After I get going, though, the breeze feels nice. I lean my head back, letting the air cool my neck, letting my thoughts drift here and there. At the old tracks, I’m careful to look both ways before I cross. A little girl was struck here, not more than a few years ago. She was from the other side, Dallas, so our little town didn’t know her from Jane. It’s still plenty sad though.
Dallas is a lot more bustling than Cement City, with a population three hundred times our own. It’s got big ol’ billboards, buildings more than two stories high, banks, clothing shops, a theater, and more.
But us, we’ve got a physician’s office, general store, and telephone connections building. Though that last one doesn’t do my family a lick of good since we can’t afford a phone. But that’s it. That’s Cement City. We don’t even have a school. We go into Dallas for that.
The diner comes into view and I raise a brow. My best friend loiters outside the diner’s alley door, smoking a cigarette. That’s a first—Blanche being ’round back, not her dirty habit of Lucky Strikes.
“Blanche. What ya doing here?” I ask her, amused that she’s standing among the trash cans in her fancy knee-high dress.
“Waiting for you.” She puffs from her cig before flicking it, then scans her surroundings with a wrinkled nose. “Been here a whole hour. I can practically smell that old dusty book on you. Bet that’s why you’re late.”
“You cannot. Besides, I ain’t late.” I slide off my bike. “Mr. Banks cut down my hours.”
Hand on hip, she says, “Should’ve told me.”
I ignore her and pull open the door to the diner, knowing the ever-determined Blanche will be on my heels and that my boss won’t care. Mr. Banks waves hello from one of the kitchen’s sinks, his expression lighting up like it does every time Blanche comes in. Although expected, I narrow my eyes at him; he must’ve forgotten again ’bout his wife and three kids at home.
Grabbing my apron from a peg on the wall, I get right to work. Blanche follows me into the dining room like a lost puppy.
“Okay, Blanche, what’s going on?” I ask as I scour the row of tables by the window, all mostly empty.
“I need your help,” Blanche whispers. “My pa’s demanding that I start paying my own way. Or find myself a man to do it for me.”
Well, I got myself a man. My news ’bout Roy bubbles up inside of me.
“But,” Blanche continues, her nose scrunched up like there’s a skunk nearby, “I ain’t ’bout to narrow down my list of suitors.”
I nod, expecting her to say something like that, and keep my mouth closed ’bout Roy.
Blanche bumps my shoulder with hers. “So I got to figure something out. Or rather, you’ll figure something out.”
Oh, Blanche. Ma always says Blanche runs wild ’cause she doesn’t have a ma of her own. Ma also says I should show her the ways of a woman, which is probably the only reason why we’re allowed to be friends. And probably why Blanche has come to rely on me so much.
“So what do ya say, Bonn? You’re the brains. What’s the solution?”
“Get a job,” I say in a rushed whisper. I turn my attention to a couple settling at a discolored booth. “What can I get y’all today?”
I jot down their order: two Cubans, a Coca-Cola, a lemonade, and a side of fries.
Blanche doesn’t stop her yammering. “Don’t think a job and I would get along.” She looks ’round the diner, with its checkered floor and mismatched chairs, with a cringe.
I smile to the customers before I leave their table. “Fine, then,” I say to Blanche as I—we—walk toward the kitchen, “find yourself a sugar daddy.”
Really, it’s meant as a joke. Using a man like that is wrong. But Blanche nods, taking me seriously. “Thought ’bout it. I did. More trouble than it’s worth. In fact, I reckon it’s more work than a real job.”
I scan the tables to see if anyone is low on drinks. “How so?” I ask, sincerely curious.
“I’d have to go juggling ’em. Playing house with only one man is nothin’ more than a death trap.”
And that, right there, solidifies why I haven’t told Blanche ’bout Roy and me. I should want to tell her, but I’m not sure she wants to hear it. I sigh. “So, how is having a few sugar daddies different than having a few fellas?”
“Plain and simple, a daddy pays my way, even if I don’t have his ring on my finger. And if I got more than one boy, I got to keep ’em straight and away from each other. Don’t want to find myself in a middle of a brawl, now do I? Besides, I don’t fancy being called a gold digger. So let’s hear how you’re going to fix this for me.”
A man at a far table raises his pointer finger to catch my attention.
“Bonnelyn, focus.” Blanche steps in front of me, her eyes huge. “On me,” she adds.
I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “That customer needs my help more.”
She looks over her shoulder at the man, says to me, “Wait here.”
Blanche saunters toward Mr. Banks at the register, flipping open the top button of her blouse. Then she goes and props her elbows on the counter, leaning forward so her bosoms show.
I roll my eyes before grabbing a coffeepot and heading toward the patron’s table. I’ve just filled his cup when Blanche grabs the pot from my hand, puts it down with a bang.
“Got ya a five-minute break,” she says.
“A break? I only got here.”
Blanche grins, pulling me away from the table. And really, there’s no use resisting. No matter what way it’s spun, Blanche always wins, and time and time again I’m left thinkin’, Oh that’s just Blanche. Blanche is going to be Blanche. There’s nothin’ to be done.
I reach for the coffeepot and apologize to the man for Blanche’s rudeness. She sits down at an empty booth, gesturing for me to do the same. I hesitate. Mr. Banks is cashing someone out, so I slink down onto the bench, hoping he won’t mind me taking my five in the dining room.
“So what do I do?” Blanche asks.
“Like I said, get a job. I could see if Mr. Banks needs another waitress.”
“First, no. Second, he cut your hours. I reckon he ain’t hiring. Third, this place is in the butt crack of Dallas. No wonder it’s slow.”
“Good point … points.” I hate it when Blanche is right. “There’s got to be a job more suitable for Blanche Caldwell.”
Her lips narrow into a circle. “I’ve an idea! Let’s go on the road, start our own act. You’ll sing with that pretty li’l voice of yours. I’ll dance with this fine body.” She shimmies in her seat. “Money problem: solved.”
“You can dance?”
She snarls.
I laugh, and I’m ’bout to crush her dreams ’bout skipping town, when a boy—a couple years older than us, nineteen or twenty maybe, figuring by his grown-up suit—tilts his chair toward us from his table, his voice low. “Hello there, lassie.”
Between Blanche and me, furrowed brows and subtle headshakes say a mouthful.
You know him?
Nope. You?
Can’t say I do.
Damn. He’s a sheik.
The last nod toward his sex appeal comes from Blanche, punctuated by a raised eyebrow.
The boy leans a hairsbreadth closer to Blanche, spinning a pocket watch between his fingers. “You looking for work, baby?”