Monday nights always mean lousy tips, but tonight is surprisingly busy.
“Why do you think that is?” he asks Brianna Armbruster, seizing any excuse to talk to her as they stand shoulder--to--shoulder loading desserts onto a tray.
“No clue” is her reply.
“Maybe it’s because no one feels like cooking after Thanksgiving.”
“Maybe.”
Brianna walks off with a swing of her red ponytail. Not in a snotty way—-just . . .
Disinterested, basically. Which is the way most senior girls treat junior guys at Mundy’s Landing High. It’s not like he isn’t used to it.
Still, he keeps trying with Brianna. Because this isn’t school. He’s not a junior here, he’s a working man. This is the real world, where age doesn’t matter. Well, anyway, it shouldn’t, he thinks, staring after her. She fills out her waitress uniform—-a basic black polo shirt and jeans—-nicely.
He’s known Brianna forever. You can’t live in Mundy’s Landing and not be acquainted with all the kids in town who are roughly your age. For two years, they played on the same youth soccer team. He didn’t pay much attention to her, though—-didn’t fall in love with her—-until the summer before his freshman year.
There he was, just riding his bike along Prospect Street on his usual morning paper route, tossing newspapers onto porches, when she jogged past with some guy. He hadn’t seen much of her since she’d left middle school as a freckled tomboy with an overbite and orthodontic headgear. Now the braces were gone, and she was wearing skimpy workout clothes, and he couldn’t miss the fact that she’d grown up—-not to mention out. He was so distracted he steered into a fire hydrant and found himself sprawled on the sidewalk with bloody hands and knees.
“Nice going, carrot top,” the guy called, laughing.
Brianna whirled on him and pointed out that she, too, was a carrot top. He stammered a lame apology, which she ignored as she came over to make sure Mick was okay. She even held his arm as he got to his feet. He kind of wished he wasn’t okay, because then she’d have to call an ambulance and ride with him to the hospital and keep a bedside vigil as he convalesced, maybe wearing a little white nurse’s uniform, or—-
“Could she be less into you?”
He turns to see Zach Willet grinning at him as he stares after Brianna.
“Yeah, she could be into you,” he shoots back illogically.
“That makes zero sense.”
“Cut me a break, will ya, Lou? Can’t you see I’m lovesick over here?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry ’bout that, Lou.”
He and Zach always call each other Lou when they’re here at work. He can’t remember how it started, but it’s become a thing, and they talk to each other in exaggerated mobster accents. Well, Zach’s is dead--on, like he stepped out of the movie Goodfellas, but Mick’s needs work.
They never hung out much in the past. Zach is part of a different crowd, the drama club kids. But they’ve gotten to be pretty good friends working together over the past few months.
Mick puts a plate containing a powdered--sugar--dusted cannoli onto his tray and consults the order.
“By the way—-” Zach drops the wiseguy accent. “I heard she’s going out with some college guy.”
Mick’s heart plummets. “What? Brianna? Since when?”
“Since a few days ago.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I swore on my life I wouldn’t tell.”
That means it came from Gina Marrana, aka Jiffy Pop. Her parents own the restaurant, and she’s the only other high school kid here tonight. She always seems to know everything about everyone in town. On slow nights, she brings Mick up to speed on the gossip.
“You swear on your life you won’t tell?” Gina always asks, wearing her usual I’m--bursting--with--news--and--I’ll--explode--if--I--don’t--tell expression that spawned her nickname.
Mick always swears, although he’s broken that vow quite a few times. But he’s still alive, so . . .
“Why would Brianna go out with a college guy?” he asks Zach.