by Sam Jones
“Oh. My. God.” Ana sighed as she chewed. “This is the best thing that has ever been fried in hot oil.”
After two more bites of the cheeseburger, Emily passed it off to Brandon and tried a bite of his Reuben before doing what might have been described as a face plant in the grilled cheese. As she was dipping a chicken finger in honey mustard, the waitress reappeared just in time with a handful of fresh napkins.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said as Emily grabbed the napkins and headed off a honey-mustard disaster in the area of her own chin.
“Do what?” Ana asked.
“Eat like that and keep those cute little figures,” said the waitress.
“That’s the point,” Emily said, smiling. “We don’t eat like this most of the time. We just got out of school this week, so we’re sort of celebrating.”
“Well, good for you.” The waitressed grinned. “Lordy, I think I’ve gained ten pounds just standing here watching.”
All three of them laughed as they watched the waitress waddle back to the kitchen. A few minutes later, and several more bites into the meal, Emily’s phone buzzed. She wiped her hands, then grabbed it to check her messages.
First she saw all the alerts from their Instagrams, tweets, and, of course, the Facebook notification for the photo of her stuffing the cheeseburger into her mouth. It was already racking up the likes. “Nice,” she said, nodding, as she showed Brandon and Ana. “I shall henceforth be known as Burger Girl.”
She stopped short, staring at the screen after the last of her alerts had loaded. There, listed in the dropdown from the top of the screen, was an e-mail from Kyle. Just seeing his name reminded her that the last time she’d cut loose like this in a burger joint was at the mall not far from her house. It was the week before prom and Kyle had dragged her away from her chemistry textbook for exactly forty-five minutes. Something about the memory of his blue eyes staring at her over the chocolate malt they’d shared after their meal sent a wave of—what was it? Nostalgia? Pity?—over her. She couldn’t decide if she missed Kyle, or if she just missed sharing a moment like this with someone who was more than a friend.
Her thumb hovered over the new message with Kyle’s name in her in-box. Should she see what it said? Part of her was curious. The other part knew it was just him asking her to go out with him again. Did she want that? He kept messaging her saying that he had changed. But how much could one person change in one month? And even if Kyle had changed, was he the guy for her? Emily remembered the relief of finally making the decision to end things. She’d hardly looked back. Kyle wasn’t a bad guy. He just wasn’t her guy.
“Earth to Emily. Come in, Emily. Over.” Brandon’s voice broke into her thoughts, and she looked up to see both him and Ana staring at her.
Emily felt her cheeks flush. “What?”
“What’s up with your phone?” Ana asked. “How can you be more interested in whatever is happening there than what is happening with these sweet-potato fries?” Emily laughed as Ana shoved aside her picked-over tuna salad plate and replaced it with the basket of golden-orange fries. She crammed four into her mouth after swiping them through the ranch dressing.
“Sorry,” Emily said. She clicked the button and her phone screen went dark, then she dropped it back into her purse. “Hey, Brandon?”
“Yeah?” Brandon asked around a final ginormous bite of cheeseburger.
“Do you know . . .” Emily’s voice trailed off. She didn’t even want to put the question into words.
“Do I know what?” Brandon asked. He was now making short work of the grilled cheese that was left.
“Oh . . . nothing.” Emily took a sip of her Coke and popped an onion ring into her mouth.
“Jesus. Why do girls always do that?” Brandon asked.
“Um, girls don’t always do anything, thank you very much.” Ana actually snapped her finger when she said this. “We are all individual creations of grace, beauty, and kick-ass-ness.”
“Kick-ass-ness?” Brandon asked.
Ana nodded. “You heard me.”
“Yeah. I also heard your friend with the blond hair and the onion-ring addiction just start to ask a question and not finish it.” Brandon’s eyes narrowed as he munched a couple of fries drenched in so much ketchup that they looked more like a glob of red than deep-fried potatoes.
“It was nothing,” she said. “I . . . forgot what I was going to say.”
