smile.
She smiles back, folding a newspaper page under her arm and placing a yellow pencil in her hair. “Hi.”
I pull one pizza box from its red insulated bag. “Fourteen eighty-six,” I tell her. I make sure to continue to smile. This is Ata’s advice, and he is right. Customers appreciate it when you smile.
“Okay,” the woman says, and begins to dig through a large feminine wallet sitting on top of a side table.
Then she frowns. I’ve seen this frown before, but I continue smiling.
“Oh dear,” she says, and turns away from me, shouting into the house. “Honey, do you have a twenty?”
Something important happens on the television, because the person she is shouting to cheers
“All right, go, go go!”
very, very loud.
“Jim!” the woman shouts.
“What!”
“I said, do you have twenty dollars for the pizza?”
“What? No!” the man shouts back.
“Oh, that damn ball game, can’t hear a thing,” she says. She turns to me and smiles, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, would you wait just a quick minute for me?”
“Of course, ma’am.” My cheeks are beginning to hurt, but I won’t stop smiling. If I’m fortunate, she will find her
yirmi
and give me the entire bill for making me wait.
“Oh, great, thank you …,” she says, and peers at my name tag. I don’t like my name tag, mostly because it’s attached to my white shirt, which is tucked into my white pants. This uniform makes me crazy, but it’s part of the job, so I don’t complain. Ata says I was lucky to find a job, and he’s probably right.
“Ah-zee-zee?” the woman asks.
“Ah-zeez,” I correct her politely.
“Oh, I’m sorry …”
“It’s no problem!” My cheeks are burning now.
The woman sets her wallet down on the table inside the door, and I put the pizza box on top of the red bag because it’s beginning to burn my hands. The woman walks down a hallway, calling.
“Morrigan!” she shouts. “I need that money I gave you this afternoon.”
Morrigan? I know that girl. She is very … spirited, Ata would say.
The woman turns a corner, but I can hear her knock on a door. “Morrigan?” she calls again. “Morry, I need that twenty. We ordered pizza. Morrigan?”
I am running late now. I need to get back to the pizzeria for the last part of my shift, which is attending to the counter,filling orders for carryout. Kabara—my boss—will not be happy if I’m late. Neither would Ata if he knew. My father wants me to be sure to bring honor to our family by working hard, and even though it’s been almost five years since we left Türkiye, I still want to make him proud of me.
“Morrigan!”
The woman is gone for several minutes. I hear doors opening and closing down the hall. Suddenly she comes around the corner and rushes into a room just beyond the front door, the room where the television is on. The hardwood floor squeaks loudly beneath her bare feet.
“She’s gone!” the woman yells.
I hear the man’s voice. “What?”
“Morrigan is gone, Jim. She’s not in her—would you turn the TV down for just one minute?—she’s not in her room, she’s not in the bathroom, she’s
gone!”
“Oh, for hell’s sake,” I hear the man say, and then he appears, barefooted and wearing plaid shorts and a T-shirt. He does not look at me at all as he goes down the hall calling Morrigan’s name. The game has gone to a commercial for large, manly pickup trucks:
Made in America
, a deep country-western voice says,
because it matters
.
I didn’t know when I drove here that this was where Morrigan Lewis lived. There must be one thousand people named Lewis in Santa Barbara, how should I know that this was her house?
I don’t care too much. Morrigan has never spoken to me at school, so I am not exactly upset she is not here.
Mr. Jim Lewis is gone for several more minutes. The woman, Mrs. Lewis, comes back to the door looking very, very angry.
“Um … I’m sorry, we’re having a bit of, um … trouble here,
She smiles back, folding a newspaper page under her arm and placing a yellow pencil in her hair. “Hi.”
I pull one pizza box from its red insulated bag. “Fourteen eighty-six,” I tell her. I make sure to continue to smile. This is Ata’s advice, and he is right. Customers appreciate it when you smile.
“Okay,” the woman says, and begins to dig through a large feminine wallet sitting on top of a side table.
Then she frowns. I’ve seen this frown before, but I continue smiling.
“Oh dear,” she says, and turns away from me, shouting into the house. “Honey, do you have a twenty?”
Something important happens on the television, because the person she is shouting to cheers
“All right, go, go go!”
very, very loud.
“Jim!” the woman shouts.
“What!”
“I said, do you have twenty dollars for the pizza?”
“What? No!” the man shouts back.
“Oh, that damn ball game, can’t hear a thing,” she says. She turns to me and smiles, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, would you wait just a quick minute for me?”
“Of course, ma’am.” My cheeks are beginning to hurt, but I won’t stop smiling. If I’m fortunate, she will find her
yirmi
and give me the entire bill for making me wait.
“Oh, great, thank you …,” she says, and peers at my name tag. I don’t like my name tag, mostly because it’s attached to my white shirt, which is tucked into my white pants. This uniform makes me crazy, but it’s part of the job, so I don’t complain. Ata says I was lucky to find a job, and he’s probably right.
“Ah-zee-zee?” the woman asks.
“Ah-zeez,” I correct her politely.
“Oh, I’m sorry …”
“It’s no problem!” My cheeks are burning now.
The woman sets her wallet down on the table inside the door, and I put the pizza box on top of the red bag because it’s beginning to burn my hands. The woman walks down a hallway, calling.
“Morrigan!” she shouts. “I need that money I gave you this afternoon.”
Morrigan? I know that girl. She is very … spirited, Ata would say.
The woman turns a corner, but I can hear her knock on a door. “Morrigan?” she calls again. “Morry, I need that twenty. We ordered pizza. Morrigan?”
I am running late now. I need to get back to the pizzeria for the last part of my shift, which is attending to the counter,filling orders for carryout. Kabara—my boss—will not be happy if I’m late. Neither would Ata if he knew. My father wants me to be sure to bring honor to our family by working hard, and even though it’s been almost five years since we left Türkiye, I still want to make him proud of me.
“Morrigan!”
The woman is gone for several minutes. I hear doors opening and closing down the hall. Suddenly she comes around the corner and rushes into a room just beyond the front door, the room where the television is on. The hardwood floor squeaks loudly beneath her bare feet.
“She’s gone!” the woman yells.
I hear the man’s voice. “What?”
“Morrigan is gone, Jim. She’s not in her—would you turn the TV down for just one minute?—she’s not in her room, she’s not in the bathroom, she’s
gone!”
“Oh, for hell’s sake,” I hear the man say, and then he appears, barefooted and wearing plaid shorts and a T-shirt. He does not look at me at all as he goes down the hall calling Morrigan’s name. The game has gone to a commercial for large, manly pickup trucks:
Made in America
, a deep country-western voice says,
because it matters
.
I didn’t know when I drove here that this was where Morrigan Lewis lived. There must be one thousand people named Lewis in Santa Barbara, how should I know that this was her house?
I don’t care too much. Morrigan has never spoken to me at school, so I am not exactly upset she is not here.
Mr. Jim Lewis is gone for several more minutes. The woman, Mrs. Lewis, comes back to the door looking very, very angry.
“Um … I’m sorry, we’re having a bit of, um … trouble here,
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