Honorable Disgrace

by Stephanie N. Pitman

  “Sure.” He disappeared and returned with a single sheet of paper. “You know your timing’s perfecto.”

  “Perfect … for what?” I crossed my hands in front of me and fumbled with my fingers.

  His self-assured smile said he knew exactly the effect he had on the fairer sex and that he enjoyed the power. He leaned over the counter and lowered his voice, like he wanted to whisper secrets in my ear. I resisted the impulse to lean toward him.

  “Actually, we just got an opening.” He slid the application slowly across the counter and added, “Fill this out, and maybe I can get you an interview today.”

  “Today?” How soon would that be? I thought of my mom’s shopping list.

  He grabbed a pen and placed it in my hand, his fingers lingering longer than necessary.

  “I have a few things I need to get going first, but we could do an interview when I’m done.” He mimed writing with his hand and pointed at me. He set off into the back, whistling.

  Whoa, it must be my lucky day. I set to work and finished, quickly signing my name.

  Water was running, followed by the loud whir of a mixer as dishes banged against a metal sink, and then a phone rang. The mixer shut off, the handsome guy’s deep voice answering on the third ring.

  “Hello … yeah, good. I have someone here wanting a job. I think I’m going to hire them.” Brief silence followed, and then he continued, an insistent note to his voice. “No, I haven’t interviewed them. Not yet. No, don’t come in. I can handle this. Trust me, I can do it. I won’t screw it up.”

  He was quiet again, and then he fired off a string of rapid Spanish. I strained to hear better. It sounded like he said ‘madre’. Didn’t that mean mother? Before I could dwell too long, he was back with his disarming smile. I fumbled with the application and it slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor like an autumn leaf. I picked it up and clutched it to my chest.

  “All done?” He held out his hand.

  I stared at it. And then realized he wanted my application. I held it out to him, holding his gaze. His fingers brushed mine as he took the app. He broke eye contact and glanced over my app and nodded a few times. “Looks good. Angie, is it?”

  I nodded and shove my hands into my pockets. I did not want distraction in the form of the Latin hunk. I was only looking for a job.

  “I’m Brad Rodriguez.” He rolled the r’s in his last name, his dark brown hand out, and I tentatively shook it, his large hand swallowing mine. “Hey, is Lorraine Adams your sister?”

  I nodded again and Brad smiled. “Okay, Angie, let’s say we skip the interview and get you a uniform?”

  A uniform? What? He was giving me the job?

  Without waiting for a reply, he walked away. “You coming?”

  “Yep.” I pushed through the swinging door, twisting my hands as I took in the view from this side of the counter, the pizza ovens huge and formidable. “So, uh, that’s it? I have the job? No interview?”

  He glanced back and nodded. “We’ll go over a few things before we get you started. And then I’ll set you up making pizza dough.”

  He showed me where everything was. The walk-in with its mounds of cheese, boxes of sauce and bounteous selection of fresh veggies, the prep tables, the dry storage, the cleaning supplies, the ovens surrounded by stacks of flat pizza boxes waiting to be made. All the while, he explained what my duties would include: prepping food, making pizza dough, answering phones, taking orders, dishes and cleaning … lots of cleaning. Of course, I’d make pizzas, but that would come later.

  “So, you’re sure? You want me to have the job?” Shut up, shut up, shut up. Just go with it. But, I couldn’t stop myself from questioning the bizarre situation. Did this have anything to do with my sister? If so, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “You haven’t even asked me … anything. Not about my past experience, when I can work, how old I am …”

  “I saw your app. And you’re, uh, 16, a junior, right?”

  I nodded.

  He reclined against the oversized metal door of the walk-in fridge. “And besides, Lorraine’s your sister. That’s good enough for me.”

  “Umm, okay.” Everything happened so fast. Did I really want to get a job because Lorraine was my sister? What could that mean? And there was a whole list of things I knew I should say. “Wait, I can’t work Thursday. I have powerlifting matches.”

  “Powerlifting, huh?” He inclined his head toward me. “We can make that work. Let’s get started.”

  “You … you want me to start … now?”