“Uh-huh.” Brandon wasn’t buying it. “You know who I’ve never ever in my life heard start a question and then say ‘Oh . . . nothing’, Ana? A dude. That’s who. Never once. And I know a lotta dudes.”
Ana stuck out her tongue, which made Emily giggle and Brandon roll his eyes. “No thanks,” he said. “I don’t French long distance.”
Ana groaned and threw a napkin at him. “You’re such a pig. Spill it Emily. What were you going to ask him?”
Emily turned to look at her friend. This was so stupid. “I was just . . .”
“Spit it out,” Brandon said, “or I’m gonna tell our waitress to eighty-six your Strawberry Tsunami.”
Emily sighed. “Fine! Fine. I was going to ask you if Kyle was coming to the party.”
Ana groaned. “Why would you care?”
“I know, I know. I shouldn’t. It’s just . . . well . . . he just e-mailed me, and I haven’t talked to him at all since school got out, and I was just curious if I should worry that he’s going to follow me around the party tonight.”
“Why don’t you read the message if you want to know if he’s coming?” Brandon asked her. “I haven’t heard from the dude since last week at school.”
“And he wasn’t coming?” Emily asked.
“Not that I know of.” Brandon shrugged. “I mean, Em, either ignore him or don’t, but if you’re not going to read his messages, you have to be prepared that he might show up to the party.”
Emily didn’t want to talk about this anymore. She knew Brandon was right, and she felt like an idiot for bringing it up to begin with. So, when she saw the waitress headed back to the kitchen with an empty plate, Emily waved her down.
Surveying the table, the waitress sighed. “It looks like a great battle was fought at this booth.”
“The onion rings won,” groaned Ana. “I’m so full, I think I’m going to pop.”
“To-go boxes for any of this?” the waitress asked.
“No, thank you,” said Brandon politely. “We’re actually headed to a party after this.”
“Alrighty then. I’ll be right back with your check.”
“Actually,” said Emily, “I was wondering . . .”
“Yes?” The waitress raised her eyebrows, obviously shocked that this thin girl with the blond hair might be ordering something more.
“Tell me about dessert,” Emily said.
The waitress grinned and nodded, as if this were her goal from the beginning. “Now you’re talking,” she said. “Let me grab the dessert menu, and I’ll be right back to tell you about your options.”
chapter 6
When she returned, the waitress was carrying a menu that was larger than the one they’d seen with the appetizers and entrees, and seemed to feature a single dessert on each page, displayed in high-definition vibrant color on glossy paper. As the waitress flipped through the pages, Emily’s eyes focused on only one thing: a giant parfait glass filled with what appeared to be a pink milkshake of epic proportions. She glanced at Brandon and saw from the look in his eyes that he’d noticed the page too. It was as if he were a caveman seeing a spark of fire for the very first time.
The waitress had stopped flipping to give her spiel about the Atomic Chocolate Brownie Bowl and the Apple Pie à la Explode on the opposite page, when Emily held up her hand, silently letting her know to stop.
“We’re interested in the Strawberry Tsunami,” she said.
The waitress’s smile widened as she turned back a page to the pink dessert, which seemed to glow with some sort of inner light on t
he page.
“Is that the Strawberry Tsunami?” Emily queried.
Brandon’s eyes were glazed over. “The one from the sign on the highway?”
“That’s the one,” the waitress said. “Three scoops of homemade strawberry ice cream and a piece of fresh strawberry pie—crust and all—blended to perfection, then layered into our biggest parfait glass with strawberry compote and more whipped cream than federal law should allow. Whatcha think?”
“Bring us one of those and three straws, please,” Ana chirped. Brandon and Emily both turned to look at her, then slowly turned back to the waitress.
“Oh no,” Emily said. “Bring us three of those with one straw apiece.”
“What?!” Ana shrieked. “I am not drinking a whole one of those things. That’s more calories than I’m supposed to eat in an entire day. It’s more calories than anyone is supposed to eat in an entire day! I’ll just have a sip of yours.”
