Daddies Brat

Leslie

All of the color drained from Harper’s face until he looked like he had seen a ghost. Or maybe he looked like an actual ghost. Either way, he looked horrified.

I took a moment to analyze myself. I was pleasantly high from the brownie-not totally baked, but relaxed and enjoying my situation. Harper had four times as much.

Which meant he was about to get whacked by the weed hammer.

“Oh no,” I said.

Harper started moaning in fear.

“Relax,” I hissed. “This isn’t the end of the world.”

“Should I make myself throw up?” he asked a little too loudly. “Oh God. I hate throwing up.”

“It’s too late for that.” I glanced at my watch. If Harper had eaten the brownies right before I came downstairs, then it had been about an hour.

“We need to leave.”

“What do I do?” Harper demanded. He looked around the table as if the solution was something he could grasp in his hand.

“Just relax. Everything is going to be fine.” I raised a hand to try to get our server’s attention, but he disappeared into the kitchen without seeing me.

“I’m relaxed,” Harper said while gripping his napkin so tight his knuckles were turning white. “I’m cool. I’m made of Cool Whip. My favorite movie is Cool Runnings. That’s how cool I am right now.”

“Yeah, you seem like it,” I muttered. I needed to get him out of here fast. “I’m going to take care of this at the hostess stand. I’ll be right over there.” I pointed. “If I leave you here alone for a minute, will you be okay?”

Harper began rambling. “I’m okay. I’m so okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay? People do this all the time and nothing bad happens. I’ve had a few marijuanas, that’s all. Just several marijuanas. What’s the plural for pot? It’s a weed, like a plant, so I guess you could call it a bouquet of marijuana.” He flashed a silly grin. “Men should give a bouquet of that on Valentine’s Day. Or mother’s day. My mom would be much easier to tolerate if she was high. Whew, I feel good. Like I’m filled with helium, like one of those… those… what are they called? The things at birthday parties.”

“Balloons.”

He bobbed his head. “Yeah. I’m a balloon. What was the question again?” “Stop haranguing me,” I said irritably. “I’m trying to think.”

“Haranguing,” Harper repeated. He furrowed his brow. “That’s a good word. Harangue. Harangue. Rhymes with meringue. Lemon meringue.” His eyes lit up. “We should get a lemon pie for dessert!”

I wondered if it was a good idea to leave him. But I had been in his position before, and I knew the best thing was to get him home as quickly as possible before he started freaking out.

“I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

I crossed the busy restaurant to the hostess stand. She smiled brightly as I approached. “Is everything okay, ma’am?”

“My friend is feeling sick, and we need to leave. But I didn’t want to seem like I’m dining and dashing.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that! Have you ordered your food yet?”

“We just ordered it. I tried to flag down our server to cancel it, but he’s been gone too long.”

“One moment. Let me get the manager and she will sort this all out.”

While she scurried away to get the manager, I turned back to look at Harper from across the room. He was sitting very still with both palms flat on the table. It looked like he was pretending that he was invisible. But he hadn’t moved, which was all that mattered.

This will all be over in a minute, I thought. Then I can get him home.

“How may I help you?” the manager suddenly asked me. “I’m told a member of your party is sick?”

“Yes, we need to leave immediately. We just put our order in with the server, so they should be able to cancel, and we haven’t gotten our wine yet.”

I trailed off because the manager was already shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but it appears our sommelier has just uncorked your wine.”

I followed his gaze to our table in the middle of the restaurant, where the sommelier stood with a bottle of red wine. He handed the cork to Harper, who examined it from all angles. Then he stuck out his tongue and licked the tip.

Grimacing, I turned back to the manager. “Okay, but the steaks we ordered…”

“The kitchen is already working on your meals, I am afraid,” she said with a polite smile. The kind of smile it was impossible to argue with.

“Fine. We’ll take the orders to go.”

She curled her lip distastefully. “Very well. I will inform the kitchen.”

As she hurried off, I began to relax. It sucked to spend all this money on a nice meal only to take it home, but at least we were escaping before things got bad. Now I just needed to get Harper.

But when I turned to retrieve Harper, I found our table empty. The sommelier was standing there, pouring the wine.

“Where did my friend go?” I asked.

