“Hey, what are you guys doing here this early?” Violet asked, sliding into the booth beside Chelsea and giving her a strange look. “And what’ve you done with the real Chelsea?”
“You’re ha-ha-larious, you know that, Vi?” Chelsea retorted, staring back at Violet through the thick lenses of eyeglasses she almost never wore . . . especially in public. “My eyes were killing me this morning. I couldn’t get my contacts in.”
“Are you sure you don’t have pinkeye?” Claire asked, her voice skeptical as she scooted closer to Jules.
Chelsea scowled at her. “I told you, I’m not diseased or anything. Re-freaking-lax, Claire. Do you think I’d be here if I was contagious or anything?”
The waitress arrived then, balancing their orders on a black tray. She flashed Chelsea a similarly distrustful look after overhearing what Claire had said, and she apprehensively slid Chelsea’s plate in front of her. Chelsea ignored the girl completely.
“Softball tournament,” Chelsea said to Violet, answering her earlier question. “Claire’s just along for the ride. We tried calling you like a million times this morning, but obviously we don’t rate.”
“Three,” Violet corrected, ignoring the wave of guilt she felt for ditching them yet again. “You called me three times. Besides, I have somewhere else I have to go . . . an appointment,” she said evasively.
“Yeah, an appointment on a Saturday. Whatever.”
Violet flashed an overly bright grin and tried her best to sound breezy. “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, I can tell you rushed right over to see us.”
Violet perused one of the menus, pretending like it didn’t suck to lie to her friends, and then turned to the waitress. “Can I just get a hot tea, and a toasted bagel with cream cheese?”
“Sure, I’ll be right back with that,” the waitress answered, still eyeing Chelsea suspiciously. She didn’t bother asking if anyone needed anything else before turning on her heel and disappearing back into the kitchen.
Making a dubious face of her own, Chelsea glanced down at her plate. She picked up a fork and prodded her runny eggs, making an exaggerated gagging sound. Violet knew it wasn’t a real gag because Chelsea had the strongest stomach of anyone she’d ever met.
From the other side of the booth, Jules’s head snapped up and she glared at Chelsea. Chelsea’s eyes flared behind her glasses, making them look about ten sizes too big. She flashed an apologetic grin at Jules before closing her lips tightly, a silent vow to stop making the obnoxious sounds.
But they all knew Chelsea wanted to keep going; Chelsea loved that game. When they were in the sixth grade, she used to pretend she was going to puke, making terrible retching sounds until someone would get sick for real. Rachel Lashly was the first person to ever actually throw up from Chelsea’s disgusting ruse, but she claimed it was only because she was already coming down with the flu . . . and, as hard as she tried, Chelsea had never been able to make her do it again.
Jules, on the other hand, had proven to be the perfect target for Chelsea. For someone who could beat up nearly every boy on the playground, Jules had a surprisingly sensitive gag reflex, something that Chelsea had found endlessly entertaining. Chelsea would make Jules puke at the most inopportune moments, like when the bus was pulling up to pick them up for school. Or at the mall.
And even once in the middle of class.
But that was the day when Jules had had enough. She’d waited for Chelsea on the playground during recess, giving her friend a bloody nose while everyone stood around watching. Jules had been expelled for a week, but Chelsea had never intentionally made Jules vomit again.
Still, it didn’t stop her from pretending her breakfast was making her sick now. “I’m sending it back. This is disgusting.” She swirled her plate, showing how the tops of her eggs jiggled.
Claire pursed her lips. “Don’t do it, Chels. They’ll spit in your food if you send it back. You don’t want them spitting in your food, do you?”
Chelsea grimaced as she watched her eggs quiver. “It would be better than eating this slop.”
“I hate to be the one to point this out, but that is the way you ordered them, Chels.” Jules raised her eyebrows as she lifted a hefty bite of pancakes to her full, naturally rosy lips. “What did you think ‘sunny-side up’ was, anyway?”
“I didn’t think it meant ‘half-cooked.’ They need to put a warning label on the menu or something.” She lifted her hand and waved frantically, trying to get the waitress’s attention. Over her shoulder, she declared, “I don’t care what you guys say, I’m sending it back.”
Violet watched Claire’s face fall. “Great,” Claire whined. “I guess that means we can’t come back here again either.”
“You can have my bagel,” Violet offered Chelsea, taking pity on Claire. “I’m sure it’ll be here any minute.”
Chelsea dropped down again, glowering because the waitress had spotted her but was ignoring her, filling coffee for other customers and pretending she hadn’t seen Chelsea’s frantic gestures. “Bitch,” Chelsea muttered. “Wait’ll she sees her comment card.”
Violet bit her lip. “Have you ever actually filled out a comment card, Chels?”
“You don’t know. I might fill one out this time.” Chelsea crossed her arms as she slouched back in the booth, daring one of them to argue with her while she waited for Violet’s bagel to arrive. “By the way, you dodged a bullet last night. The party was totally lame.”