  The front door chimed loudly and he pushed off the fridge. “Yeah, is that a problem?”

  My mom’s errand list, the groceries, and the demand to be home by noon warred with my desire for this job, unorthodox as the process was. “No, no problem. Is it okay if I call my mom first?”

  “Sure.” He clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “After that, you can get to work on those dishes while I help this customer, then we’ll get started on that dough.”

  Pulling out my phone, I stared after him, his broad back now bent over the counter as he talked, scribbling rapidly on a pad of paper. And just like that, I had a job.

  Chapter Five

  I stretched and placed the last pan in the drain. My back ached, a dull throb in my muscles. I drew my shoulder blades together to ease the discomfort. I’d been leaning over the sink for the past half hour, after the chaotic rush for pizzas had ebbed. According to Brad, it was busier than normal for a Sunday afternoon, and I got dish duty.

  Brad Rodriguez turned out to be the assistant manager for his mom’s store, Joane’s Pizza. I knew madre meant mother. I’d shown up just in time, yesterday, to rescue him from dishes. The girl who was supposed to work the morning shift had quit and no one else was available. Enter me and ta da! I got the job, which explained the whirlwind application-sans-interview-to-job process. And my connection to Lorraine, I guess.

  After making mounds of dough, completing four hours of cleaning, food prep, and stocking, Brad had finally let me go yesterday, my crisp new schedule in hand. Upon seeing my hours, I’d almost quit—he’d penciled me in for almost every day, the exception being Thursday. I wanted a job, but I didn’t want it to replace my life. And I could see my homework suffering. But I said I’d do it, and I never went back on my word.

  The door jingled, reality returning in the wet form of soap and suds.

  “Whew, glad that rush is over.”

  I jumped as the voice broke the relative quiet surrounding me.

  “How’s life back here, querida?” Brad casually draped his arm over my shoulders, and my stomach flipped.

  I lifted my gloved fingers, suds clinging to them, and wriggled them in Brad’s face. “Soapy.”

  He laughed and backed away. I exhaled. He was amazingly hot, and his apparent interest flattered me, but he was too old for me. Besides, I really, really liked Cory. Though I was beginning to wonder, again, how much he liked me. He still hadn’t called.

  Brad looked behind him at Claire, the only other person still here. She was somewhere in her late twenties, a single mother working three jobs, who talked incessantly of her two kids, Summer and Rudolfo, Rudy for short.

  Brad leaned against the edge of the sink, his careless posture too studied to be sincere.

  “How do you like your job?” he asked softly, his strong spicy masculinity flooding my senses.

  I plunged my hand into the water, and swirled it around, looking for more dishes. My hand bumped against the metal sides of the sink. Before withdrawing my hands from the cooling water, I pulled the plug and then removed the attractive yellow dish gloves. I folded them over the edge of the sink, grateful for the excuse of putting the dishes away.

  “It’s alright. I’ve made dough, done a lot of dishes, cleaned, and then more dishes.” I stretched on my tiptoes to place a large plastic bin on the top shelf. “Dishes suck.”

  “You know, I didn’t have to give you the job.” His arms folded
over his broad chest, his words brittle and crisp, like week old fallen leaves.

  “I was only teasing.”

  He relaxed his posture, but kept his arms crossed.

  “And there are certain benefits.” I paused, my hand mid-air, holding a pan as I realized the stupidity of my statement. His resulting grin told me he’d taken my comment the wrong way. “I mean, I get paid.”

  “Oh, is that all?” His lips parted, his grin slightly unsettling.

  “Yeah, I needed a job.” My ears on fire, I forced a laugh, and hoped he didn’t think I was jilting him. Hot or not, I really didn’t want him to think I was interested in him. His eyes narrowed, and I tucked back a stray tendril of hair that had escaped from my ponytail, and then ventured, “Do you want me to check what needs to be prepped when I’m finished here?”

  He ignored my question, and leaned forward, his eyes aglow. “So are you anything like your sister?”

  “Umm, what do you mean?”

  “Do you party? She’s quite the fiestera.” A shadow flickered over his face, but then he smirked and gave me a sidelong look.

