“Absolutely. Meet you here afterward. Have a great show and don’t forget to blow hard!” My reply comes out in a rush, but I try to make it sound cool and relaxed.
He raises the trumpet at me. “You’re hilarious. Wench your heart out.”
“You know I will.”
I most certainly don’t sound cool or relaxed. Lucky for me, though, my reply is lost in the hum of the crowd.
As I make my way toward the front of the Castle, I run my finger over and over the spot where Jett’s hand brushed mine. Feeling the planes of it like it’s a worry stone, wishing he’d come back and do more than hold my hand.
Which is stupid and not even remotely a good idea. I know this. But that doesn’t mean I want it any less.
3
THE ADMISSIONS DESK IS CROWDED WITH LATE ARRIVALS, and Layla stands behind the counter. Doodles and caricatures of people at the Castle cover the sheet of paper in front of her. Layla’s art is astonishing, and she’s already been accepted into a graphic design program in New York City next year.
“Uh-huh, yes, I understand.” Layla nods, her face a mask of customer care, as a woman in a polka-dotted dress and gold heels waves a ticket at her. “I see you do have a ticket here. But this was for the four thirty show, not the seven thirty, and we can’t do any refunds. You can sit in an open section if we have anything left …”
The woman’s face starts to turn pink as she begins a Veruca Salt–level tirade. I grab a handful of table cards and shove them across the desk toward her.
“Here, just go to section four, Blue Knight’s cheering area.”
“Thank you so much,” says the woman. “I’m glad I didn’t have to take it up with your manager. I mean these tickets are expensive.”
Layla’s mouth twitches as she holds back a smile. We’ve heard all this before: tickets are expensive, it’s a special occasion, you want your money’s worth …
“You can step on over to photo,” Layla says. Her smile breaks free, making the dimples in her cheek pop.
The woman pauses for a moment and considers Layla. “Did anyone ever tell you look just like the girl from Game of Thrones, the Khaleesi’s friend?”
At least once a night someone tells Layla she looks like “the Khaleesi’s friend.” People rarely know the character’s name—Missandei—or remember the fact that she’s fierce and super smart in her own right. Or that she was a slave initially, so maybe it’s not something you should get into with your seventeen-year-old African American cashier who’s just trying to do her minimum-wage job with a smile on her face.
Layla digs her nails into the countertop. “Dracarys,” she hisses under her breath.
A confused look passes over the woman’s face. Like she can’t quite place the fact that dracarys was the last word Missandei uttered before being executed. Or the fact that it was a signal to her bestie to burn it all down. It’s also Layla’s and my latest BFF code for “Get this person out of my face now before I lose it.”
I squeeze Layla’s arm once and point the woman toward the Great Hall. “This register is now closed,” I say. “Please move on to photo.”
Once the woman is gone, I turn to Layla. “You okay?”
“That was the third time tonight,” she says, exhaling sharply. Her fingers unclench. “Give me strength to withstand fandom tourists.”
“You handled it beautifully. Just a few more months and then you’re out of here.”
Layla smiles at me again. “Thanks for the rescue. So, what brings you this way, m’lady?”
“Chris. He’s MIA and Len’s threatening to fire him if he doesn’t show up. Can I use your phone?”
Looking over her shoulder to make sure none of our bosses are around, Layla hands me the phone. It’s a super expensive, just-released iPhone. Light-years cooler than my shitty prepaid knockoff one.
Chris’s phone goes straight to voicemail, so I leave a message: “Where are you, dude? Len’s going to lose it if you don’t get here. I’m on Layla’s phone. Call me!”
As I hang up, a text from Eric comes in. Without reading it, I delete it before Layla sees it. Probably terrible, I know. But these are the things you do for your best friend.
“Chris will turn up,” says Layla, giving me a sympathetic smile. “He’s probably back there getting ready and you just missed him. Did you see Eric at all?”
Feeling slightly guilty about deleting his text, I shrug. “I ran into him earlier. He’s still the worst in case you’re wondering.”
Layla laughs and pulls a crumpled note out of her pocket and hands it to me. “He shoved this into my hand earlier.”
I read it out loud: “Hey, princess, want to get coffee sometime? My treat … call me.” I pretend to barf into the garbage can under the desk. “Ugh—even his notes are greasy!”
“C’mon, you’re not being fair, Kit. He’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? NOT. THAT. BAD?”
“He’s kind of cute—”
“In what? A small-mammal-wildlife-documentary sort of way?”
She laughs. “Now that he’s graduated, he’s chilled out a lot. And it’s just coffee.”
“I can’t believe you. This is the same Eric Taylor we’re talking about? Man of two first names who’s been stalking you for years?”
“He’s just persistent,” says Layla. “He’s not a stalker.”
“Don’t go out with him. Please. For the love of all between us.”
“Stop being so dramatic. Besides, you’ve never given him a chance.”
She’s not wrong. I’ve hated Eric ever since the first day he started working here, when I caught him making fun of a guest with a disability. But Layla’s heart is bigger than mine, and she’s convinced people can change.
“You can do so, so much better.”
Layla rolls her eyes at me. “Thanks, Mom,” she says. “How’s your love life? You and Jett still drowning in sexual tension?”
“Shut up.” I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one else has heard her. “We’re just friends. I can’t date him.”
“You can and you should.”
“Dating is against the Unbreakable Rules. You know this.”
“He’s adorable, smart, and totally into you. Plus, hanging out with Jett isn’t going to derail the rest of your life.”
“He’s not into me like that. And it could ruin our friendship. I’m not risking it.”
“What if it works out?”
“It wouldn’t. We’re seventeen. There’s no way we’re one of those best-friends-who-date-and-end-up-getting-married couples. That’s like the plot of a bad movie.”
Layla smacks me on the arm. “Those relationships work out sometimes. My aunt married the guy she met in eighth grade.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Don’t you have a cash drawer to count?”
“Don’t you have a section to wait on?”
I do. And I should be helping guests get settled now. Especially Eddy Jackson and his crew of big drinkers and big tippers.