by Julie Dill
At school, I’m on a constant look-out for Mr. Lackey in the hallways. Nothing he can do to punish me at school, but nonetheless, I don’t want to cross his path. In every single class I am mesmerized by this idea that Dad and I could have this normal, suburban life. In my last period, English, I decide to be proactive and pull out a scratch piece of paper. I list the top five places that I could apply for a job, four of them being restaurants.
After school, I go to the Goodwill to look for a decent job-searching outfit. I walk in, and there’s a boy wearing a blue vest, “Goodwill” stamped across the back. His back is to me, and I can’t see his face. He’s busy. He’s busy straightening the shopping carts, perfectly aligning them inside one another, and he is determined that this will be the neatest row of shopping carts a store has ever seen. I don’t need a shopping cart, but this catches my attention, so I pause.
He works fiercely with these shopping carts, pulling them out one at a time, making sure not to jam them in a crooked, messed up way.
I can’t stop watching. I stare in a trance.
At one point, he bends down and reaches with his hands to straighten a wheel that was pointed to the side. Then he pulls a red cloth from his pocket and dusts the top of the wheel.
Pristine, this row of shopping carts.
He takes one step back, and I can’t tell if he’s admiring his work or perhaps looking for an unnoticed wheel gone astray. He turns around to find his next task and sees me.
“Welcome to Goodwill!” He smiles enthusiastically, and it’s now that I realize he has Down’s Syndrome. His glasses fall mid-nose, causing him to point his chin up so he can look through them. He smiles, so passionately, and goes on to tell me that all the blue tags are “half-off” today.
“Thank you,” I answer, and return the smile.
He scurries off—a man with a mission—and I walk in slow motion, thinking about this respectable work ethic I’ve just witnessed.
I think about his challenges.
His lack of ever having complete independence.
But mostly, I think about his contentment.
I make my way to the skirts, and sift through a million “no’s” before I find a “yes.” It’s a knee-length, black pencil skirt, with the bonus blue tag hanging from the waist. I inspect it top to bottom, and find there’s no missing buttons or ripped out seams.
There’s a white ruffled dress shirt I find to go with it, and although it doesn’t have a blue tag, the original tags from the department store are still attached so I know it’s never been worn. Funny how people buy something brand-new and never seem to wear it a single time.
I immediately wash the clothes when I get home. And when they’re all dry and pressed, I slip them on, and find immense gratification in knowing that I paid five bucks for an outfit that could probably retail for $100.
Chapter 41
The manager, a middle-aged, redheaded lady glimpses at the front of my application then flips it over to scan the back.
“Can you work Sundays?” she asks as she sets the application aside and starts dropping flour tortillas on a large, flat grill. This question sounds hopeful.
“Yes, I can work Sundays.” I watch as she flips at least a dozen puffy tortillas in about three seconds flat.
“You sure? Because I can’t tell you how many times someone says they’re available on Sundays then, all of a sudden, they mark off every Sunday.”
“I’m sure.”
She uses the spatula to stack all the tortillas together and move them off the grill.
“When can you start?”
“Tomorrow. I can start as early as tomorrow if you need me to.”
She walks away from the tortilla stand, and I assume she expects me to follow her.
“Let’s do a quick interview,” she nods toward the back of the kitchen.
I get four stare-downs from the cooks on the line; I’m a newbie on their turf. The kitchen is loud. Someone’s dumping ice. Someone’s banging a dirty dish against the garbage in an effort to get the cemented refried beans off the plate, and someone is hollering at a cook about an order gone bad.
We make our way through the kitchen, and the slim and trim manager (how’s she so skinny working around quesadillas?) unlocks her office door with a key that hangs from a key ring worn around her wrist.
“Excuse the mess,” she says, but doesn’t try to give reason as to why the place looks like a hoarder with a notebook fetish lives here. She clears a chair for me to sit in, and I take a seat and cross my legs.
It dawns on her that she hasn’t introduced herself, so she turns around and says, “I’m Angela,” and offers her hand. I shake it and get the sense that she’s beyond exhausted. Dark circles. Haphazard makeup. Last night’s hairdo.
