distribution centers sent out to the exotic reaches of Nebraska, Kansas, and beyond. It took Rose longer than usual to reach the battered exit sign, to turn onto the loop of the ramp and head into town.
Two large touring buses dominated the parking lot of the Orange Tastee, their bifold doors open. Teenagers teemed out of them, filtering from the buses to the restaurant. Rose parked the van and watched them through the windshield.
She could tell they werenât American teenagers. The boysâ pants were just a little too high and the girlsâ shirts were just a little too loose. European, probably, possibly German, their faces characterized by wide, round cheekbones. A few of the boys wore highlights in their spiked hair, shyly touching the hardened tips as they smiled at the girls.
This was good, Rose reasoned. She could just slip in among them.
Still, her heart thumped. No. No. No. No.
It was two thirty.
If she was going to do it, she had to do it now. The boys got home just after four.
Rose sat for another five minutes before she finally was able to force herself out of the car.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Inside, the restaurant was packed. Every table was filled with exuberant Aryan teenagers, happy to be off the bus, filling the air with the scent of foreign pheromones. These überkinder flitted from one table to the next, chattering in their hard language, their cadences a strange music in this place.
Rose stood in line behind a passel of them. What were they doing here? What lame tour of America had included this stop?
Though she had stared at its interior for weeks, Rose had never been inside the Orange Tastee. She hadnât tasted its food. Even that first time she had ordered only for the kids.
It smelled of oranges and burning meat, the char of the grill carrying over the sickly sweet smell that comes from too much fruit. The scent called to her mind the bees and flies that hover over trash at summer barbecues.
The small staff was clearly overwhelmed with the demands of the customers, ordering hot dogs and Pepsis in careful, Teutonic-accented English.
The teen girl Rose had seen that first night was at a register (âCould you say that again, I donât understand youâ), struggling to handle the influx of cash and sending the orders to the cooks in the back.
Rose saw no sign of the boy who had been with her on that first night. The Bullshitter was absent.
For an oddly hopeful moment, Rose thought maybe the Man Who Was Not Hugo would not be there either. Maybe she had gotten the days wrong. Maybe he was sick. Maybe she wouldnât have to do this.
But then he stepped out from the back, shooing the girl away from the register. Sending her into the recesses of the storeroom to fetch more cups.
Rose couldnât breathe.
Everything will be okay.
Rose repeated the mantra that got her through takeoffs and landings.
Everything will be okay. Everything will be okay. This is perfectly safe.
Rose looked at the glass doors of the exit to her right. She could leave.
âMaâam, may I take your order?â
Rose looked up at him . His eyes were on the register. Waiting.
This was as close as sheâd ever been. She could see the spot on his cheek where heâd missed with his razor this morning. The frayed edges of his fingernails.
She swallowed. âUh ⦠a Tastee Dog ⦠and fries.â
His fingers danced over the keys.
âWould you like a drink withââ
He looked up and Rose saw it happen.
His bland smile faltered as his eyes met her searching face. Pupils widening. His breath stopped.
ââthat.â
He stared at Rose, the pink draining from his cheeks. Rose heard a sound bubble from her lips.
âYouâ¦â
He pulled his eyes back to the register, his head shaking slightly, flicking her away. Shaking her off. Swatting at that impossible thing that just transpired, sending it away.
Recognition.
âYou know
Two large touring buses dominated the parking lot of the Orange Tastee, their bifold doors open. Teenagers teemed out of them, filtering from the buses to the restaurant. Rose parked the van and watched them through the windshield.
She could tell they werenât American teenagers. The boysâ pants were just a little too high and the girlsâ shirts were just a little too loose. European, probably, possibly German, their faces characterized by wide, round cheekbones. A few of the boys wore highlights in their spiked hair, shyly touching the hardened tips as they smiled at the girls.
This was good, Rose reasoned. She could just slip in among them.
Still, her heart thumped. No. No. No. No.
It was two thirty.
If she was going to do it, she had to do it now. The boys got home just after four.
Rose sat for another five minutes before she finally was able to force herself out of the car.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Inside, the restaurant was packed. Every table was filled with exuberant Aryan teenagers, happy to be off the bus, filling the air with the scent of foreign pheromones. These überkinder flitted from one table to the next, chattering in their hard language, their cadences a strange music in this place.
Rose stood in line behind a passel of them. What were they doing here? What lame tour of America had included this stop?
Though she had stared at its interior for weeks, Rose had never been inside the Orange Tastee. She hadnât tasted its food. Even that first time she had ordered only for the kids.
It smelled of oranges and burning meat, the char of the grill carrying over the sickly sweet smell that comes from too much fruit. The scent called to her mind the bees and flies that hover over trash at summer barbecues.
The small staff was clearly overwhelmed with the demands of the customers, ordering hot dogs and Pepsis in careful, Teutonic-accented English.
The teen girl Rose had seen that first night was at a register (âCould you say that again, I donât understand youâ), struggling to handle the influx of cash and sending the orders to the cooks in the back.
Rose saw no sign of the boy who had been with her on that first night. The Bullshitter was absent.
For an oddly hopeful moment, Rose thought maybe the Man Who Was Not Hugo would not be there either. Maybe she had gotten the days wrong. Maybe he was sick. Maybe she wouldnât have to do this.
But then he stepped out from the back, shooing the girl away from the register. Sending her into the recesses of the storeroom to fetch more cups.
Rose couldnât breathe.
Everything will be okay.
Rose repeated the mantra that got her through takeoffs and landings.
Everything will be okay. Everything will be okay. This is perfectly safe.
Rose looked at the glass doors of the exit to her right. She could leave.
âMaâam, may I take your order?â
Rose looked up at him . His eyes were on the register. Waiting.
This was as close as sheâd ever been. She could see the spot on his cheek where heâd missed with his razor this morning. The frayed edges of his fingernails.
She swallowed. âUh ⦠a Tastee Dog ⦠and fries.â
His fingers danced over the keys.
âWould you like a drink withââ
He looked up and Rose saw it happen.
His bland smile faltered as his eyes met her searching face. Pupils widening. His breath stopped.
ââthat.â
He stared at Rose, the pink draining from his cheeks. Rose heard a sound bubble from her lips.
âYouâ¦â
He pulled his eyes back to the register, his head shaking slightly, flicking her away. Shaking her off. Swatting at that impossible thing that just transpired, sending it away.
Recognition.
âYou know
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