Wicked Restless

Andrew raises two fingers, and a waitress shows us to a booth in the back corner of the restaurant, our feet touching underneath as we climb into our seats. I move my right foot out of the way, but I leave my left foot in place against his, almost like a test to see what he’ll do. He doesn’t move either.

We both flip open the menu, and I wonder if he’s reading without reading like I am. My eyes are passing over the words, but my attention is on the outer edge of my left foot, the one lodged against the inside of his right one. It’s such a stupid touch, but in some small way, it feels like I’m holding his hand.

“So it’s a…Camaro?” I ask. I looked at the logo on the way into the restaurant.

Andrew chuckles, his eyes still on his menu, his foot still against mine.

“Yeah, it’s a seventy-six,” he says. I have no idea what that means, but I nod and smile as if I do. He reads me quickly though and laughs again as he flattens his menu. “There’s a guy down our old street who has a backyard that’s just…like…filled with these classic old cars. I used to go visit him with Owen, and we’d sit in them and pretend we were driving around. This one was always my favorite though. Anyhow…he stopped by my apartment just before we left to visit my brother and said he was getting rid of a few. He sold it to my mom for five hundred bucks. I’m getting a job this summer to pay her back.”

I might not know anything about cars, but I understand dreams. I get wanting things, and I can imagine how it must feel to finally have something in your hands you want so badly.

“It’s a great car,” I say, my smile soft. He looks into my eyes for a few seconds before shaking his head and picking his menu back up.

“It’s shit right now. But…it will be a great car. I promise,” he says, and there isn’t a doubt in my mind that it will be.

We both order sandwiches and sodas when the waitress comes, and with our menus gone, I feel a little more exposed—and much more aware of the weird footsie standoff happening under the table.

“Delaware,” Andrew finally says, breaking a long rut of silence. “Tell me about it. What’s your story, Emma Burke?”

When he says my name, his lips take care of every syllable. I wonder if he says every name like this, or just mine.

“Well…” I start, pausing to tuck my right leg over my left, shifting my weight, but never moving the foot against Andrew’s. I glance up to catch his smirk when I do, and I know he’s playing the same game I am. “You saw my little brother, right?”

Andrew nods, and I swear his smile has stretched to cover more of his face.

“His name’s Cole. He’s three. It’s just us, and my parents. My mom’s a telemarketer…”

“Wait,” Andrew interrupts, looking up and holding his question while our waitress delivers our plates and drinks. When she leaves, he leans forward, elbows on either side of his plate. “Your mom is a real-life telemarketer?”

My eyes wide, I nod, not sure what makes that so interesting.

“Man, that’s like the suckiest job! Do people hang up on her all day? Oh…I bet she gets cussed out all the time. Or…do people prank her?”

“I have no idea,” I giggle.

“Sorry, I just…I’ve always wondered who does that job. Every time someone calls us, I wonder how bad it is on the other end. I mean, though…I’m sure your mom is a really nice person,” he stops abruptly, then sucks in his bottom lip.

“Okay…anyhow…” I start again, but he holds up his hand to stop me.

“One more question, and that’s it. I swear,” he says, and I laugh. “What does she sell?”

“Uh…she does surveys, I think. For things like commercials people remember and different food chains,” I say, realizing I don’t really pay attention to the words my mother says when she’s on the phone all day. I just know she gets to work at home because of it, and that…has come in handy.

“Okay, I don’t think I’ve answered one of those. Just…ya know. Wanted to make sure I didn’t get one of her calls,” he says, his lip ticked up on one side. “I’m not real nice to telemarketers. But I’ll change that; I swear.”

He crosses his chest with his finger then picks up a fry from his plate, chewing it whole.

“Okay, well…you’ll love this then. My dad’s a dogcatcher,” I say, covering my eyes with both hands. When I let my fingers fall open so I can peek at him, he’s squeezing his eyes shut.