Remember

"So do you have everything set?" A voice asked behind me.

"What?" I turned around from my locker. Rolling my eyes at the sight of Samantha with her hands on her hips standing behind me, I turned my attention back to packing my books into my backpack.

After all, I have to be at work in thirty- no twenty minutes, I checked my watch.

"Hello?" She asked sarcastically. "The junior prom?"

"What about it?" I kneeled down onto the floor and grabbed my History book. Poor thing, I always carried it around with me, from home to school, to class to my locker, but I never got around to actually reading my chapters. Fortunately, we were never tested on the so-called required reading assignments; our class just had to write a paper each month relating to the reading.

Speaking of which.. I groaned inwardly.

You have one due in three days. Great, it's not like I actually wanted to sleep tonight or anything.

"You are the food committee chairman, aren't you?" My thoughts were interrupted by Samantha's voice. I wasn't sure if it was the recent lack of sleep, bringing about a sudden irritation, or the fact she sounded incredibly snobby, but I certainly didn't have time to put up with this now.

"Yeah, I gave you that list of stuff a few weeks ago." I took the sheet of paper she held out to me and discovered it was the exact same thing I was talking about.

"I know. It sucks." She frowned at me.

".. " I wasn't sure how to respond to that one. "I'm sorry.. What do you want me to do about it?"

"Fix it, stupid." She rolled her eyes. "And get it to me tonight."

"Tonight?" I asked incredulously.

She can't be serious. One look at her face still scrunched in a frown was enough of an answer for me: she was.

"I have a private ballet lesson with Zac tonight, so just drop it off at the dance studios down at the rec. center then, ok?" Nice of her to enunciate the word 'private.' She looked over her shoulder for some reason, and her eyes lit up. Following her gaze, I caught sight of Zac walking towards us.

Even better. I sighed.

"Fine. Whatever." I zipped up my backpack and threw it over my shoulder, intending on leaving before Zac entered the scene. I'm not sure if they knew I'd seen them kiss, but I certainly wasn't going to discuss this now. Unfortunately, in all my haste to leave, Zac had enough time to walk up and slip his arm around her waste, sending me a pointed look.

"Hi Zac." The sugar that swelled in Samantha's voice made me want to vomit. Either that, or claw her eyes out with my fingernails, I couldn't tell which at the moment.

"Hi," Zac smiled widely down at her, before glancing in my direction cautiously.

"I've gotta go." I muttered, keeping my eyes cast on the floor. I didn't need a re-enactment of the other. A few sleepless nights tossing around in my bed from the memory were enough for me, thanks.

"What's with her?" Samantha asked Zac in a cool voice.

"We got in an argument." He explained softly.

"Oh, Zac." She replied softly, gazing into his eyes. She couldn't help but notice his sadness in as he watched me walk away from them, until I threw open the doors and let them slam behind me, the dull sound echoing down the hall. At the same time, Samantha's confidence increased ten-fold; she still couldn't believe her luck.

"I'm so sorry." She continued, leaning against his shoulder lightly.

".. Huh?" Zac shook himself out of his thoughts and glanced at her. Since I was no longer around, he removed his arm from her waist and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. He took a small step away from Sam, but smiled politely.

"I said I'm sorry." She repeated slowly.

"About what?"

"Lindsey."

".. What about her?"

"Zac.." Samantha now looked confused. "Didn't you tell me you two had an argument?"

"Oh, yeah." He replied in a flat voice.

"Well, I'm sure it was her fault." She waved the issue aside. "Anyway, on to something more important. You are coming this Saturday, aren't you?"

"This Saturday?" He echoed.

"My party?" She reminded him in a tone that suggested he was expected to be there, whether he wanted to or not.

"That's this weekend?" He searched his mind, trying to remember when she'd told him it was that soon.

"Yes! Tell me you're coming." She demanded.

"I'm not sure. I might be busy with hockey practice." He replied, a little surprised at her forcefulness. He also frowned at her dismissal of me for a party.

"What?" She looked at him, her face crestfallen. "You said you were coming."

"I said I'd try to come." He reminded her. "I didn't say anything was definite."

