by Meghan Quinn
“Hey, Maaaaaaaaaaaa,” she yells into the phone. Yup, she calls me Ma. “When do you get off work, again?”
“Eight. You’re going to stop by, right?”
“Yeah. I’m stopping at the DG for some Doritos, dropping off your cough syrup, and then Saddlemire will pick you up later.”
For those who don’t speak Smilly, DG is the Dollar General and Saddlemire is her boyfriend.
“Sasquatch is picking me up? Can’t promise I won’t be tempted to feel up his man thigh on the drive out to your mom’s.”
“Hey, you do what you got to—” There is fumbling on the other side of the phone and then all I can hear is Smilly yelling in the background. “Monroe! Don’t paw!” Monroe, Smilly’s mom’s pit bull.
“Smilly, I have to go or I’ll be late.”
“Okay, Ma. I’ll be by later.”
I hang up and make my way to the front of the restaurant, ducking my face under the bill of my hat to avoid eye contact with everyone.
Am I unsocial? No, I’m actually a pretty social person, but only with my people. Work people are not my people. Growing up in a small town, I formed a circle, a tight-knit circle of humans that I knew I could rely on. People I can trust. Trust being the key word.
Funny thing is when you’re young and vulnerable, you should have two people you can trust: your parents. They are the people you’re supposed to rely on, the people who are supposed to shelter you from the relentless storm we call the world. But when one of them destroys every aspect of your childhood, it’s hard to trust anyone else. It’s hard to let people in when your heart has been hardened to the outside world. Why would you? Why would you make yourself so vulnerable again?
The people who were by my side when I was a little girl, wearing Elmo shirts in middle school—yes, middle school—sporting a bowl haircut and a black heart, they are the people I’ve surrounded myself with because they’ve never left my side, and they’ve never attempted to screw with my trust.
There are no vacancies in my little circle.
None.
“Catch the game last night, Sadie?” David asks from the grill as I walk by.
Okay, there may be no vacancies open in my little world, but I do put on a good face when I need to. I’m not a horribly wretched bitch.
“Yeah, Yanks blew it in the ninth. The new kids need to get their shit together,” I call over my shoulder as I head to the back of the restaurant where I stuff my purse in a locker and put on my full apron just as Denise walks in.
“Fountain today?”
Denise is the mother hen of the waitresses. If I had to say I had one friend at the restaurant it would be Denise because she gets me. There is a little black in her heart too; I can see it in her hardened, stony eyes. She’s a lifer at Friendly’s, whereas this is a steppingstone for me . . . at least it’s supposed to be.
“Yeah. Stuart didn’t get the memo.” Adjusting my cap, I groan to Denise, “I hate wearing these godforsaken hats. My hair get tangled in the Velcro in the back.” I try to adjust my blonde, messy bun but there is no use. I’ll be ripping hairs out again today.
Another plus about being a waitress, you get to wear your hair how you please and you have a half apron, instead of a full one.
“It’s just for the day. It will be over before you know it.” She snaps her order holder and sticks it in the front of her apron. Pointing at me she says, “But if you let the newbie make any of my customer’s ice cream, I will kill you.”
Laughing while wrapping the apron strings around the front of my waist, I say, “Not going to happen. I don’t plan on staying late to clean up the bloodshed if that occurs. I’ve got your orders, Dennis.”
“Don’t call me that.”
I chuckle to myself as I make my way past the dish-cleaning station and out to the fountain where I start assessing the toppings to see if any need refilling. I lean over the ice cream freezers and look in each topping compartment, mentally taking notes on what I need to restock.
It’s routine.
Before I became a waitress, I worked in fountain for a year and even went to the Fountain Olympics where all fountain workers in the tri-state area came together to compete to see who made the best sundaes.
A moment in time I really wish I could block from my memory.
“Hey Sadie,” Michelle calls from over the counter that separates the main dining area from the fountain. “Have you seen the new guy? He just arrived and is in the back with Stuart. He’s yummy.”
