“Well, Mira Sparks,” I heard a woman’s voice say. “Aren’t you something this morning.”
I didn’t even have to turn around; I just glanced into the back of the Camry. Sure enough, there was that baby, in a carseat, sound asleep with its big head hanging over to one side.
“Hello, Bea,” Mira said, acknowledging her. Then she hitched up her purse and said to me, “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Okay.” I turned, facing Bea Williamson, who narrowed her eyes at me. I took a few slow steps, unsure whether I should leave.
Mira opened the door to the Quik Stop, then disappeared inside. Bea Williamson took the baby out of the car, settled it on one hip, and followed right behind her.
Maybe nothing more would happen. Maybe Bea would leave it at just that tone, that one question. But I had been the butt of the joke long enough to know not to put much faith in the benefit of the doubt.
I crossed the road to the Last Chance, dodging the morning traffic. But even as I chopped lettuce, the radio up full blast, I kept glancing back at the Quik Stop, wondering what was going on inside and upset with myself for not being there.
It was a Friday, about a week later, when it happened.
Fridays were usually crazy, with day-trippers and weekenders stopping in before hitting the beach. Morgan had almost every Friday off, in case Mark was in town, which left me to suffer through them with Isabel. I’d already had two large tables and at least ten small ones and it was only one-thirty
“Your food’s up,” Isabel snapped. She balanced a huge tray on her shoulder, hurrying past the line of people still waiting to be seated.
“How’s it going out there?” Norman asked as I started fraying my food. The music on the kitchen CD box was Stevie Wonder, loud. Isabel had been in a good mood that morning. Norman had on his green sunglasses and was grooving out at the fryer, with Bick making salads and humming behind him.
“Crazy,” I told him. “At least three tables waiting.”
“Four or more,” Isabel said from behind me, reaching around to grab a side of fries. “I need that burger, Norman,” she said, leaning closer to the window. “Pronto.”
I stepped aside and Norman raised his eyebrows, smiling. He had kind of grown on me. He might have been an art freak, but he was a sweet art freak: he always remade my food quickly, even when the error was my fault, and made a point of setting aside the leftover bags of low-fat potato chips, which he knew I loved. On slow nights when we closed together we’d stand, him on his side of the food window, me on mine, and just talk. Days I worked with Isabel he was my only ally, but from the kitchen he couldn’t do much.
“This is yours,” Isabel said, pulling the rest of my order and dropping it on my tray. “You need to get this stuff out, not leave it sitting there getting cold and taking up space.”
“I was getting it. But then you—”
“I don’t give a crap.” She didn’t even turn around. “Just do your job, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”
“I am,” I said, with that hot frustrated feeling I always got around her.
“Look, Morgan’s not here to coddle you today,” she snapped, grabbing the burger Norman handed her. “And I don’t have time to explain how life is like coffee or whatever. Just stay out of my way and do your own shit.” And with that she picked up her tray, bumped me aside again with her hip, and was gone.
I just stood there. Every time this happened I thought up a great response—about three hours later, which didn’t help much. Waitressing may have forced me to be braver with strangers, but Isabel was different.
“Colie, she’s just like that,” Norman said, like he always did. No matter how busy he was, Norman somehow noticed everything. I’d look up in the middle of a rush to see his eyes on me, just keeping track of where I was. It was strangely reassuring. “She doesn’t—”
“I know,” I said, taking a deep breath and turning back to my tables. I ran my food out and kept working, my fake smile plastered across my face. I lost myself in the buzz and busyness, avoiding Isabel until two-thirty, when things had slowed down. Then, as my last table left, I took off my apron and went out the back door.
I sat on the steps facing the Dumpsters and let my feet dangle down. In the afternoons it was sunny and bright enough to make you squint, and if the wind was blowing the right way you couldn’t even smell the garbage.
A car pulled up out front and I heard the bell ring as someone came in. I looked at my watch: one minute to close. Through the back screen I could just see two girls leaning against the counter.
I started to get up but Isabel was there first, pulling a pen out of her hair. She had that snippy look on her face, like she was just waiting for these two to make her mad. “Can I help you?”
“We need takeout,” one of the girls said. “Um, two cheeseburgers and an order of onion rings. And two Diet Pepsis.”
“Two cheeseburgers,” Isabel called out to Norman, stabbing the ticket on the spindle. “Be a few minutes,” she told the girls. Then she walked towards the back door, glanced at me, and went in to the bathroom. From the kitchen I could still hear Ste-vie Wonder, jaunty and cheerful.
I closed my eyes, letting the sun warm my face. I could smell those cheeseburgers, and my stomach grumbled. I’d stuck to my Kiki Food Plan for the most part, with just a few french fries and onion rings here and there. Still, I was always tempted. “One day down, one victory won,” my mother would say. It was the name of her best-selling inspirational tape.
I heard someone coming down the hallway and I turned, thinking it was Isabel. But it wasn’t. It was one of the girls from the counter, and even squinting through the screen between us I could recognize Caroline Dawes.
She saw me, too, and looked just as surprised. For some crazy reason I thought that maybe, just maybe, things would be all right. We weren’t at school. We weren’t even at home. We were miles away. So I smiled at her.
“Oh, my God,” she said, her nose wrinkling as if she’d seen something disgusting. “What are you doing here?”