  “What?”

  “Party animal, wildcat, loca.”

  “No, I’m nothing like her.” I firmly shook my head. I loved my sister, but I didn’t want to be anything like her. Ever. I shivered, and wrapped my arms around myself, the bulge of my new developing muscle comforting.

  Brad’s blank look brought me back. “Is that where you met her? At a party?”

  He shook his head, “No. We graduated the same year. Don’t really remember her much. I think she was pretty normal then. But not last night. Whoa!”

  I laughed. “You say normal like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Normal’s boring.”

  “Then I guess that makes me boring.” I laughed, and then exclaimed as it hit me, “Oh, you’re that Brad.”

  “What do you mean, that Brad?” His voice changed, now sharp like a razor.

  I hesitated, his mood swings very nearly giving me whiplash. “Uh, she had a crush on you. I mean huge …” I put the last dish away, and moved over by the extra-large mixer. “She drove me crazy talking about you. But I didn’t tell you that—she’d kill me.”

  “Really?” My comment must have stroked his injured male ego for his features smoothed out handsomely only to furrow again. “Too bad she’s hooked up with my brother.”

  “Dave’s your brother?” I definitely did not see the resemblance. Lorraine’s boyfriend was almost as pale as an albino underneath all his ink.

  “Stepbrother. We’re not related other than his dad is married to my mom.” He shrugged and stared at some point on the ground, silent and sullen.

  I shifted uncomfortably. With the dishes done, and no orders to be made, I wasn’t sure what to do next. “Is there anything you’d like me to do?” I prompted at his glazed look, “For work? I still have ten minutes left on my shift.”

  “Work? I guess you can check the prep table, see what we need.”

  I strode purposefully toward the prep table. The metal domed lid was cold to the touch as I lifted it. I slid the plastic lids off several bins and noted both the mushrooms and bell peppers needed refilled. A brief search of the fridge space underneath revealed no reserve bins. They must have been used during the rush earlier.

  “We need peppers and mushrooms. Those are in the walk-in, right?”

  He nodded. He hadn’t moved from where I’d left him, one arm across his chest, the other resting on it, his hand stroking his chin.

  The huge walk-in space was lined with stainless steel shelves laden with produce, huge bags of shredded mozzarella and sauce. Several oversized metal carts dominated one wall, removable plastic trays loaded with various sized lumps of pizza dough. I’d spent most of yesterday morning as well as this morning on that task, though there were far less now.

  I jammed a flattened box under the door like a doorstop to keep it from closing on me. Claire had warned me earlier about the broken latch. The thought of getting locked inside, with no way to get out, and no one able to hear me if I did, caused me to break out in a cold sweat made all the more chilling by the frigid air emanating from the open doorway.

  Get in and get out. I took a deep breath and forced myself to go in.

  I spotted a hint of green by the far wall, and headed toward it, snatching up the bag of peppers. On tiptoe, I peered up onto the shelves and searched the boxes for mushrooms. My hands shook. With each shelf, each bin, each box absent of the needed mushrooms, the shaking increased. When I uncovered them behind a huge stack of cheese, my fingers closed over them and jerked them out.

  I turned toward the door, and a whimper of panic lodged in my throat. The box wedged beneath, was slowly sliding forward, the door closing. I hurried forward and dashed through the small gap. That was close.

  My hands trembled slightly as I reached for a strainer above my head. I ripped open the plastic wrap that covered the mushrooms and tipped it, completely missing the strainer. They bounced across the bottom of the stainless steel sink, the sound like golf balls being dumped onto the green. Inhaling slowly, I tossed them into the colander then washed them quickly, swirling them around the perforated bowl, shook off the excess water, and then repeated the process with the peppers.

  Shaking out my hands, I set a cutting board and a knife out. Making short work of the vegetables, I filled the bins, cleaned up my mess, waved to Brad and Claire, and punched out.

  Moments later I slid behind the wheel. Eyes closed, I sighed, exhausted.

  The sun had just disappeared over the horizon when I got home, the pale pink light fading to dusk. I trudged into the house and passed the table. A single white slip of paper snagged my attention.

