Bitter Rose
Page 4
She removes her glasses and looks at me. “I think you’re going to be fine, Magdela. Just remember that our guests always come first. It seems that whenever I fire a hostess, it’s because she loses sight of that.”
I nod. “I’ll remember that.”
“And don’t forget your tips.”
“Tips? I thought I didn’t get any.”
“Well, not much. But the waitstaff are supposed to share. Your tip jar is in the kitchen.”
“Thanks.”
“And make sure you let them know that you’re taking it now.” She kind of laughs. “That’s their reminder to ante up; otherwise they might forget and take your share home with them.”
So I head back to the kitchen, where everyone is looking rather limp and tired. “My aunt told me to pick up my tips.”
“Over here.” Manuel, the head chef, jerks his thumb toward a shelf behind him.
“Oh, wait,” says Ned, one of the waiters, and not a bad-looking guy either. “I have something to add.”
I feel kind of uncomfortable as I wait for him to put some money in the jar, almost as if I’m begging, but then I remind myself that this is how it works in the restaurant business.
“Thanks!” I tell him.
“Thank you,” he says with a very cool smile. “You’re a lot better than our last hostess.” The others laugh and make a few unkind comments.
I grin. “Hey, that’s good to hear, especially since this is my first day.”
And so I’m feeling okay as I drive home. I mean, it feels kind of weird to be driving across town—by myself—at this time of night. But it also makes me feel kind of grown-up too. And I’m thinking, maybe that’s what this is all about. Maybe it is time for me to grow up. That’s kind of an encouraging thought, but it’s also kind of depressing too. Like suddenly I’m thrust into this adult world, and I haven’t even finished high school yet. It doesn’t seem quite fair.
I don’t count my tips until I get home, and I am surprised to see that it’s nearly twenty dollars. And this wasn’t even a busy night. Then I hear Mom tapping on my door. “Magdela?”
“Come in,” I say in a pretty grumpy voice.
“Sorry to disturb you, but I didn’t hear you come in. Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier. And after you left, I got to thinking that maybe it is good for you to work. Working is a kind of education and it helps you to grow up. I just don’t want you to neglect your studies.”
“I don’t want to neglect my studies either,” I tell her in a less-than-patient tone as I toss my shoes into my cluttered closet. “I was just about to hit the books.”
“Well, don’t stay up too late.”
“Look, Mom,” I say, feeling seriously aggravated now. “I think I know when it’s time to go to bed, and even when it’s time to get up, for that matter. I even brush and floss my teeth without being reminded, if you haven’t noticed. And if I’m going to be working in the grown-up world, maybe it’s time you started treating me more like one. Just think about it: I’m going to be out on my own before long.”
She nods and steps back. “Yes, you’re right. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Okay, I do feel guilty after she leaves. I don’t know why I’m being so mean to her. I’ve never been like that—before Mom and Dad broke up, that is. If I ever talked the least bit disrespectfully to her when Dad was around, he would always call me on it—not in a mean way, but he would remind me to respect her. And I guess it made me respect both of them. Now I don’t know who to respect. I mean, I realize Dad’s having a hard time and everything, but he still hasn’t returned my phone call. And I’m all ready to tell him that if I can come live with him, I’ll not only help out with the household chores like cooking and cleaning but I’ll even contribute financially—okay, not much, but at least I can take care of my own expenses. It’s got to be stretching him to pay rent and stuff for where he’s staying plus covering the bills over here too. In fact, I’m wondering if Mom will have to sell the house, especially after I move out. She doesn’t need this much room. Part of me doesn’t care, like I want to see her suffer for what she’s done, but another part of me doesn’t want to give up our home either. I mean, what about holidays? And where do we go when we want to “come home”? Do parents even think about this stuff when they start breaking up marriages? It’s not fair.
six
“WHAT’S UP WITH BRANDON THESE DAYS?” CLAIRE ASKS ME AS SHE pulls into the school parking lot. It’s like the hundredth time she’s brought him up this week.
“Huh?” I decide to play dumb as I absently look out the side window.
“Well, you said he’s talked to you and stuff this week. So has he even hinted at asking you out again or not? And if not, why not?”
“I don’t know, Claire.” I try to mask my frustration as I climb out of her car. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“Really?” She sounds serious as she comes around from the driver’s side to join me. “You want me to?”
“Of course not!” I turn and look at her. “Are you nuts? That’s like so junior high.”
“Not necessarily, Maggie. I read this article in Glamour for women who haven’t met their match yet, and the author said that women need to take control.”
I laugh. “Why are you reading stupid articles like that anyway?”
“I thought I might learn something. It also said that one of the main reasons women remain single is because they are too passive when it comes to dating.”
“So are you going to ask Grayson Allen out?” I ask in a teasing voice. Claire has had a crush on this guy since sixth grade.
“Yeah, right.” She slugs me in the arm.
“Ouch!”
“So how was work last night? I almost forgot that it was your first day on the job. Pretty gruesome?”
“It was okay.”
“Seriously?”
“Well, my aunt can be a bit of a dictator, but I kind of understand it. I mean, Casa del Sol is a pretty nice restaurant.”