Michelle. She was born to gossip about anything that floats in her ears. Even if it’s about someone breaking a toenail in the freezer, she needs to tell the story. She’s my age, attends Binghamton University during the school year, loves smoking, has fake boobs, and she “loves to party.” She’s said so often, constantly looking for an invitation from me.
She has yet to get one.
“Don’t you have customers waiting for you to shove your boobs in their faces?”
Giggling, she rounds the corner and pushes my shoulder. “Oh, Sadie, you’re so funny. I only have families right now. I wouldn’t dare do that in front of children.” Scanning the dining area, she turns back to me and says on a hushed tone, “Anything going down tonight? I’m free if there is.”
“Not that I know of,” I answer, sealing my lips about the bonfire Smilly is having at her mom’s house tonight.
She nods and continues to look around. “Well, you have my number”—I really don’t—“so text me if you hear anything. I’m itching to go sans panties tonight.”
So many things wrong.
“Will do.” I try to hide my wide eyes. Yikes.
I can admit it; I kind of want to congratulate her for being proud of her whorish ways. It’s not often you find a person who is a slut and enthusiastically promotes themselves as one too. She’s tapped every guy in the restaurant, including the truck driver who brings our supplies every Thursday, and now she’s trying to mingle her way into my group of friends. Yeah, no. I’ll have none of that.
“Michelle, your tables are asking for you,” Stuart’s voice booms from behind us.
Turning around, I notice Stuart’s tall and broad stature in the fountain entryway. I’ve known this man for quite some time so his intimidating tactics don’t work on me, but Michelle is intimidated, but not to the point that she doesn’t forget her slut. Puffing her chest out and flipping her hair to the side, she winks at Stuart and takes off toward her tables. She’s impossible.
“Sadie, I would like to introduce you to your trainee for the week.”
The week?
Uh, this is news to me.
Maybe Stuart has yet to put out the rest of the schedule. Bastard.
With a bug already up my ass, I clamp my lips shut, trying not to mouth off to the manager.
A whole of week in fountain? That’s going to be a huge hit to my bank account.
Stepping to the side, Stuart holds out his hand and says, “Sadie, this is Andrew. Andrew, meet Sadie, one of our top fountain girls.”
“Waitresses.” I give Stuart a tight smile and then turn to Andrew who stands taller than me in his red collared shirt and black apron. I can’t help it; I give him a little scan, taking in his black tight-fitting pants and his black, worn-in Chuck Taylors. He’s not going to be able to wear those for long. Moving my eyes back up, I notice his broad shoulders that seem to have decent definition to them under the hideous shirts we’re required to wear, and under the bill of his hat rests black-rimmed glasses, framing a set of hazel eyes.
Hmm . . . maybe he’s a little yummy.
“Nice to meet you, Sadie,” he says, jumping right in and grabbing my hand that was at my side, shaking it vigorously. “It’s a beautiful day out today, isn’t it?”
Wow. Invigorated, this one.
“Uh, hey,” I say, taking away my hand from the brutal earthquake he shook through me.
Clasping Andrew on the shoulder, Stuart says, “Sadie here is going to show you the ropes. You�
��re in good hands. I’ll be in the back if you need anything.” Turning to me, he says under his breath, “Be nice.”
Before he gets too far, I chase after him and say, “About this week.”
Turning, he stops me in my tracks. “Don’t start with me, Sadie. You’re on fountain all week. You know I need you to train him. Carla is gone for the week, and I don’t trust Darleen. She barely knows the difference between chocolate and vanilla ice cream.”
“What about Sherry or Blaine? They’ve all been on fountain,” I counter, wracking my brain for any waitstaff with fountain experience.
“They don’t train like you do. I think this kid will be good, and I’d like him to stick through the whole summer.”
Tapping my foot, my arms crossed, the feel of Andrew’s eyes on my back, I say, “You know, I’m not really into nepotism here, but I’m not short of calling my uncle . . .” It’s a low blow but I’m desperate here. A whole week on fountain means a significant drop in pay, which will make it difficult to store away much-needed cash this summer.
