The Bermudez Triangle Read Online Free

on TV the people you fight with are always the people you end up dating.
    Speaking of, there’s this guy on my hall who’s either v. cute and cool or totally out of his mind. I can’t decide which. I think living with Strange Ashley is affecting my idea of what “normal” means.
    June 30
    TO: Nina; Avery
    FROM: Mel
    Ooh! Explain. Who is this guy?
    And Bob’s not that bad.
    July 1
    TO: Avery; Mel
    FROM: Nina
    His name is Steve Carson. He’s kind of very different from me, sort of an eco-warrior but really, really nice. We study together a lot now. He works really hard—harder than pretty much anyone else here. He doesn’t hang out or watch TV or anything. When he’s not doing work, I think he sits in his room and coordinates an environmental campaign.
    I am getting used to the Birks and the hemp shorts and the kind of choppy haircut because under all that he is seriously smoking hot. He’s way healthy and rides around on his bike all the time, so he’s got the biker legs going on.
    This is really weird to me. I never thought I would like a guy who is so crunchy—not that I like him. I’m just kind of … intrigued.
    Okay. Go ahead, Ave. Insert comment here.
    July 1
    TO: Mel; Nina
    FROM: Avery
    I smell a sitcom!
    July 2
    TO: Mel; Avery
    FROM: Nina
    Today’s SAB (Strange Ashley Behavior): SHE STOLE ONE OF MY BRAS (the tiger-printy one I got on clearance at Victoria’s Secret last year) and then denied it. I found it sticking out of her bag. She said that she thought it was one of hers. I know I always find my underwear hanging over the back of other people’s desk chairs and carry it around to class.

3
    It took Avery
about a week to conclude that her entire job at Mortimer’s consisted of (1) lying and (2) selling. That was it. Lie and then sell. It was kind of fascinating to watch the whole process. She felt like she had the smoking gun on the whole conspiracy of life.
    First of all, the P. J. Mortimer’s ads stressed that people were supposed to come and sit and stay for a long time, enjoying the warm Irish hospitality. This was the first big lie that Avery uncovered. One of the main issues emphasized in training was that she was selling experience, not product, which was some weird way of saying that she was supposed to entertain people. She was supposed to be cheerful and friendly, as if she actually
lived
at P. J. Mortimer’s and the people at her table were unexpected but welcome guests in her living room. At the same time, she was told she had to get people out the door the
minute
they stopped ordering. If someone turned down a dessert or another round of drinks—
bam!
—she was to drop that check.
    Then there was the selling. The entire existence of P. J. Mortimer’s seemed to depend on appetizers, desserts, and frozendrinks—and these were the things she had to push. When people first sat down, she was supposed to interest them in some pub fries or onion blossoms or Paddy’s Frozen Peppermint Patties. And when they were done, after Avery cleared away the plates of bones from the baby back ribs and the remains of the half-pound hamburgers, it was time to put her hands on her hips and say, “Okay. I know somebody wants dessert!” She should have just passed out the phone number of a good cardiologist.
    Just to make things a little more unpleasant, management kept a scoreboard in the staff changing room (a hallway with some boxes in it), charting exactly how much money every server made each shift. Most of the guys, she noticed, got really competitive about it, like selling piÑa coladas and Paddy’s Frozen Peppermint Patties was some kind of
sport
that required skill and prowess. Avery saw it as badgering people to buy things she didn’t feel like waiting for at the bar all night, so she didn’t bother too much. She felt that her soft stance on the frozen drink issue allowed her to keep a little bit of her dignity, which was rapidly eroding because of the very worst part of her job: the