“Yeah. In fact, I was thinking if we go to prom this year, we should insist on having dinner there.”
I laugh. “Yeah, maybe I can work my shift first and then run into the back room and change.”
“Like we’ll even go to prom.”
“Hey, we might. And if all else fails we can resort to your women-take-control idea and just ask some guys ourselves, right?”
“Hmmm …” She actually seems to consider this. “But then who pays?”
“Didn’t your article explain that?”
But now we’re inside the school, and I don’t really want to continue this discussion. I mean, how pathetic is it to overhear two senior girls making plans to invite some guys to prom when it’s like six months out? We part ways, but Claire’s question haunts me. Why hasn’t Brandon asked me out again? We had a pretty good time, or at least I did, and he’s still talking to me.
I see a poster for the Harvest Dance, which is only a week away, and I guess I hoped Brandon might want to take me to it, although that’s looking less and less likely. Then I remember my new job and realize I’ll probably be working that night anyway. Well, whatever.
By the end of the day, I’ve had one conversation with Brandon, and like our relationship, it didn’t go anywhere.
“Are you going to the game tonight?” he asked me during lunch.
“No,” I told him. “I have to work.”
“I didn’t know you had a job.”
So I explain the new job and how my aunt’s the owner.
“Cool,” he said. “That’s a great place to eat.”
And that’s it. End of story. I think my dating future with Brandon is a big black hole.
I tell Claire about our exchange on the way home from school and, naturally, she is sympathetic.
“Oh, Brandon’s not so hot,” she finally says.
“What do you mean?” I demand.
“He’s smarter than Grayson,” I tease.
Then we go at it, trying to prove which guy is smarter, until we’re both laughing so hard that we can’t even remember what we were arguing about. Still, it feels good to laugh. It seems like it’s been a long time.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell her when we reach my house. “Now that I have a job, I shouldn’t be so broke.”
“Hey, it’s okay. I don’t mind at all.”
“Yeah, well, we can take turns.”
“I guess I’ll go to the game with Sara and Gwen tonight.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Have a good night at work,” she says in a voice that’s a little too cheerful, like she’s really feeling sorry for me and trying to make me feel better.
I force a smile. “Yeah.” Even though I’m glad to have a job, I guess I still feel like I might be missing out on something—not like a date with Brandon or anything, but just going to the game with Claire and Sara and Gwen would have been fun. Kind of a girls’-night-out thing—like something I should be doing during my last year of high school instead of folding napkins and hanging up coats.
I try not to feel sorry for myself as I change my clothes for work. “You’re a grown-up,” I tell the mirror as I freshen my lip gloss and blush. But the Latina girl looking back at me with the big, dark, sad eyes is not convinced. I try putting my hair up, and this actually makes me look older. “Get over it,” I finally tell myself as I shove my feet into a more comfortable, less fashionable pair of shoes. “Welcome to the grown-up world.”
My second night on the job feels a little more natural than the first, but it is definitely busier. As soon as I walk in the door, people start calling for reservations, and not long after that, the tables are filled and the waiting list gets longer.
“If it gets really busy,” Tia Louisa told me, “I’ll take some of these calls in my office. Remember, your first responsibility is to make our guests feel at home.”
“Right.”
I do my best. I also try not to look as frantic as I feel while I take names, seat guests, pour water, hang up coats—and miss an occasional phone call, which I assume my aunt is getting. And before I know it, several hours have passed and it’s nearly closing time.
“You’re doing great,” says Ned, my favorite waiter, as he comes up from behind me with the dessert tray balanced on one hand.
“Thanks.”
My shift finally ends, and although diners still linger over coffee, dessert, and quiet music, Tia Louisa says that I can leave.
“You’re doing just fine, Magdela,” she tells me as I stop by her office to say good night. “I think I could make a restaurateur out of you yet.”
I laugh. “Maybe so.”
“It’s not such a bad life,” she says as she leans back in her chair. For the first time, I notice how beautiful she is—in an older-woman, gray-haired sort of way. She has this elegance and style that is really attractive.
“I’m surprised Brad and Andy don’t want to work here,” I tell her, referring to my cousins.
“Well, Brad’s got his master’s in business.” She sighs. “I guess I hope that someday he’ll get interested. But Andy, well …” She kind of laughs. “You know your cousin. He’s twenty-five going on sixteen.”
I don’t know what to say now. I suppose I should just go, but something seems to keep me here. Maybe it’s just seeing Tia Louisa at her desk looking slightly tired but still queen of her world.
“Magdela?” she says as I’m about to leave.
“Huh?”
“What’s going on with your parents?”
I’m so surprised by this question that I kind of stammer around for a bit before I finally manage to say, “Why are you asking?”
She sighs and leans forward. “I know things aren’t right. Last time I spoke to Rosa, she started crying. That’s not like her. I asked her about Roberto, and she became even more upset. I know something is wrong with my baby sister. What is it, Magdela?”
I look at the chair on the other side of her desk.
“Sit down,” she tells me. “Tell me what’s going on, Magdela.”
