by S. F. Kosa
Read on for an excerpt from S. F. Kosa’s
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Chapter One
She hummed quietly as she watched the churning waves. It was a song with words she couldn’t quite remember, though surely she had known them at some point—the tune came to her as easily as breathing. The ocean folded over on itself, again and again, and she felt the relentless movement inside her. She swayed, her bare feet embedded in the sand, while the salty wind whipped her hair across her face. Sandpipers sprinted by on their toothpick legs. A gull cried out as it swooped overhead.
She hummed a little louder. The tune had been looping through her mind ever since she’d gotten up this morning, but she couldn’t dredge up the name of the song or recall who sang it. Annoyance pricked at her once, twice, then faded to a dull twinge as she let the sight of the waves lull her again.
She’d stay here all day if she could. Race Point was the very edge of Cape Cod, surrounded by infinite water and sky. From here, she could drift away on the wind. She turned her face to the sun, closing her eyes and spreading her arms. The tune had fallen silent in her throat; she was a wisp of smoke, a silky ribbon spiraling in the breeze.
Somewhere to her left, a man shouted. She spun around, arms winding instinctively over her middle before falling to her sides. Just two guys playing Frisbee. They didn’t even seem aware of her. She turned back to the ocean and stared as a wave deposited a swath of foam a yard from where she stood. She could float away. She could fly. She was a song on the breeze. Her mind was empty. Empty.
As the waves spread themselves thin along the sand, she tried to reclaim the soaring freedom that had seemed within her grasp only moments before.
After a few minutes, she gave up.
Her hair had coiled around her throat; strands were caught in her eyelashes and had wormed their way between her lips. Her cheeks felt warm; she’d been so eager to get here that she hadn’t bothered to slather on the sunblock. Her bare calves stung with the scrape of sand. Suddenly, she felt it all a little too much—her body, her skin, her hair. The tune she’d just been humming was gone, crowded out by tiny shocks of irritation.
She had no idea what time it was, and Lou had warned her about being late. His words scrolled through her mind: Easy hire, easy fire. Under the table works both ways.
She took a step backward, trying to shed the sight of the ocean, until finally it let her go like an egg white slipping free from its yolk. She felt her brain quivering in her skull, a delicate membrane holding everything in place. One prick and all her thoughts might come dribbling out her ears.
Her shift started at five. When had she left the boardinghouse? As she slogged through the shifting sand toward the parking lot, past the Frisbee boys, shovel-and-pail-wielding kids hunched over mounds of sand, and their exhausted parents floppy as seals in their loungers, she tried to remember the morning. It was like fishing through the grease trap at Haverman’s, coming up with a few chicken bones and a lot of sludge. She recalled the musky scent of Esteban’s skin as she crawled from the bed. Rough granules of sand sticking to the bottoms of her feet as she headed for the bathroom. Frigid spray from the shower hitting her shoulder blades. Hanging the towel on the wobbly hook behind the door. Buttoning her shorts, feeling them sag down to her hips. Sliding her feet into flip-flops, the strap between her toes. Blinking in the sun as she stepped outside into the already-sweltering day.
She fiddled with her bike lock, her fingers automatically poking the numbers into place. One-two-zero-four. She maneuvered the bike away from the crowded rack as more riders rolled off the trail and came toward the railing. One of them, a middle-aged man in blue spandex, halted his bike right next to her and reached for his helmet. His gold watch glinted in the sunlight.
“Excuse me,” she said, and then she pressed her lips together, startled by the sound of her voice. Was that what she always sounded like? Was that her actual voice?
The man was looking at her, expecting something. What did he want? Oh.
She smiled. “Do you know what time it is?”
He checked. “About four thirty.”
She swung her leg over the seat and steered the bike onto the trail. Can’t. Be. Late. One word per heartbeat, thumping against the inside of her skull. She pedaled up the hills and leaned into the curves, weaving around families with wriggling toddlers, older women in wide-brimmed hats, and a few cyclists struggling to figure out the gears on their rented bikes.
