fifteen.
“Make sure you come home right after your shift ends,” Mom says, reaching into the fridge for a carton of juice. “I’ll be calling to check up on you.”
“Do you have to be so shout-y?” I hunch over my cereal bowl. She keeps telling me I’ll feel better if I eat something, but really, I don’t see how that’s possible. I don’t think I will feel well ever again.
Stupid beer.
“Some aspirin should take the edge off.” Mom gives the empty-ish orange juice carton a shake and then sighs heavily, shooting me a dark look. “How many times,” she mutters.
I’m lucky she’s not madder about me coming home drunk last night. I’m grounded for a week, but all that really means is I can’t watch TV or use the computer.
“I haven’t heard from your dad in a while,” Mom says, pouring the dregs of the orange juice into a glass and sliding it in front of me. The sight of all that pulp floating on top of the juice is not doing anything good for my stomach.
I push the glass away. “He’s been busy.” Busy losing my life savings. But, of course, I don’t say this out loud. Even after everything he’s done, I’m still protecting my dad. Okay, yes, I’m protecting myself, too—if Mom finds out I gave him money, I’ll be grounded indefinitely. But mostly I’m looking out for him. Or enabling him. Whatever.
Celia wanders into the kitchen in her bathrobe, her red hair completely hidden under a towel turban. She’s been staying with us since we put the rest of Gran’s stuff in storage. As much as I love Auntie C, I’ll be glad when she’s gone. She and Mom have been on me about visiting Gran, and holding them off is becoming harder and harder.
As if on cue, the two of them exchange a not-so-subtle glance. Mom clears her throat. “Sweetheart, we’re going to see your grandmother this morning. I think it would be a good idea if you came with us.”
“Mom, please. Not today, okay? I’m not feeling well. And besides, I have to work later.”
“You have plenty of time before your shift starts,” she says as Celia busies herself making coffee. “And it will be a quick visit. Gran gets tired easily, so we don’t like to stay too long.”
Maybe this is part of my punishment. She’s going to force me to see Gran again.
“I’m not going.”
The disappointment is clear on my mom’s face and it takes a minute for her to respond. “Gran still has some lucid moments, Quinn. Not many, and not for long periods of time, but occasionally she’s herself again.” Mom accepts the mug that Celia holds out to her. “She’s been asking for you.”
My heart drops. The thought of Gran waiting for me, wondering where I am, should be enough to make me try. But I just don’t think I can do it. I mean, what are the odds that she’ll be lucid when I’m there? The alternative—facing that blank stare again—is way too upsetting.
Celia puts her arm around me. She smells like the vanilla bath gel we keep in the shower. “Quinn, sweetie, I know it’s hard. But we want to make sure that you see Gran now. While she’s still relatively well.”
I squirm out from under her arm. “What does that mean?”
“It means that we need to be prepared,” she says calmly. “We don’t want you to regret it if something should happen to her. Your grandmother is old and the doctors aren’t sure how much longer she—”
I back toward the door. I don’t want to hear the rest of this conversation.
“Quinn,” Mom says.
But I’m already gone.
sixteen.
“This is our big surprise?” I ask as a busted-looking white truck lumbers into the Tudor Tymes parking lot. I’ve been standing out back by the reeking Dumpster with the rest of the staff for the past five minutes, waiting for Joe’s big reveal. “A food truck?”
To say I’m disappointed would be an understatement. I was hoping Joe was going to give us each a bonus—something that might help get me to London after all. I should have known better.
Wesley lifts his eye patch to get a better look. “Guess so.”
I’ve seen food trucks all over the city, offering everything from Korean BBQ to gourmet burgers. And now, apparently, wholesome medieval fare.
“I don’t get it,” Amy says, crossing her arms. Her dark hair is divided into two neat plaits, more Bavarian milkmaid than member of the English court, but whatever. And while her costume is identical to mine—white corset laced over a blue velvet gown—she looks totally different in hers. But that’s probably because she’s pulled her corset down so low her nipples are practically showing.
Joe pulls the truck to a stop and hops out, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. “What do you think?” He gestures to a sign tacked to the passenger-side door. “Tudor Tymes to Go!”
I’m not sure what reaction Joe was expecting, but we all sort of stare at him, silent, until the smile falls off his face.
“Food trucks are the new thing,” he says, a bit indignantly. “People eat at the truck, they get a taste of how great our food is, they come to the restaurant. See?”
Not really. I mean, granted, I don’t have a marketing degree, but I do know that we’re a place known for our atmosphere. Our food? Not our selling point.
“We’ve got a corner on the market. There’s no one out there serving anything similar.” Joe rolls up the silver door on the side of the truck and motions for us to come forward. “I got it for a steal. Bankruptcy sale.”
Now that I’m getting closer, I can just make out the ghost of letters on the side of the truck—Burger something—that Joe has partially covered with his makeshift sign. We all jostle to peer inside. And it’s exactly what you’d expect a food truck to look like: a kitchen squeezed inside a truck.
“We’re going to try her out downtown next week,” Joe says. “So we need to start training this afternoon. Quinn and Amy, you’re up first.”
“Wait, what? We have to work in here?” For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me that we’d be forced to work in the truck. Which, duh.
Joe frowns. “Who did you think was going to do it?”
Alrighty then. This summer is officially going down as the worst in history. Not only am I not going to London, but I have a very bad feeling that this truck is not air-conditioned. My velvet costume will not translate well in this heat and I will probably die of heatstroke. Which would perfectly cap off this whole rotten summer.
“Quinn, Amy, you’re out here with me,” Joe says. “The rest of you, back inside.”
While everyone else files into the restaurant to start preparing for opening, Joe gestures for Amy and me to follow him. We climb up two narrow metal steps into the truck. It’s really tight on space in here, crammed as it is with appliances and overflowing boxes of Tudor Tymes memorabilia, which clearly he’s going to make us hock.