So I tell her. And I see no reason not to tell her. It’s not like my parents can hide their little secret forever. When I’m finally done, I begin to cry.
Then Tia Louisa gets up from her chair, comes around to where I’m sitting, and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Magdela. This must be very hard for you.”
I nod without speaking, and she hands me a tissue from her desk.
“I suspected it was something like this. But do you know why?”
I wipe my nose. “Why?” I echo.
“I mean, what brought them to this place in their marriage? I know they’ve had their problems. Haven’t we all? But your mom and dad seemed so strong in their religious convictions—all that reformed-Catholic business and their Bible study groups and such.” She leans back against her desk and folds her arms across her waist. “Anyway, I figured of all the kids in our family, Rosa would be the last one to have serious marriage problems.”
“Me too.”
“Poor Rosa.”
I study my aunt for a moment, wondering if I heard her right. “Poor Rosa?” I say. “What about my dad?”
Her brows lift. “Well, I’m sure Rosa has tried her best to hold their marriage together, Magdela. I can’t imagine her giving up easily. And I know how much she loves Roberto.”
“Tia Louisa,” I say in a firm voice, “my mom is to blame for this. She kept nagging and picking on my dad. She was always starting fights. And I’m positive she’s the one who told him to leave.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
I consider this. “Yeah, well, sort of. But she never gives me any specific details. She just says it’s for the best that he left—that we’re better off without him—and that’s just wrong.”
“I’m sure there’s a lot more to the story, Magdela. Only your parents know the real reasons beneath all this. Still, I know it’s hard for you.”
I nod.
“And it’s going to be hard on everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“The family. You know what we think about divorce. Mama will throw a fit.”
“But just because they’re separated doesn’t mean they’ll get divorced,” I tell her. “I’ve talked to my dad about counseling, and he’s considering it.”
She nods. “Yes, well, hopefully they’ll work this out.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.” I toss the used tissue into her wastebasket and sigh. “Thanks for talking to me about it. It feels kind of good to have it out in the open—I mean with an adult.” Then I feel worried. “But you’re not going to tell anyone,” I say quickly. “I mean in the family, especially Grandma, are you?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “That’s for Rosa to do. But I do plan to talk to her. I’m sure she’ll understand why you told me.” She kind of laughs. “I can tell her I wouldn’t let you go home until I dragged it out of you. Speaking of home, you should go before it gets too late. Rosa will be worried.”
As I drive home, I wonder why everyone is so quick to put the blame on Dad. Is it just the-guy-must-be-guilty prejudice? And if so, how fair is that? At the stoplight, I check my phone to see if I have any messages and am pleased to see that my dad has actually left one. Hoping the light will last, I start listening.
“Hey, Magpie, I’m moving into my apartment this weekend and just wanted to let you know. It’s a real nice place with a pool and everything. Anyway, I’ll be pretty busy for the next few days, but maybe after I get settled you can come over and fix me that dinner you promised. And maybe you can give me some decorating help. I have a feeling I’m going to be pretty hopeless at this. Talk to you later.”
The light turns green, and I feel happier just having heard his voice. Okay, maybe not so happy that he’s ge
tting into his apartment, because that makes their separation feel even more real—more permanent. But maybe they just need space and some time to chill and eventually work some things out. And maybe if I keep bugging them they’ll decide to get marriage counseling, and maybe they will get back together in time for Christmas.
So for the second time today, I pray. Forgetting my concerns about hypocrisy, I ask God to bring our family together for Christmas. After all, he did help me at work tonight, since it actually went pretty well. So maybe he’ll answer this prayer too.
seven
HEAVY GRAY CLOUDS HANG LOW IN THE SKY AS I DRIVE HOME FROM church on Sunday. They look how I feel. Not exactly what you’d expect after spending the morning in church, but it’s because I’m taking a serious guilt trip right now.
It figures that Father Thomas would teach on forgiveness today. Consequently, I think I’m feeling “convicted,” and that doesn’t feel good. In fact, it feels pretty rotten. I know without a doubt I haven’t been a very good Christian these past couple of weeks, which is probably the main reason it’s been hard to pray and probably a big part of the reason I’ve been feeling like such a hypocrite.
So all right, I get it already. I know that God wants me to forgive everyone. More specifically, I know that God wants me to forgive Mom, and even though it sounds impossible, I am seriously considering it. I know it won’t be easy, but I don’t think I have much choice—especially when I think about Father Thomas’s warning. He said that God forgives us with the same measure that we forgive others. And that’s scary. So I know I have to do this, and I’m thinking that the sooner I do this, the better.
As I drive up to my house, I see what looks like a U-Haul in our driveway. And then I realize that my dad’s Explorer is attached to it. I park in front of the house and hop out to see what’s up.
“Hey, Dad,” I call out as I see him wheeling our jukebox out on a handcart. We’ve had that thing for years, and as far as I know, it doesn’t even work. Mostly it’s just been gathering dust and taking up space in the garage.
“Hey, Magpie.” He smiles and then glances at his watch. “Wow, I didn’t realize it was so late. You home from church already?”