She didn’t have time to shower or change for her shift, but it didn’t really matter. She would be spending the next eight or so hours in a steamy kitchen, loading and unloading the dishwasher, her hair curling along her temples and sticking to her face, trying to avoid Amber, who always made her uneasy. Amber’s days off were her favorite days to work. Hopefully today would be one of them.
She nearly rolled through the red light on Route 6 as she pondered what day it was. She’d lost track again, maybe because she’d been working seven days a week lately, five to closing, five to closing, five to closing. The only thing she really had to keep track of was the five part, and she could barely manage that.
She picked up speed as she pedaled along Conwell, nearly got winged by a pickup as she hooked left onto Bradford, and swerved to miss a lady with a stroller as she bumped up onto the sidewalk on Commercial, right out front of Haverman’s. The restaurant consisted of a covered beer garden patio snugged up against a narrow old house that used to belong to some fishing captain but was now taken up entirely by the kitchen, storage room, and Lou’s upstairs office and apartment. The high-tops and bar seats were already full, and several folks were standing at the vine-covered arch marking the entrance to the patio, giving their names and numbers to Jenn, the hostess for tonight. As she chained her bike to the rack on the sidewalk, she gave Jenn a quick wave and was rewarded with a blank, stone-faced look.
She ducked her head as she went around the other side of the house and opened the employees only door in the alley. It might be hot and humid outside, but the climate inside was positively tropical. She closed her eyes as the familiar steamy funk enveloped her.
“Hey, Layla! I was just asking Jaliesa if you were working today!”
It wasn’t one of Amber’s days off.
Layla hung her bag on one of the hooks along the wall, noting the other purses and backpacks and registering who each belonged to. Purple pack—Jaliesa, the nice bartender. Pink hobo bag—Amber, the nosy waitress. Worn leather pack with the little hole that always tempted Layla to stick her finger in it—Arthur, the cute line cook. Her tongue itched as she considered his bag for the thousandth time. The material was so thin, so ragged, that it didn’t stand a chance if she decided to jab her finger right through.
“Hey there, space cadet.”
She flinched and turned her head. Amber was right next to her. Her mascara was smudged. Layla glanced at the wall clock above the hooks. “I’m not late,” she said and smiled with relief. Her voice no longer sounded like that of a stranger.
Amber returned her smile, probably thinking it had been meant to be friendly. “We’re short-staffed. Reese is out tonight. Lou wants you out front.”
The words splashed over her like a bucket of ice water. “Whoa. No. I d-don’t think—I mean, I’m not—” She looked down at her flip-flops, her too-loose shorts, her secondhand T-shirt with a whale surrounded by plastic bottles. There was a faded brown stain on the blue fabric, right over her left boob. She raked her fingers through her hair, but they got caught in the tangles.
Amber gave her an appraising once-over. “No worries. I got you.” Amber grabbed her by the elbow and snagged the pink hobo bag as they sailed toward the employees’ bathroom.
Layla’s skin had gone goose bumpy. “I’m a dishwasher,” she mumbled. “I wash dishes.”
“Honey, it’s Friday night, and you’re about to make ten times mo
re an hour than you ever could loading greasy plates into the monster machine.”
“Why can’t Arthur or Serge—?”
“Lou wanted another female server. Lesbians deserve eye candy, too, ya know.” She whipped a T-shirt out of her bag, Haverman’s Helles House emblazoned across the chest, and motioned for Layla to strip off her shirt.
She crossed her arms over her middle. “I’m not a waitress.”
“You are now.” Amber held up the shirt. “And if you’re not, you can go tell Lou yourself.”
She took off her shirt and yanked the other over her head. She wished she’d stopped to put on a bra this morning. Her eyes and nose burned. A droning buzz filled the space between her ears. Her vision flashed with blotches of red and black. She braced her palm against the wall.
