Weak adolescent that I was, my smile vanished and I immediately started complaining. “I can’t start tomorrow. I have things to do,” I said. They were surprised by my sudden anger, which I could understand. I had tried to keep that stupid smile on my face as long as I could.
“You’re talking about the band, I’m sure,” Dad said. “And you know by now that Mom and I support your creative projects. But you’re going to be starting your last year of high school in the fall. It’s very important that you learn responsibility and work ethic. I see this happen all the time, you know. Kids just slacking off all through school. Their parents don’t teach them any sort of structure and where do they end up? Flipping burgers their entire lives.”
“What’s wrong with flipping burgers?”
“Nothing, of course,” Mom said, “as long as that’s what a person wants to do. You have some big decisions coming up in the next year. Decisions about college. You’re not going to be a kid anymore. It’s a good time to start experiencing the world.”
How was I going to get any sort of world experience working in some crappy coffee shop? Of course there was no way to express this to them. I realized that this was not a conversation, which implies interaction and communication. I was being told. So, fine. I would work the stupid job. Whatever would shut my parents up. I didn’t even bother telling them that Fern didn’t have to work, and neither did Edgar, and that they would have the summer to work on our CD, the important thing, and I would be left out of it. I knew my parents wouldn’t care about any of those things, despite their supposed support for my creative projects.
xXx
The next morning I dutifully walked down to the Rosewood Café at 9 a.m. My mother’s friend, Mrs. Spangler — no first name basis here — did not seem very impressed by me. I smiled happily as her eyes scanned my dyed hair and my inappropriate makeup.
“You’ll have to wear your hair in a ponytail for hygienic reasons,” she said pleasantly, “and I’m afraid you’ll also have to wash off your eye makeup. We get a lot of senior citizens in here, and they don’t like that sort of thing.”
“Sure,” I said, rather disappointed. I had hoped she might dismiss me on the spot. Instead, she handed me a yellow apron.
“Put this on once you’re done washing, and we’ll get started.”
Mrs. Spangler showed me how to make coffee, where the tea bags were, and explained the selection of sandwiches and muffins. She walked me through using the cash register. It was all so useless. My band was mixing our first CD and here I was, serving huckleberry muffins and tea to old people, wearing a stupid yellow apron. I loathed my parents and I loathed Mrs. Spangler.
But at least it wasn’t gruelling and only took up half of each day. I was able to go to Socks’s house after my shifts, walking over every afternoon, to listen to the songs as they came together and help the others out. And when I got my first paycheque, I have to say that was pretty amazing. My own money. And I could do whatever I wanted with it.
xXx
My parents were off my back about everything, happy that I had settled into the job. It sucked getting up that early, but Mrs. Spangler seemed to like me more and more, and I felt productive. I was making money, I was working on music, and I could afford to buy some new clothes and stuff. Even the customers were pretty nice. We had some regulars who would come in, some old ladies who started calling me “dear.” It sounds lame, but it sort of made me happy.
One particularly hot afternoon, an older man came in. He took a seat at a table by the window and scowled at me. “Can I get some service?” he said.
“You have to order at the counter,” I called back, trying to maintain my customer-service pleasantness.
“Well, I don’t feel like getting up,” he said.