“I’m not sharing it,” Emily said, shaking her head. “I haven’t had a strawberry milkshake for at least two years, and I can’t really say when it will happen again. I’m planning to drink every drop of that Tsunami or die trying.”
Ana rolled her eyes and turned to Brandon. “Can’t I just have a sip of yours?”
Brandon pointed at Emily. “What she said.”
“Ugh.” Ana flopped back against the booth and sighed. “Fine,” she said. “Bring us three of them. But I’ll need a to-go cup for mine.”
The waitress laughed. “Comin’ right up.”
Emily checked her watch and smiled. “Right on time,” she said, happily.
“Does it really matter if we’re a few minutes later than we thought we’d be?” Brandon asked.
Emily simply winked in his direction. Brandon had never understood the simple pleasure it brought her to know that all things were going according to plan. A place for everything, and everything in its place; this was a rule that applied not only to closets and sock drawers, but also to schedules—especially important schedules. And what could be more important than this party? When things were on schedule, that meant nothing was going wrong. And when nothing went wrong, that meant the maximum relaxation time. When relaxation time is limited, getting the most possible is crucial.
Ana was staring out the window, eyeing a couple of diners who had just walked by. Emily followed her gaze and saw the pair from behind as they made their way to the door. The guy was short and stocky and was wearing combat boots with red track pants and a hooded sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. Both of his arms were fully covered in tattoos, and the biceps that bulged when he held open the door looked like something from a comic book superhero. Or villain—Emily couldn’t decide.
“Like what you see, mamacita?” Ana nudged Emily in the ribs, and Emily immediately blushed and turned away.
“What is he wearing?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” said Ana. “Some sort of grunge garage-sale chic. Don’t stare too long though. He’s not headed to Harvard.”
Brandon laughed. He’d turned around to catch a glance of the couple over his shoulder. “Can you imagine if Em brought him home to her dad?”
Emily laughed, imaging the scene. “With my luck, my dad would let him move in. That guy looks like exactly like the type of person who would be building the World’s Largest Collection of Bongs.”
After the man walked in, the woman with him followed. Emily couldn’t help but stare as she stepped into the diner.
The woman was lean and tall, almost two heads taller than the man she’d come in with. Her hair was short and spiky, sticking out all over her head and dyed a blue-black that seemed to shine under the neon lights of the restaurant. She was dressed like she’d just stepped out of one of the Matrix movies, with black leather pants, a long black trench coat, and heeled boots. Big red sunglasses covered her eyes, and the color on her lips was the same vibrant shade.
“Holy moly,” Ana said, shaking her head. “Is there a costume party?”
Emily sighed. “I want to think so, I really do, but I don’t.”
At that moment, the waitress appeared with three towering parfait glasses expertly balanced on a tray. She set each down, then handed out spoons, straws, and a fresh pile of napkins. “There you go, hons. You kids enjoy. I’ll be right back with your to-go cup and your check.” She winked at Ana, who groaned and fell over onto Emily’s shoulder.
“I can’t even look at that, I’m so full,” Ana whined.
“Oh, enough. Belly up to the bar, young lady.” Emily laughed and picked up both her straw and her spoon, then glanced at Brandon. “How do we even go about this?” she asked him.
Brandon shrugged and a big grin spread across his face. “I’m going in head first,” he said.
Emily squealed as he did just that, plunging tongue into the top of the shake, licking out a giant scoop of whipped cream and chomping down on the two strawberries that garnished the top. She pulled her glass toward her and did the same, her nose suddenly covered in the sticky, sweet cream, her mouth flooded with strawberry.
Ana started pushing her out of the booth. “Gross!” She giggled. “You two are whipped cream piglets!”
Suddenly Emily was gasping and snorting whipped cream up her nose. “Wait!” she said, trying to catch her breath from laughing. “I’m about to asphyxiate on whipped cream!”
“Serves you right, you little oinker! Out of my booth. You have to go over there and sit with Brandon.”
Emily laughed, obediently swinging around the end of the table while Brandon slid over to make room for her on his side. Ana pulled out her phone and began snapping pictures of the two of them while grunting like a pig between laughs.