Amber slapped lightly at her cheeks. “Hey. Hey. Layla. Stop having a panic attack. Jenn and Wanny and Oscar and me’ll all be out there, and we’ll look out for you. We need the help tonight.”
Help. “Is—is Esteban—?”
“Your guard dog ain’t here tonight, though I expect you know his schedule better than I do these days.” Amber took her by the shoulders and gave her a brisk shake. “Come on. You’re a big girl. Act like it.”
Layla blinked. Amber had a sinewy neck and yellow hair with black roots. Amber had big dangly earrings that bobbled and swayed and clinked. Amber had a narrow nose and a triangle face and eyes that were murky green. Amber had a voice that sounded like barbecue and corn bread, not lobster and quahogs.
“If I screw up—” Layla began.
“Then don’t.”
Amber turned her around, and a moment later, Layla felt a brush run through her hair. She clasped her hands together and squeezed, fingernails digging into skin. She swore she could feel every single bristle slicing across her scalp, but somehow, with each stroke, she relaxed a little. The sensation was like a weight pressing down, down, down, submerging the words and thoughts that had been crowding to the surface a moment before. By the time Amber yanked Layla’s hair back into a ponytail, her cold sweat had gone warm.
Amber handed her an apron. She pointed to the pocket. “Tablet’s already in there. Just tap on the right table number, then the menu items. Keep an eye out for your table numbers at the counter and the bar so you can get stuff to the diners quickly. Lou hates it when stuff sits for longer than a minute, and I swear he times us. Check in on your tables just before they’ve got an empty glass, always offer another round, always offer dessert, and pretend like the sea scallop crudo has given you multiple orgasms. Lou wants us to push that one.”
Layla cringed at the thought of putting scallops, or any other seafood for that matter, in her mouth. She couldn’t imagine ever having liked it, but the nights she’d spent scraping the half-chewed and picked-over remainders off customers’ plates had only deepened her aversion.
Amber scowled as she read Layla’s expression. “I don’t care if the slimy little things give you hives, for heaven’s sake—pretend. It’s all about selling, okay?”
Layla tied on the apron over her shorts and pulled out the tablet as Amber continued to rattle off instructions. Her mouth moved a lot as she spoke, but her eyes and cheeks and brow were completely still somehow. Layla stared until a clatter from the kitchen startled her back to attention. The tablet was in her hands. The one she would use to punch in the orders. This would be fine. Just fine.
“Of course it will,” Amber said, making her realize she’d spoken aloud.
* * *
It was fine until it wasn’t. The hours whooshed by as she concentrated on making it through each individual minute. She mixed up a few orders and spilled a drink at the bar, but the patrons were mostly sweet. It was better than dishwashing, because there were no blank times. Every second demanded her complete focus, and it was all she could think about. Nothing else. Nothing but pressing the right button, picking up the right glass, saying the right words, and smiling the proper smile, even as she handed over plates of raw oysters and scallop crudo that made her stomach turn.
She had no idea how many tables she had turned over, and the faces of the customers were all a blur. The air had gone cooler as the night progressed, as the lanterns drooping over the space came on, the sky beyond went dark, revelers strolled past, and drag queens stalked by, waving regally and pausing for photos with admiring patrons. She liked watching them—there was no telling what the face beneath all that makeup really looked like. It was as if they came out of nowhere and disappeared just as easily.
The crowd thinned out as midnight approached, and she paused at the bar to sip a glass of water Jaliesa had set there for her. Her shirt and shorts were damp with sweat, and her ponytail had slipped down to the base of her neck, where her hair stuck to her nape.
“Almost there, girl, and then it’s time to count tips over a double G&T.” Jaliesa shook a silver cocktail shaker in each hand while her ebony curls jiggled around her face. “My favorite part of the night.”