"But you have to be there." She frowned slightly.

"Why?" It's just a stupid party, he added in his head.

"It's my party and you should be there." She said matter-of-factly, pursing her lips.

"I should? Why?"

"Since you're my boyfriend." She continued in a flirtatious voice, "I'll forgive you for not knowing that."

"Uh.." Zac honestly had no clue what to respond to that. Seeing her face fall into another pout, he quickly vouched for a compromise:

"I'll check my schedule and call you later tonight, ok?"

"Ok," she replied, the pout still puffing out her lower lip. With an inward groan, not understanding how control had slipped from his fingers so quickly, Zac wondered how he'd been swallowed into this mess.

"Number four!" I called loudly, shoving a newly boxed pizza onto the window.

"Thanks, Linds." A waitress, one of the many clones here it seemed, called to me as she picked it up and carried it to the front counter. It was seriously weird: all the waitresses looked the same. I'd given up memorizing names and went by the different colored dots on their nametags during my first shift.

I had to admit though, in just one short week, I'd gotten pretty good at making pizzas. It was actually fun when we weren't continuously slammed with customers. When I had enough time to think about what I was doing, I almost felt like an artist. The best part were the toppings: we had to put them on before the cheese, so it didn't matter how badly I laid them out on the dough.

Like now. I smiled to myself as I started my next order.

"Hey Curly Sue." A cheerful voice called to me.

"Phil!" I looked up from my prep table to scold my co-pizza artist. "Don't call me that."

"Whatever. You want me to call you just Curly then?" He grinned at me from the sink, where he was washing his hands. He walked toward me, drying his hands on his apron.

"No. Too many negative Stooges connotations with that one. Now get to work."

"Woah!" He exclaimed. "Been here a week and you're already bossing everyone around. Somebody's a control freak."

"You've got that half-right." I smiled and handed him five slips of paper, orders for breadsticks. "Please, can you make those?"

"For you, absolutely." With his usual grin, Phil was a pretty easy-going guy. He'd finished training me in the kitchen several days ago, a favor to our over-worked boss Jamie, who was weighed down with paperwork of end of the month reports. A few years older than me, it almost felt like Phil was an older brother. Last time I'd felt that level of comfort was in the presence of Zac, something I realized I hadn't missed as much as I did. It was kind of nice to get a tiny piece of it back.

"Thanks Phil."

"Not a problem." He whistled cheerfully as he disappeared into the back freezer to grab some more breadsticks. After emerging a few seconds later, he surprised me with how fast he opened them and spread them out on pans and shoved them into the oven. Phil worked like a well-oiled machine, it was amazing. One of the finer points of working with him.

"Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey," Phil clicked his tongue at me as he shook his head back and forth. "Have I taught you nothing about being a successful pizza artist?"

"Phil, Phil, Phil." I repeated crossly, looking over the double-meat combo laid on the prep table in front of me. "What?"

"Kids these days.. No patience for successful work, no appreciation for quality work." He pointed to the tiny piles of crumbled sausage, pepperoni, and ham scattered randomly throughout my pizza.

"What's wrong with it?" I put my hands on my hips.

"Move aside, let the Master work his magic."

"Oh, for cryin' out loud." I rolled my eyes and swept my arm in front of the table, gesturing for him to take my place. Standing a few feet behind him, I shifted my weight to try and see what he was doing to my pizza. He must've sensed my curiosity behind him, for he kept leaned in the same direction to block my view. Whistling a cheery version of the 'can-can,' his arms swept up and outward in dramatic, circular motions.

"What are you doing?" I tried to get a tiny peek at the theatrical masterpiece being conducted at my prep table, only to come up short-handed again: Phil turned around, his index finger poised in front of his lips.

"Shh.." he scolded me. "This is a moment of seriousness here. I need silence to complete my work of art."

"Work of art my ass," I muttered with a half-smile. One thing could be said about working with Phil: he always cracked me up. It had also been awhile since I'd let loose and had a great laugh. It seemed like so long ago that Zac and I were in the sandbox at the park downtown, trying to dig ourselves to China in one afternoon. It had taken four hours of sweat and tears before our efforts were halted by the thick layer of clay that lay underneath the sand. Thinking back, it was a near traumatic experience, but it sure had been fun.