If Emily had chosen a different method to start eating her dessert, one that didn’t involve getting whipped cream all over her face, then maybe Ana wouldn’t have felt compelled to send her to the other side of the table to sit with Brandon. Then she wouldn’t have had her back to the door, and she might’ve been able to see what was going on before it happened. She might’ve been able to stop it.
If Emily had just continued driving, and if they had gone past Rick’s Diner and just stopped at a rest stop or some other fast-food restaurant for something to eat, then they wouldn’t have been in the diner at all. If they weren’t in the diner, they never would have gotten into the situation.
But it was all moot anyway, because she had turned off the highway, and they had decided to eat at that diner, and she had smashed her face into the whipped cream, and she had been sent to the other side of the table, where she couldn’t see the front door.
And because she couldn’t see the front door, she didn’t see it when the woman with the spiky hair and long trench and the man with the chopped-up hoodie and excessive tattoos pulled ski masks over their faces, raised two guns above their heads, and screamed over the noise of the restaurant:
“PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR! THIS IS A ROBBERY!”
This definitely was not part of Emily’s itinerary.
chapter 7
Emily threw her hands into the air, as did Brandon, but Ana just froze, her mouth hanging open. Emily felt her eyes go wide as she stared at Ana and hissed, “Hands. Up!”
But Ana looked at her as if a fuse had blown in her brain. “Wait. What? Who are those people?” she asked.
“They’re . . . bandits.” Even as the word escaped her lips in a whisper Emily felt Brandon turn to stare at her.
“Bandits?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said under her breath. “Bandits.”
“Not to split hairs, but don’t bandits ride horses?” Brandon’s eyes narrowed quizzically.
“Who cares?” Emily hissed. She looked at Ana. “Just put your hands up, like they said!”
The male bandit smashed his gun against the counter and yelled, “Open this register!”
As Emily and Brandon turned to see what was happening, Emily heard Ana give a short staccato shriek, and she realized that they had reached t
he point of no return when it came to Ana in any crisis, whether it was being present during an armed robbery or seeing a 40-percent-off sale at her favorite store in the mall. First was the confusion and disbelief, then the silence, and then . . . the shrieking.
This time Ana seemed to be attempting to control this by holding a hand over her mouth, which was actually helping to muffle the sound enough that it wasn’t too obvious over the music coming from the jukebox in the corner. What was obvious was her other hand, which she had finally raised into the air, but was now waving it back and forth as if the bandits had asked a question and she just couldn’t wait to be called on to give the answer.
“Ana!” Emily said in a low voice. “Stop. Waving. At. Them.”
Emily turned back and saw one of the waitresses pulling all of the money out of the register . . . slowly. Too slowly for the woman in the long leather trench coat, it seemed, who waved her gun in the air and screamed, “Hurry it up!”
Tattoo Guy yelled, “Nobody move!” and Emily saw Trench Coat Lady begin to do wide sweeps of the restaurant with her gun pointed out in front of her. As the crazy-eyed lady with the spiky hair swung the pistol through the air and took a step forward, Emily flinched. It suddenly crossed her mind that she had never been in the same room as a gun—let alone witnessed a robbery, live and in progress. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, and things seemed to slow down all around her, sort of like bobbing under water for a few moments and everything is muted and muffled.
As the waitress dumped wads of bills into the bag Tattoo Guy was holding, Trench Coat Lady was getting closer and closer to their table. Emily looked at Ana, who had now frozen, both hands over her head, and didn’t appear to be breathing.
Emily could smell the leather coat as it brushed by their booth and she held her breath, waiting for the moment to be over, but the woman paused right next to their table, her mouth set into a thin line.
Emily bit down on her tongue and continued to hold her breath, trying to figure out what they’d done to grab the woman’s attention, and what they could do to make sure they didn’t keep it. Then, just as Trench Coat Lady was turning to walk away, Ana’s phone sprang to life—loud, obnoxious, jump-out-of-our-skin life.