I wonder if the ending of The Catcher in the Rye will be different this time. Whenever I reread something, especially if the ending is sad, I always kind of hope that there will be a new, perfectly happy ending on the last page.
For instance, I’m currently working on a new way to wrap up the Twilight books. I have to admit, I loved all of them. If that makes me so 2012, then so be it.
Chapter 7
CLUBBING
Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just heading out to the country club. Why, yes, I do like to spend a great deal of time there. No, I don’t play tennis; I mostly spend my time at the restaurant. It’s ever so droll!
Sorry. I start talking like that whenever I go to the club for work. It’s completely involuntary and usually only stops when Brainzilla starts mocking me.
We take the bus to the club whenever they need us, which is a lot during their busy seasons and not so much the rest of the time. But, hey, we’ll take what we can get.
The city bus huffs up in a cloud of carbon monoxide and belches to a stop. “Here.” Brainzilla is waiting with me, and I hand her two crisp dollar bills.
“How did you know?” she asks, tucking her long blond hair behind her ear. Brainzilla is one of the prettiest girls in school, and a total clotheshorse. She spends every spare cent on clothes and is, therefore, always short for the bus.
My best friend blushes and says, “Sorry I’m short, but this scarf was on sale—”
“It’s great. Just hit me back on the way home out of your tips.” Brainzilla always makes a killing at the club. Gorgeousness + excellent manners = serious cash. The cash I earn is much less serious.
When we arrive, we’re greeted by two kinds of people: people who work there and people who play there. The people who play there are mostly okay, but I always feel a little dingy around them. They’re shiny. Shiny, shiny people. Their teeth are white and even, and their skin is all glowy, and their clothes always look brand-new.
The people who work there are like me and Brainzilla. You know—kinda deprived. Mostly broke.
Usually, I start out doing prep for the kitchen, but when the main floor gets busy, I waitress with Brainzilla. So once I’ve set up all the garnishes, I grab my pad and pencil and head out to Table 16 where—surprise!—Marty Bloom is waiting for me with his entire family.
Actually, it’s interesting to see Marty here, instead of at school. His little sister leans against him, like she thinks that he’s the greatest big brother ever. His mom is very smiley, and his dad is the kind of guy who seems to always be clapping everyone on the back. They seem really nice, and when they place their order, Marty’s mom apologizes for wanting her sauce on the side, which I think is cute.
So this raises the question. Why such a Hater, Marty Bloom?
I’m about to head over to check on Table 4 with a pitcher of water, when I nearly run into Marty, who is headed for the men’s room. “Hey, Maggie,” Marty says. “You look pretty.”
I stop, too surprised to say “thank you” or even “my name is Cuckoo,” while he doesn’t even break his stride—just heads right into the restroom, as if giving me a compliment is the most natural thing in the world.
I don’t know what to make of it. Is it a sign of remorse for torturing Zitsy? A sign of an imminent zombie apocalypse?
Or maybe just a sign that I look relatively cute in a black skirt and apron?
Chapter 8
NOTHING EVER CHANGES
The next day at school is a red-letter day: Tater Tot day at lunch! Of course I get some, then grab some juice and follow Zitsy toward our table. He’s got a tray loaded down with two Cokes, a slab of meat, and a mountain of fried starch—french fries, Tater Tots, two bags of chips.
We pass by the Hater table, and I shoot Marty a smile. He smiles back, then shifts in his chair, and before I know what has happened, Zitsy goes flying, his tray doing a triple somersault in midair. A rain of starch and Coke splatters all over Jenna McClue—head Barbie and on-off-on girlfriend of Marty Bloom. She lets out a screech one second before Zitsy’s meat loaf lands with a thwack on her chest region. And approximately one nanosecond later, the lunchroom erupts into food fight chaos.
“Everybody, listen up!” Tebow shouts. The cafeteria quiets down as people stop throwing stuff and stop to look up at him. “Look, I know this is fun, but… it’s wrong to waste food when there are starving people in the world.”
Tebow is always thinking about poor people, even when people around him are tossing mashed potatoes in one another’s faces. It’s sweet that he cares, although I’m not sure anybody else does.
“Wouldn’t we all feel better if we shared what we have instead of throwing it at each other?” Tebow asks. “Wouldn’t it be—”
Yes, that’s a chili dog that just smacked into Tebow’s forehead. The minute it hits him, the cafeteria cheers and everyone goes back to flinging food.
“Was I really being that annoying?” Tebow asks as he pulls a kidney bean out of his blond hair.
“Never!” Flatso insists loyally just as Zitsy says, “Yeah, dude—totally.”
Tebow looks at me to break the tie. “Not everything is a ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ moment,” I point out.
Some kind of green substance splats against the side of Eggy’s head. “Ew!” she shrieks, and before I know it, she has flung my Tater Tots at the jock table.
Zitsy grabs two squirt bottles of ketchup and squeezes them all over the jock table. One of the Barbies comes after Brainzilla, who tosses a glass of fruit punch in the girl’s face. Even Tebow starts hurling fried tofu squares like ninja throwing stars.
Wow. We’ve been trying to bring the Nations together… and we ended up causing a food fight instead. And the weirdest part is that everyone’s having a blast. It’s like we almost managed to achieve the goal of Operation Happiness… in a twisted, food-fueled, Hunger Games kind of way.
But it’s a start, right?
Chapter 9
THE CRUCIFIXION OF TEBOW
The next day, I wear an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt to school, just in case anyone gets any more food-fight ideas during lunch. I go looking for Brainzilla and find the entire Freakshow gathered around Tebow’s locker.
“Where did they get it?” Eggy asks.
“Wow, it really looks like you,” Zitsy puts in. He touches the bloody nail in Jesus’s hand. I mean no disrespect, but seriously, the statue is just, like, completely weird looking, like maybe it was made by one of those artists in prison you read about sometimes.
Tebow is wearing the same look he had after the chili dog hit him in the head. I touch his shoulder. “I got the point with the chili dog,” Tebow says.
“Well, look on the bright side,” I tell him. “At least they don’t think you’re like Satan.”
“If I were like Satan, they wouldn’t mess with me,” Tebow points out.
“Good call,” Zitsy says. “Let’s all be more like Satan, everybody.”
“I call devouring souls!” Eggy shouts.
“Only if I can throw people into a lake of fire.” Flatso points to the Freaky Jesus. “I’ll start with whoever made this.”
“Come on, you guys,” I say, taking the Freaky Jesus and holding it up. “It’s actually kind of cool. It can be our mascot.”
“Let’s dress it up for Halloween,” Brainzilla suggests.