Bittersweet by Sareeta Domingo Page B

the last trays of sandwiches into the back of our dilapidated “Joe Johnson’s” van—the only one we have, an old Ford with a peeling decal stuck onto the sides.
    I slide the door shut, just about to give up and head over to the high school on my own, when I see a figure teetering up the street toward me.
    “Wait! I’m here…!” Maxine calls. “What all needs doing?”
    I stare at her. She’s wearing black high-heeled booties, tight black jeans, and a strappy vest top, with makeup on her face that I’m pretty sure one of her magazines would label “vampy.”
    “Uh, it’s all loaded up now, which is a good thing seeing as you look like you’re on your way to a Hells Angels beauty pageant,” I reply when she reaches me.
    Maxine folds her arms. “You do get the significance of a first impression, right?” she asks. “Johnny Lincoln needs to fully appreciate the real me.”
    “Oh, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” I say, grinning wryly. She tuts, and we clamber into the van. It takes me a while to get used to the stick shift, and Max grips the dashboard exaggeratedly as we lurch forward.
    “So this is going to be kind of fun, right?” she begins brightly, eyeing me warily once we’re on our way. “I mean, a new gig for JJ’s, you’re all pioneering and whatnot, and… Well, you look fantastic if I do say so myself. What say you check out some of the other talent at this rehearsal shindig, see if you can really rub ol’ whatshisface’s, well, face, in it?”
    “I’m just there to do a job, Maxi. In and out.” I clumsily change gears and she goes back to staring wide-eyed at the road ahead of us.
    “OK. Yeah. In and out. Cool,” she repeats. “Anyway, all of that douchebaggery aside, I’m super excited about seeing this whole juggernaut coming to life. All the actors, the scripts, the prep. Man! And Dogwood High, center stage? So weird, right? I mean, look at this place,” she says as I signal and swerve a little sharply into the high school’s almost-empty parking lot. There are some Screen/West vans parked up, and a couple of blacked-out SUVs, which no doubt transported the actors’ precious behinds over here for the rehearsals.
    “God, it is weird to be back here. I half expect to see Denny Smith and his meat-headed cronies leaning on his Camaro over there,” I say as we climb out of the van.
    “Right? And Riley, Kim and Ashley doing that terrible double-dutch with the jump ropes because it was, like, their thing senior year?”
    I laugh, remembering.
    “The most random thing ever,” Max says, shaking her head.
    Staring around at the empty lot, I get hit with a wave of nostalgia. I think about Jeff giving me a ride in his pickup to school on a Monday morning. Sometimes, if his dad was away on business and he had the house to himself, I’d lie to Joe and say I was staying at Maxi’s, but instead I’d go to Jeff’s house and we’d—
    “You want to open up this door? I don’t want to break a nail,” Max says, interrupting my thoughts. Way to distract myself from thinking about one asshole guy by thinking about another major asshole.
    “Yeah, you’re going to be a real big help with that attitude,” I say, but slide it open and we each pick up a tray of food to carry through to the auditorium where Blaine told me the rehearsals would be happening.
    “It feels naughty being in here,” Maxine says with a giggle as we walk down the empty, echoing hallway. “Jesus, there’s my freaking locker!”
    I glance at it and chuckle at the dent that’s still there in the door—it provided the perfect resting spot for Max to lean her head against during make-out sessions with whoever was flavor of the month, or sometimes week.
    “Man,” I mutter. “I feel like exactly the same chick. Three years, and it’s like I never left.”
    Max adjusts the tray in her hands as she clops along in her heels. “Hey, none of that. You’re a strong, intelligent, catering professional with the