Why can't things be more like that now? I shook the memory out of my head as Phil whirled around and faced me, hands clasped over his heart.

"At last, ma-impatient Mademoiselle." He imitated a horrible French accent. Bowing to my right, he finally revealed the pizza to my inspection. Immediately, I burst out laughing: he'd ever-so diligently painting a smiley face out of pepperoni and ham: eyes and a semi-circular mouth.

"What's the sausage?" I pointed to the little round chunks of meat, which he'd scattered randomly over his face.

"Zits." Phil said matter-of-factly, shaking his head in mock sympathy. "Poor kid ate too many pizzas."

"That's gross." I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "And you're really retarded. Come on, I can't send up a pizza like that."

"Why not? I do it all the time." Phil grinned. "Like anyone would ever see it- the cheese covers it perfectly."

"You've got this all thought out huh?" I asked him, watching as he layered cheese over the top of the pizza. It really did cover it all up.

But still.. I shook my head, smiling.

"Yup."

"You have way too much time on your hands then, Phil." I walked back to the table and grabbed a handful of cheese, making sure to completely cover the pizza-face.

"You just don't know how to have fun." He defended himself. "How old are you? Thirty?"

"Haha, not funny." I stuck my tongue out as him and reached for another handful of cheese as Phil started the next order, flipping a ball of pizza dough high into the air. My eyes cautiously followed it as it flew mere millimeters from the ceiling.

"Just remember not to take things so seriously." He winked at me.

"Put that dough down before it ends up on the ceiling." It was my turn to scold him.

"Yes sir!" He raised his hand in a salute to me and laid the dough flat out on the table next to me. "What's the next order?"

"Double cheese with green peppers and olives." I made a face at the selection.

"Sounds great. That's my girlfriend's favorite." Phil grinned and started slopping sauce all over the dough. I rolled my eyes at his carelessness, but he was still about three times faster than me.

At least my pizzas look edible, I reassured myself, slipping mine into the oven and setting the timer, double checking I had the time right.

"You have a girlfriend?" Surprisingly enough, the thought hadn't crossed my mind. Glancing his appearance quickly up and down from my place at the oven, I noticed he was very good-looking, with short reddish-blonde hair and light hazel-colored eyes. But at the same time, a complete goofball.

"Why does everyone ask me that?" He laughed loudly at my question.

"Hard to believe you could ever be serious about something, I guess." Grinning, I walked back to the prep table and started my own next order, grabbing a ball of dough in my fingers and working it to a softer texture.

"Now why would you say something mean like that?" Phil asked me in a voice soaked with fake sadness. Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, I lifted my dough up, a task I wasn't completely comfortable with yet. I still hadn't gotten the guts to throw the dough higher than three inches above my head, for fear I wouldn't be able to catch it on its way down, a tragedy I could easily escape in my mind. My eyes caught the sight of his next pizza and I groaned.

"Gee, I wonder." I pointed at the words 'Don't Eat Me' he'd spelled out in green peppers and olives on the pizza. "You're such an idiot."

"Takes one to know one." Phil reached over and poked me in the side. The feeling of his fingers against the soft flesh and fat there made me extremely uncomfortable and I immediately lurched away.

"Stop!" I pretended to be ticklish. "You'll make me drop my dough."

"You have to throw it up in the air first before you can drop it, Curly." By this time, the both of us were laughing hysterically. I'd had no idea work would ever be this fun, but I was enjoying every moment. I could just picture Jamie coming back here and yelling at us to get more work done. It should not be allowed to have this much fun at work.

At the same time, waves of sadness washed over me as we resumed our rendition of Pizza Masterpiece Theatre, the image of my former best friend popping back into my mind. Sure, it had hurt like hell not being friends with him before, but no friends at all wasn't something I was prepared for now. Closing my eyes briefly, I blinked away the tears that started to form in my eyes and focused back on work. If anything, it certainly was a good distraction.