Patting my head like a dog, Stuart says, “If you call your uncle, remind him it’s his turn to bring the queso dip for our billiards night on Thursday. Thanks, sweetheart.” With a wink, he walks back to his office.
Well, that didn’t go as planned; that didn’t go as planned at all. And to hell if I’ll be telling my uncle about the queso. Shows him.
Head held high, I turn toward the fountain area where Andrew is standing, shifting on his feet, looking a little too eager for my liking. Why is he so eager to be in a little area surrounded by ice cream cartons?
Sighing, I walk toward him and assess his shoes again. “Didn’t Stuart tell you to get non-slip black shoes?”
We both stare down at his shoes as he wiggles his toes in them. “I kind of forgot, but I’m getting them tonight. I guess Walmart has a killer pair that will do just great.”
“Sure.” I take a deep breath and look around; here goes nothing. “So, we should—”
“Can I just say something?” He’s bouncing on his feet; joy exudes him. I’m kind of thrown off. I’ve never seen someone so happy to be at work before.
“Uh, sure.”
Pushing up his glasses again, with a great big smile that knocks me back on my heels—only slightly—he says, “This is my first job, and I’m really excited to be here. I mean, I’ve worked before, but for my parents in their shop upstate a little, toward Albany. Middleburgh actually. Have you heard of it?” I shake my head, watching his mouth move rapidly with each word fluttering out of it. “Well, anyway, it’s a really small town, one stoplight and all. But they have a shop on their property and I’ve worked there but never really earned anything because my dad is cheap and believes in hugs as payment.” That sounds like torture. “Anyway, that’s all beside the point. I just wanted to say I’m super excited and ready to learn from the best.” Gesturing to me, I hold in the gag beginning in the back of my throat.
Christ.
The guy definitely is cute, but his energized personality isn’t going to match well with my tainted mindset.
By the end of the day I’m either going to stuff myself in the freezer with the chicken fingers, or I’m going to stuff him in there. I’m leaning toward the latter.
Chapter Three
ANDREW
“And this is where the apples are.” Slowly, with the pace of a Commodore 64, Sadie lifts the ladle of the sugared apples and then sets it down, as if it was the most difficult thing she’s had to do all day.
Wow.
I kind of want to reach over and dust that chip off her shoulder, knowing that, if there is an actual chip there rather than a metaphorical one, she could turn so fast and swat me in the testicles, and I’d have no time to react.
“And these are the rest of the toppings.” She gestures to the other little black bins lined above the ice cream freezers that make our part of the counter. “All directions on how to make the different sundaes are up above.” She points, and my eyes follow to a few laminated sheets that are eye level for me, her not so much, with colorful sundaes on them. “Tickets from in-house will come from that printer over there. Line them up here and make them in order. If there is someone at the takeout counter, be sure to take care of them first because all waitstaff should know how to make their own sundaes if need be.”
“Okay, that seems a little stressful.”
Hand on her hip, a smirk on her face, a beautiful bit of a side smile, she says, “It’s making sundaes, Andrew, there is nothing stressful about it.” Just as she finishes casually insulting me, the printer where the in-house tickets come from starts printing. “Your first sundae, better start learning now.”
Swiping the ticket from the printer she stuffs it in the ticket holding area and then turns to me, hand on the counter. “It’s a make-your-own sundae. Have at it.”
Uhh, I know I’m a smart kid and can program a computer by using a foreign language, and I once wrote an article about the ten most beautiful mathematical equations, but ice cream is not something I’m familiar with.
Not wanting to show my ineptitude, I put on a brave face and take a look at the slip.
Dble, straw, choc, RPiece, fudge, no cream, cherry, cherry.
Okay, not so bad. I got this. Thinking back to the Friendly’s study sessions I conducted every night up until my first day, the order is for a double scoop, one of strawberry, the other of chocolate with a topping of chocolate fudge, Reese’s Pieces, no whipped cream, and I’m going to assume two cherries.
Ha!
