packed—every table full and a line at the door. Caitlin’s given up on her cold, hard cash. She and Linda have spent the night covering my butt.
I can’t do anything right. I mix up orders or forget them entirely. I spill drinks and tip plates. I don’t clear tables fast enough. I’m not working the register or the credit-card machine or making change correctly.
I suck at this.
Tips are next to nothing. Free meals by way of apology to disgruntled “guests” are one too many.
Caitlin and Tom made do okay the first hour or so, just giving Linda these looks like What were you thinking? Then they started to let me know they were a little ticked. “First night and everything, but get a brain, kid,” Tom said, and somehow I think he’s not just talking about my service-with-a-smile skills; he’s also talking about my understanding of Current Events.
Isaac’s pissed too. He glowers across his gleaming stainless-steel Order up! counter. He’s practically broken his little silver bell, slamming his palm down on it and trying to get someone’s attention so the food won’t go cold.
Minutes ago I splashed hot coffee on a man. A few drops . Linda overreacted, I think, maybe just a little. After she swaddled the man’s wrist in a bag of ice, she told me to “go to the bathroom and come out a different person.”
So here I am, perched on the closed toilet lid, breathing into my cupped hands. Trying not to cry. Trying not to think about the twisted Hummer, the bodies in the road, the soldier carrying the limp boy, and all the others with guns. Trying not to think about David—or at least the space all around me where he once was. Trying to become a different person.
Time passes. I know it’s passing. I’m just trying not to think how long it’s been since David’s been gone—how short it’s been since he’s been gone, really. Remember? I make myself think instead. You’ve got the long, strong arms of love. You can hold on across continents and the oceans in between.
So this is war-love.
Justine , I think. Remember Justine .
Remember her, maybe. Just don’t become her. I can almost hear Linda’s voice, saying this.
I wonder if Linda’s right.
I open the stall door. I step out, blinking against the harsher light.
Linda is bracing herself against the sink. Her face is flushed and damp with sweat. Her arms are covered with little red welts from the hot rims of plates.
“I can’t even believe you’ve been in here this long,” she says. “We’re practically dying out there, and you’re sitting in here.”
“You told me to,” I mutter. But then I glance at my watch. It’s been close to twenty minutes that I’ve been in here.
Linda must be too wiped out to yell. She speaks softly. She sounds discouraged, not mad. Disappointed.
“I want this for us this summer.” She plucks a paper towel from the dispenser, turns to the sink, runs cold water over the towel, swabs her face, and dabs at the welts on her arms. “We need this, you and me. And it’s not just about money or discipline, Penelope. We need to make something work together again.” She stuffs the paper towel into the overflowing garbage can, then snags another paper towel and holds it out to me. “Wipe your face, and get back out there.”
I’d say something if I knew what to say. But I’d be talking to a swinging door.
Already, Linda’s back out there.
Nine
My first official shift ends with a bang, not a whimper, at 10:45 p.m. when I drop an entire tub of dirty dishes on the kitchen floor.
Isaac stares at me like I’m a cockroach lurking in his daily special. Caitlin swears a blue streak under her breath. Linda says, “Go. Home. To. Bed.” her hands pressed to either side of her face. With her mouth open in horror, she reminds me of that famous painting The Scream . But Linda doesn’t scream. Not right now at least. She just says,
“Tomorrow?” Caitlin, Isaac, and I groan in unison.
Linda plants her hands on
I can’t do anything right. I mix up orders or forget them entirely. I spill drinks and tip plates. I don’t clear tables fast enough. I’m not working the register or the credit-card machine or making change correctly.
I suck at this.
Tips are next to nothing. Free meals by way of apology to disgruntled “guests” are one too many.
Caitlin and Tom made do okay the first hour or so, just giving Linda these looks like What were you thinking? Then they started to let me know they were a little ticked. “First night and everything, but get a brain, kid,” Tom said, and somehow I think he’s not just talking about my service-with-a-smile skills; he’s also talking about my understanding of Current Events.
Isaac’s pissed too. He glowers across his gleaming stainless-steel Order up! counter. He’s practically broken his little silver bell, slamming his palm down on it and trying to get someone’s attention so the food won’t go cold.
Minutes ago I splashed hot coffee on a man. A few drops . Linda overreacted, I think, maybe just a little. After she swaddled the man’s wrist in a bag of ice, she told me to “go to the bathroom and come out a different person.”
So here I am, perched on the closed toilet lid, breathing into my cupped hands. Trying not to cry. Trying not to think about the twisted Hummer, the bodies in the road, the soldier carrying the limp boy, and all the others with guns. Trying not to think about David—or at least the space all around me where he once was. Trying to become a different person.
Time passes. I know it’s passing. I’m just trying not to think how long it’s been since David’s been gone—how short it’s been since he’s been gone, really. Remember? I make myself think instead. You’ve got the long, strong arms of love. You can hold on across continents and the oceans in between.
So this is war-love.
Justine , I think. Remember Justine .
Remember her, maybe. Just don’t become her. I can almost hear Linda’s voice, saying this.
I wonder if Linda’s right.
I open the stall door. I step out, blinking against the harsher light.
Linda is bracing herself against the sink. Her face is flushed and damp with sweat. Her arms are covered with little red welts from the hot rims of plates.
“I can’t even believe you’ve been in here this long,” she says. “We’re practically dying out there, and you’re sitting in here.”
“You told me to,” I mutter. But then I glance at my watch. It’s been close to twenty minutes that I’ve been in here.
Linda must be too wiped out to yell. She speaks softly. She sounds discouraged, not mad. Disappointed.
“I want this for us this summer.” She plucks a paper towel from the dispenser, turns to the sink, runs cold water over the towel, swabs her face, and dabs at the welts on her arms. “We need this, you and me. And it’s not just about money or discipline, Penelope. We need to make something work together again.” She stuffs the paper towel into the overflowing garbage can, then snags another paper towel and holds it out to me. “Wipe your face, and get back out there.”
I’d say something if I knew what to say. But I’d be talking to a swinging door.
Already, Linda’s back out there.
Nine
My first official shift ends with a bang, not a whimper, at 10:45 p.m. when I drop an entire tub of dirty dishes on the kitchen floor.
Isaac stares at me like I’m a cockroach lurking in his daily special. Caitlin swears a blue streak under her breath. Linda says, “Go. Home. To. Bed.” her hands pressed to either side of her face. With her mouth open in horror, she reminds me of that famous painting The Scream . But Linda doesn’t scream. Not right now at least. She just says,
“Tomorrow?” Caitlin, Isaac, and I groan in unison.
Linda plants her hands on
Similar Books
