Gary grunted. "We'll see what's left after we pay for the damages."
"All of it!" Tristan replied with confidence. How hard could it be to carry this stuff around? He and Gary were swimmers. Their natural athletic balance had given them the right to fib about their experience when they interviewed with the caterer. A piece of cake, this job.
Tristan picked up a silver tray and surveyed his reflection. "I don't just feel like a fool-I look like one."
"You are one," said Gary. "And I want you to know I'm not that much of a fool to believe your line about earning money for the Midwest meet."
"What do you mean?"
Gary snatched up a spaghetti mop and held it so its spongy strings flopped over his head. "Oh, Tristy," he said in a high-pitched voice, "what a surprise to see you at my mother's wedding!"
"Shut up, Gary."
"Oh, Tristy, put down that tray and dance with me." Gary smiled and patted the mop's spongy head.
"Her hair doesn't look like that."
"Oh, Tristy, I just caught my mother's bouquet. Let's run away and get married."
"I don't want to marry her! I just want her to know I exist. I just want to go out with her. Once! If she doesn't like me, well…" Tristan shrugged as if it didn't matter, as if the worst crush he'd ever had in his life might really disappear overnight.
"Oh, Tristy-" "I'm going to kick your-" The kitchen door swung open. "Gentlemen," said Monsieur Pompideau, "the wedding guests have arrived and are ready to be served. Could Fortune be so smiling upon us that you two experienced garcons would be available to help serve them?"
"Is he being sarcastic?" Gary asked.
Tristan rolled his eyes, and they hurried to join the other waiters at their stations.
For the first ten minutes, Tristan occupied himself with watching the other workers, trying to learn his job. He knew that girls and women liked his smile, and he used it for all it was worth, especially when the caviar he was serving leaped like a fully evolved fish into an older woman's lap.
He worked his way around the large reception hall, searching for Ivy, sneaking peeks while big-bellied men unloaded his trays. Two of them went away wearing their drinks and muttering, but he barely noticed. All he could think about was Ivy. If he came face-to-face with her, what would he say? "Have some crab balls?" Or perhaps, "May I suggest le bailee de crabbe?"
Yeah, that would impress her.
What kind of guy had he turned into? Why should he, Tristan Carruthers, a guy hanging up in a hundred girls' lockers (maybe a slight exaggeration) need to impress her, a girl uninterested in hanging in his locker or anybody else's, for all he could tell? She walked the same halls he did, but it was as if she traveled in another world.
He'd noticed her on her first day at Stonehill. It wasn't just her different kind of beauty, that wild tangle of kinky gold hair and her sea green eyes, that made him want to look and look, and touch.
It was the way she seemed free of things other people were caught up in- the way she focused on the person she was talking to, without scanning the crowd to see who else was there; the way she dressed not to look like everyone else; the way she lost herself in a song. He had stood in the doorway of the school music room one day, mesmerized. Of course, she hadn't even noticed him.
He doubted that Ivy knew he existed. But was this catering thing really a good way to clue her in? After recovering a fat crab ball that had rolled to a stop between some pointy-toed shoes, he was starting to doubt it.
Then he saw her. She was in pink-and pink and pink: yards of pink sparkly stuff that fell off her shoulders and must have had some kind of hoop under its skirt.
Gary passed by him then. Tristan turned a little too quickly and their elbows hit. Eight glasses shivered on their stems, spilling dark wine.
"Some dress!" Gary said with a quiet snicker.
Tristan shrugged. He knew the dress was cheesy, but he didn't care. "Eventually she'll take it off," he reasoned.
"Pretty cocky there, buddy."
"That's not what I meant! What I-" "Pompideau," Gary warned, and the two of them quickly parted. The caterer snagged Tristan, however, and hauled him into the kitchen. When Tristan emerged again, he was carrying a lowlying spread of vegetables and a shallow bowl of dip-stuff that couldn't spill. He noticed that some of the guests seemed to recognize him now and moved quickly out of his way when he approached. Which meant he carried a full tray round and round, hardly needing to look where he was going, and had plenty of time to scope out the party.
"Hey, swimmer. Sssswimmer."
It was someone from school calling him, probably one of Gregory's friends. Tristan had never liked the guys or girls in Gregory's crowd. All of them had money and flaunted it. They did some stupid things and were always looking for a new thrill.
"Sssswimmer, are you deaf?" the guy called out. Eric Ghent, thin-faced and blond, lounged against the wall, one hand hanging on to a candle sconce.
"I'm sorry," said Tristan. "Were you talking to me?"
"I know you, Waller. I know you. Is this what you do between laps?" Eric let go of the sconce and swayed a little.
"This is what I do so I can afford to do laps," Tristan replied.
"Great. I'll buy you ssssome more laps."
"What?"
"I'll make it worth your time, Waller, to get me a drink."
Tristan looked Eric over. "I think you've already had one."
Eric held up four fingers, then dropped his hand limply.
"Four," Tristan corrected himself.
"This is a private party," Eric said. "They'll serve under age. Private party or not, they'll serve whatever to whoever old Baines wants them to ssserve. The man buys everybody, you know."
That's where Gregory learned it from, Tristan thought to himself. "Well, then," he said aloud, "the bar's over there." He tried to move on, but Eric placed himself squarely in front of Tristan.
"Problem is, I've been cut off."
Tristan took a deep breath.
"I need a drink, Waller. And you need some bucks."
"I don't take tips," Tristan said.
Eric started to laugh. "Well, maybe you don't get them-I've been watching you bump around.
But I think you'd take 'em."
"Sorry."
"We need each other," Eric said. "We've got a choice. We can help each other or hurt each other."