With swagger in my step, I reach for a sundae glass, throw open the freezer top, grab a scoop from the scoop water trough and scoop up a ball of strawberry. Sadie watches me, a gleam in her eyes.
What’s she smirking about? I’m going to nail—
Hmm . . . I look down at my sundae glass and at the ball of strawberry ice cream stuck halfway down. That doesn’t seem right.
“You seem to have yourself in a bit of a pickle, don’t you?” Sadie asks, now smiling bigger than before.
“Nah.” I wave her off. “Just have to convince the ice cream to work with me.” Sticking the ice cream scoop inside, I try to shove it all the way down but the glass narrows at the bottom making it impossible to get the ice cream to the very base of the glass. “Well, that seems good enough,” I say, knowing it looks like shit.
I wash off the scoop and reach for the chocolate when Sadie stops me. “You can’t serve that. Not only will the customer be upset it looks like you screwed them out of a full sundae, but the waitress is going to be pissed at you because something as simple as what the ice cream looks like effects their tips.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry. Umm . . .” Staring at the ice cream, I do the one thing that comes to mind. “Let me fix this.” Sticking my glove-covered finger down the middle of the glass, I push the cold cream to the bottom, struggling a little since my hands are wider in the glass than I expected. “There.” I hold up the glass, and ice cream is smeared all over the side and distinct finger marks are poked through the sundae. “That’s better.”
With an emotionless face, Sadie crosses her hands over her chest and says, “You can’t serve that.”
“Why not? I’m not done yet.”
“For one you stuck your fingers in it.”
I hold up said fingers and wiggle them. “But they’re covered in plastic. Nothing creepy is getting in there.”
Leaning forward, she whispers, “You molested that ice cream.”
“What? No, I didn’t. I massaged it in to place.”
“Did it ask for a massage?” She leans back now, questioning me.
Tilting my head to the side, completely confused, I ask, “Um, does the ice cream have feelings? Because if so, I would really like to know which ones are the most sensitive so I don’t piss them off.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“Is it not coming across that way? Have I unintentionally upset the ice cream again?” Whispering back to
her, I ask, “Is it the pistachio? Is she the most sensitive?”
Not amused, she points to the ice cream and says, “Dump it.”
“Dump it? In the trash?”
“Yes, you have to start over.”
“But,” I bite my bottom lip, “then it wouldn’t fulfill its ice cream duty.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she huffs. Taking the sundae glass from me, she dumps the ice cream back in the carton just as a waitress walks up to the counter.
“Sadie, is my sundae ready yet?”
Looking over her shoulder, she eyes a middle-aged blonde. “Not yet. This kid apparently has some attachment to seeing out the ice cream’s destiny.”
“What?” the lady asks with a squint in her brow.
Turning toward her, I go to explain. “Ice cream has feelings too and if we just—”
“Andrew,” Sadie taps me on the shoulder, “she doesn’t need to know about your ice cream issues. Focus.” Turning to the waitress, she adds, “Five minutes, Sherry.”
Okay, I’m starting to get the impression that Sadie may not like me, which not to flog my own damn log, but that seems a little unlikely. I’ve never come across a person who doesn’t like me. I’m a likeable, funny guy. Yes, I may have a collection of calculators in my small closet right now, and yes, I tend to find computers and robots fascinating, but that isn’t a black mark on my personality, more like an Oh hey, you seem interesting mark.
Looking Sadie up and down, I can’t help but notice her skinny black pants, the way they cling to her legs perfectly, or the fact that the work shirt she’s wearing has to be a children’s small because it’s clinging to her in all the right places. And that hair. I’m just going to admit it; I’m a hair man. Some men like tits—well, all men like tits—but some like them more than others. Some men like to twiddle around the ass, whereas I’m a man who loves hair. And I know what you’re thinking: Andrew likes pubes and hairy armpits. And you know what, I do.
Did you just cringe? Did I get you? I hope so. Get your mind out of the gutter. I like a head of hair and from what I can tell, Sadie has some really long blonde locks. I can’t tell completely because of the baseball caps we’re required—