Three questions later, I’m hired.
On the drive home I think about the worker at the Goodwill.
Contentment.
Chapter 42
Dad’s upbeat mood from the morning has petered out. When I walk through the door, he’s on the couch flipping through the channels.
“Hey, Dad. How’d it go?” I feel like a parent asking their child about the first day of school.
He continues to flip channels. “Aw, it was alright. It’s a job.” His enthusiasm is lacking.
“Well, guess what?” I begin enthusiastically, trying to change the energy.
“What?” Dad says.
I plop down beside him.
“I got a job too.”
This news causes him to actually look in my direction.
“You did? Where?”
“At the Mexican restaurant down the street. I guess they’re in desperate need of help because the manager told me I could start hostess training tomorrow.”
“Well honey, that’s great. We’ll be rolling in it before too long with two paychecks coming in.”
Reality check.
“I don’t think we’ll be rolling in it, but hopefully we can get caught up on some bills soon.”
He stares at me. For an uncomfortable amount of time.
“I’m really proud of you,” he says.
What? Did he really just say he was proud of me?
“Thanks, Dad.” I force the words from my mouth. “I’m proud of you too, Dad.”
__________
Three weeks later, my boss hands me my first paycheck, and I look for the printed numbers immediately. $214.36.
I’m ecstatic, to say the least.
I go straight to the bank to cash it. Although it’s money already spent, it feels so nice, these two $100 bills in my hands. It triggers the memories of a big win, and the rush of having stacks of money in my purse. It’s the equivalent of an alcoholic taking that one little sip. The one little, dangerous sip that sends everything spiraling.
Then, even though I shouldn’t, I do it.
I go to the library.
I Google it.
I find it.
I make a plan in my head, but push it back out and make the thought go away.
That night, I can’t sleep. I try deep-breathing. I flip my pillow to the cold side a million times. I stare at the clock in disbelief that it’s one thirty in the morning, and I haven’t fallen asleep yet.
I drink a glass of milk.
I rub my own shoulders.
I count sheep.
I think about my new job.
Nothing’s working.
I give up.
I put on a baseball cap and tiptoe through the house.
And some time later, at two o’clock in the morning, I find myself walking into a new, different casino.
Looking for something.
About the Author
Julie Dill lives in Oklahoma City where the wind always comes sweeping down the plains—literally.
As a you
ng girl she always wanted to be a teacher, so she went on to receive her Bachelor of Science in Education degree from the University of Central Oklahoma and taught in elementary schools for ten years. Currently, she serves as an adjunct professor and loves helping students achieve success. One of her greatest professional accomplishments is earning her National Board Certification.
She holds a Master’s of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Oklahoma City University and continues to work on various writing projects. From hiking in Colorado, to playing poker in Vegas, she’s always up for a new challenge. Julie is a busy mom of two teenage daughters, and any extra time that she may carve out is spent reading, writing, and rooting for the Oklahoma City Thunder.
Amberjack Publishing
228 Park Avenue S #89611
New York, NY 10003-1502
http://amberjackpublishing.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Julie Dill
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Names: Dill, Julie, author.
Title: Bluff / by Julie Dill.
Description: New York: Amberjack Publishing, 2017
Summary: Chelsea is seventeen and broke. Her father can’t pay the bills, so she takes matters into her own hands by playing poker at a casino.
Identifiers: ISBN 978-1- 944995-05- 8 (pbk.) | ISBN 978-1- 944995-06- 5 (ebook) | LCCN 2016944247
Subjects: LCSH Gamblers--Fiction. | Gambling—Fiction. | Friendship--Fiction. | Casinos--Fiction. | Father-daughter relationship--Fiction. | Poverty—Fiction. | BISAC YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Social Themes / General
Classification: LCC PZ7.D5771 Blu 2017 | [Fic]—dc23
Cover Design:
Ashley Ruggirello of CarboardMonet.com
Red Couch Creative, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America