites, then that means I have to be the favorite and the least favorite.”

“There’s no least favorite,” I said. “It’s just favorite and then everyone else.”

“Ah.”

The elevator dinged, opening at the seventh floor, and with a good night, Jamie headed off. The doors closed, and I was alone. I leaned against the back wall of the elevator, exhausted.





17.


DURING MONDAY’S RADIO CLASS, WE split up into our groups and dispersed to “conceptualize” station IDs, which were just the short clips that played before songs or in between commercials to remind people what station they were listening to. One that got played a lot on the station started with the sound of thunder, and then an echoey voice filtered in: Storms ahead? Keep it switched to 98.9 The Jam—hot student radio for nothing but blue skies.

“We can do better,” Joydeep stage-whispered after Mr. Tucker played us a few examples.

But now the four of us were in one of the editing bays at the station scrolling through sound effect options, and Joydeep didn’t seem to be paying any attention. He was hunched over his phone, an intent look on his face. Every so often he would huff a laugh to himself, tap back a few times, tap away, laugh again.

“What’ve you got?” I said eventually.

“Hm?” he said.

“For Cat Chat.”

Joydeep flashed me a grin. “I feel like this could be my best work yet.”

“Let’s hear it.”

He held up his phone and cleared his throat. “Dear Cat Chat colon Judgment-Free Advice for the Bobcat in Need.” He paused. “Can you even believe that’s real life, though? Can you believe that four people sat down and thought that was a good idea?”