“He insisted on seeing the kitchen,” he replied. “I told him that was not advisable, but he got up and hurried away.” The sommelier leaned in and lowered his voice. “I think something is wrong with your friend.”

“I know that!” I hissed as I scampered toward the kitchen. There was Harper, standing by the kitchen entrance and peering inside any time the doors swung open. Before I could get to him, he got bored of what he was doing and began walking through the restaurant again, weaving through the tables.

“Harper!” I said, waving a hand. He didn’t see me; he continued shuffling along, looking at the tables on his left and right, like a lost puppy searching for its mom. I quickened my pace as fast as I dared, which was frustratingly slow in my hot girl heels. Already people were looking up at me as I passed, wondering why I was in such a hurry.

I was three tables away from Harper when he started to teeter. Like a tree falling in the woods, he started going down with agonizing slowness. I winced, waiting for him to crash to the ground, but he somehow managed to grab a nearby chair and pull himself into it.

When I reached him, he blinked up at me. “There you are. Where did you go? The wine pimp poured our drinks.” He gestured at the table, then frowned. “That’s funny. I thought we ordered red.”

Harper was seated at the head of an eight-person table, which was occupied by a well-dressed, but confused, family. The woman seated to his right cleared her throat and demanded, “Who are you?”Content is property of NôvelDrama.Org.

“Who are you, lady?” Harper shot back. He grabbed a piece of bread from the plate in front of him, tore into it, and said with a mouthful, “Rich people are rude.”

The woman made an indignant sound.

“I’m sorry, but my friend isn’t feeling well,” I told the table. “We’re leaving. Come on, Harper.” I tugged on his arm, but he didn’t budge.

“I haven’t eaten my steak yet,” he complained. “I’m starving.” He swallowed his bread, looked around the table, then reached across the woman to snag a handful of buttery Brussels sprouts from her plate with his bare hand.

“You can’t eat that!” one of the college-aged men at the table said angrily.

“Sure I can,” Harper said, shoving the vegetables in his mouth. “Brussels sprouts are good. They genetically modified them a few years ago to remove the bitterness. Try some.”

“Harper!” I hissed. “We have to go.”

He blinked up at me. “You owe me. I helped you study.” Then, for the benefit of the family at the table, he said, “She bombed an astronomy test, so I helped her stop failing.”

I grabbed his arm and yanked. He wouldn’t budge. The family sat frozen by the scene.

“Okay!” a server said over my shoulder. “Who had the filet with asparagus?”

“Right here, Richard Gere!” Harper said, raising his hand. The server placed the plate of hot food in front of him.

“That’s not your food,” I told him.

“I need silverware,” Harper announced. He looked around the table for some, then shrugged and picked up the expensive steak with his bare hand and tore into it like a caveman.

“Oh my God,” one of the other women at the table muttered. The man next to her was grinning broadly at the scene. The server stood with three more plates in his hands, confused about what to do.

“Excuse me,” a new voice said next to me. It belonged to a stout man with a grey beard. “I think you are in my seat.”

“Back off, dude,” Harper said to him while taking another bite of steak. “Get your own table.”

The man turned to the woman next to Harper. “Katherine? Is this some sort of birthday joke? Because I do not understand the punchline.”

“He just sat down and won’t leave!” she replied. “Get the manager.”

Trying to suppress my overwhelming embarrassment, I leaned close to Harper. “I need you to trust me. We need to leave right now. If we don’t, the police are going to come and you will probably be arrested.”

Like a ray of sunshine poking through a cloudy sky, that threat pierced his senses. He looked around as if seeing everything for the first time, then pushed back the chair and rose to his feet. “You should send that steak back,” he told nobody in particular. “I ordered it rare, but it’s well done.”

I put an arm around him and led him to the entrance, grabbing my purse from the table along the way. Harper snagged the bottle of wine by the neck and carried it with us. The hostess was holding up a bag with our food by the check-in podium; I pulled out a pair of hundred dollar bills from my purse and slapped them down in front of her.

“That should cover it,” I said, taking the bag and hoping they didn’t delay us any further. The manager stepped in front of us before we could get to the door, though.

“The next time you have the munchies,” she said dryly, “might I suggest Taco Bell?”

Harper and I giggled our way out the door.