Layla smiled into her water glass, enjoying the feel of ice on her tongue. Her mind was a quiet hum of white noise.
“Hey,” said Jenn, tapping her on the shoulder. “I just seated three at six.”
She took a final gulp of her water. “Okay.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Table six was in the back corner of the narrow patio. Seated there were one woman and two guys who looked about Layla’s age. One of the guys had his muscular, tattooed arm around the woman, whose curly black hair hung loose around her shoulders. The other guy, whose back was to her, had short red hair. They were dressed casually—shorts and T-shirts—not for clubbing.
She threaded her way across the patio and approached the table where the three of them were absorbed in conversation.
“—don’t really want to go back until Saturday, but my parents leave for Paris on Thursday, and there’s no way they’re taking Mr. Drillby to a kennel,” the redhead was telling his friends. He was talking fast, but his words were a little slurred, his voice a little loud.
“Hi there, and welcome to Haverman’s. My name’s Layla, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight,” she said to his companions, who had seen her standing there. “Can I start you guys off with something other than water?”
“I’ll have the house margarita,” said the woman.
“I’d love a Cape Cod Blonde,” said her partner, grinning at Layla while his companion rolled her eyes.
As his friend spoke, the redhead turned his head and looked up at her. The loose smile he’d been wearing dropped away. “Maggie?”
“Nope. Can I—”
“Maggie Wallace,” said the redhead. His eyes were bloodshot. He smelled like pot and whiskey. He grabbed her wrist.
The tablet in her hand clattered to the ground, and she let out a cry. She pulled her arm free of the guy’s sweaty grasp. People’s heads were turning. Eyes were on them. She scooped the tablet up, peering at the screen. It hadn’t cracked, thank God. “A margarita and a Blonde,” she said, breathless. “Anything else?”
The guy had turned back to his friends, who were giving him concerned looks. The tattooed guy had put his hand on the redhead’s arm.
“I swear it’s her,” the redhead was saying. “I was telling you. Remember?”
“He’ll stick with water,” the woman said.
“I’ll get those orders in right now,” she replied, but her voice had gone weird again. Strange and unfamiliar. It made her wish she didn’t have a mouth at all.
The redhead turned in his chair again. “You look exactly like her,” he said. “My girlfriend was talking about you the other day. Come on. Reina Ramirez. You know her, right?”
She realized she’d been shaking her head vigorously. She stopped when the tattooed guy said, “Let it go, dude.” He hadn’t released his friend’s arm. “Let the lady do her job.”
Before the redhead
could free himself, she headed for the kitchen. Jaliesa’s mouth was moving as she walked by, but she couldn’t hear what the bartender was saying. Inside her head, there was a low buzz and snatches of a song that seemed familiar yet impossible to place.
“Layla?” called out Amber, poking her head into the back as Layla reached for her bag. “Wait—you’re leaving?” She pushed through the swinging door and dropped her tablet into the pocket of her apron. “What the hell happened?” She looked over her shoulder. “Did one of those guys grope you or something? Because—”
“No.” She tugged the Haverman’s shirt over her head, which was buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. She could make out Amber’s words, but only barely. The shirt fell from her loose fingers, where it landed crumpled at their feet.
“You’re kinda pale,” the waitress said. “Are you sick?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “I’m…done.”
“Oh, honey.” Amber sounded sympathetic as she watched Layla tug her stained blue shirt over her head. “I know it’s been a long night.” Amber sighed. “You really did great. We’ll set aside your—”
But she was already out the door, down the alleyway, unlocking her bike—one-two-zero-four—and pedaling down the road. She didn’t even know where she was going. All she knew was that she needed to get away.
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Reading Group Guide
1. Why do you think “Christy” first goes with Eszter that day in Portland? Imagine if you were in Christy’s shoes. What would you do if presented with this kind of friendship, kindness, and opportunity?
2. How would you describe Dora? Why do you think she is well suited to her job as a fact-checker?