  I tilted my head to read it and my heart nearly climbed out of my throat.

  Angie,

  Cory called.

  Wants you to give him a call.

  680-4948.

  Cory! He’d called. He’d actually called me. I squealed and did a little dance. My phone was in my hand in an instant, my fatigue vanished. I slid a finger across to unlock it. A picture of JJ and me, arms around each other, smiling, lit the screen. I swallowed my pulse, irregular and frantic. My finger shook as I slowly punched in Cory’s number, then tapped the green call button with my thumb. I pressed it to my ear, silence on the phone until it connected. And then it rang. And rang and rang and rang. I let the phone drop to my chin.

  “Hello?” a voice answered, faint but unmistakably feminine.

  I hastily brought the phone back up. “Hi, is Cory there?” I held my breath, a small part of me wanting her to say no.

  “No, he’s not.” The voice was older, most likely his mom. “Can I tell him who is calling?”

  My shoulders drooped and then I squeezed my eyes shut. “Yeah—this is Angie.”

  “Hi, Angie. Did you want to leave a message?”

  “No, I’ll … I’ll just talk to him tomorrow. Thanks.”

  I ended the call, flopped against my pillows and covered my eyes with my arm, phone clutched in my hand. I wish I’d been here when he’d called.

  ><><><><><

  Cory lay on the bench, the strain on his face clear even from the doorway. There were three large disk weights on both sides totaling an impressive 350 pounds. The room was charged, testosterone practically oozing from the guys clustered around him.

  JJ and I looked at each other in bewilderment. A flash of money waved in the air, my red haired partner slipping it into a pocket of his gym shorts. He noted something on a clipboard, then repeated the action a few more times. Money thrust in his face, jot, jot, jot.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him. I really needed to remember his name.

  “Coach is sick and no one’s seen the sub,” he said simply without looking up, as if that explained everything.

  “So what are they doing?” I jutted my chin toward the ring of guys around Cory.

  He shifted his eyes sideways and chewed his gum. Then he jerked his t
humb toward the middle of the group. “Hobbs was running his mouth like usual, talking smack. Said he could lift more than anyone on the team. And that dummy,” he tipped his head at Cory and folded his arms, his nose flaring like he’d smelled something rancid, “took it as a challenge. Bet Hobbs he could out lift him. Odds ain’t good on him, either.”

  “I’ll put money on Cory.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Cory’s gonna be on the losing side.” His eyes were pinched.

  “Put me down for five bucks.”

  He narrowed his eyes, and opened his mouth.

  “I’m good for it,” I growled

  He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Alright, but you’ll have to pay up.”

  I smirked and shook my head, “Cory’ll win.”

  George Hobbs, or Hobbs as everyone called him, stood out in a crowd, even in this crowd of large body builders, football players, and wrestlers. At 6’5” he was the easily the tallest guy in school. Built like an ox, with a scowl to match.

  But I was confident in Cory.

  I drew my lip between my teeth and watched the muscles ripple in his arms, the veins popping out, trembling slightly as he extended the weighted bar up. At the top of the move, he held it for a three second count, and then smoothly lowered it and slammed the bar into place, the metallic clank reverberating noisily. Cory straightened and flashed me a huge grin, a slight bounce in his step as he shook his arms out.

  Hobbs barely spared a glance at Cory before he added ten pounds. He circled the bench and stretched his arms over his head then rotated each one a few times, finally settling on the bench. Brock, the star quarterback, stood behind Hobbs to spot him. Hobbs hefted the bar with a grunt, but lowered the bar with seeming ease, despite the light shade of scarlet his face had turned. He stopped just inches above his neck. Brock bent over like he was readying to receive a hike, his hands hovering under the bar, ready to grab it if necessary.

  The muscles, tendons, and veins tightened and bulged in Hobbs’ neck. With a feral roar he slowly, but steadily, lifted the bar. The bar crashed home. Bounding up, he whooped, pumping his arm in the air. I was reminded of a gorilla beating his chest to intimidate other male rivals.