Recruited

by Lynn Mason

  As she neared his table, Dean glanced up at her.

  “Hi,” she said, twisting a lock of hair around a finger, holding it like a lifeline.

  “Hey,” he said, smiling slightly. “What's up?”

  Sydney felt her own mouth curl upward in response, warmth returning to her cheeks. His smile was just the sign she needed to top off her courage. She shrugged her left shoulder. “Not much. Have you, uh . . .” She paused, gathering her nerve. “Have you heard about the Tropical Getaway party?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he replied, casually swishing the ice in his soda cup.

  She nodded. “Cool. Um . . . so is it something you'd like to go to?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said with a shrug.

  Sydney's heart sped to a full gallop. “You would?” Visions of Dean in Hawaiian swim trunks, a lei reaching down to his bare, suntanned abs and his arm drooped lazily around her shoulders, took over her brain.

  “I don't know. Maybe. If I don't have anything else going on,” he continued. He gazed up at her with eyes the color of emeralds. “Why? Are you doing a poll for the newspaper or something?”

  A cold, tingly feeling spread through her. Oh, god! she thought. He never even considered going out with me. I'm practically peeing my Levis over a guy who only thinks of me as Sharpie girl.

  “No,” she attempted in a mumble. “No, I just . . .” But her throat was squeezing shut and she couldn't finish. All she wanted to do was run and hide. California was the land of earthquakes, but where were they when you needed one?

  Comprehension gradually seeped into his superhuman features. “Oh,” he said, raising up from his slouched position. A bemused look crossed his face. “Are you asking me out, uh—sorry, what was your name again?”

  “It's— No, really. I wasn't. I mean, no. I've gotta go,” she blurted out, staring down at the chipped polish on her toenails. Barely There Red, wasn't it? Then she ripped her eyes away from all his Dean glory, turned, and walked back to Francie as fast as she could.

  Kill me now, she thought. Embarrassed was too weak a word to describe what she was feeling. Her face must have told Francie everything, because she didn't ask what had happened. As Sydney sank down onto the bench, her friend threw a supportive arm around her shoulders and patted her. “Forget about it,” she murmured. “He's not worth it.”

  Sydney could only sit there, mentally replaying the entire incident in horrific superslow motion. What was wrong with her? What had made her think she even had a chance with Dean? Are you asking me out, uh—sorry, what was your name again? What's your name? Again? Again? So he had talked to her a few times in class. So what? He wasn't interested. He was just nice.

  Suddenly a high-pitched squeal cut through the noise in her mind. She turned around, following the sound, and saw a trio of girls who appeared to have just stepped out of a Tommy Hilfiger ad and a couple of scruffily cute guys she recognized from her economics class standing in a semicircle around Dean. All of them were looking right at her.

  Laughing.

  Obviously he wasn't nice.

  “Come on,” Francie said firmly. “We're leaving.” Sydney's hands were shaking as she and Francie gathered up their things, hoisted their backpacks onto their shoulders, and made their way through the gap between the Geology and Math Sciences buildings.

  “Don't worry, Syd,” Francie said soothingly, laying a reassuring hand on her back. “You'll find someone who really deserves you. It'll go better next time.”

  Sydney didn't respond. Francie meant well, but she was wrong.

  There wouldn't be a next time. Sydney would never take a chance like that again.

  2

  “I'M NOT SAYING IT'S like the best place to work, but it doesn't bite too hard. I mean, sometimes the customers can be rude, or gross, or ask for stupid things like a turkey sandwich without the bread. But really it's not too bad.” Francie prattled on and on as they drove through the packed downtown parking lot Wednesday afternoon, searching for an empty space.

  “Relax, Fran,” Sydney said, pulling into a spot near the back. “Why are you so nervous?”

  Francie shrugged, her left shoulder grazing a strand of long wavy black hair. “I don't know. I guess because it's my idea. I'd feel responsible if you absolutely hated it.”

  Sydney cut the engine. “Hey. You aren't forcing me here. You're helping me out. And I really, really appreciate it.”

  “Okay,” Francie said, furrowing her brow at Sydney. “But if you totally despise the place, promise me you won't take the job just so I won't feel bad or anything.”

  “I promise,” Sydney replied. With her lack of restaurant experience, she wasn't feeling too confident. But everyone had to start somewhere. “Hey, it's not like I have lots of job options anyway.”

  As they hopped out onto the pavement, Sydney locked the doors of her brand-new white Ford Mustang. Her dad had bought it for her before she went off to college. She definitely needed her own car if she was to have any life at UCLA, and without her dad's help she'd almost certainly have been driving a lemon from a place like Swappin' Steve's Gently Used Wheels. Still, it made her uncomfortable to accept such a generous gift from him. Every time she looked at it, she thought of him, and thinking of him was not something she allowed herself to do on a regular basis. The car was a huge reminder of the control he still had over her life—at least financially. All the more reason for her to find a job.

  They crossed the street and headed toward a squat, square building with a green-and-white-striped awning. A carved wooden sign overhead read LES AMIS CAFé in loopy red script.

  As they walked through the front door, Sydney took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Mmmm. Thank god I don't have to live on dorm food alone. I swear, if you didn't bring back meals from this place now and then, I'd be seriously starved. Just smell that.”

  “I know. The best blintzes and strawberry cheesecake in town,” Francie said with a smile.

  “Hey! You never brought me cheesecake.”

  “Oh.” Francie's face fell. “Well, I have. It's just never made it home.”

  “Francine!” a man called from the back of the café, where the kitchen and offices were located. As he approached, Sydney couldn't help thinking he looked like a human ferret, with his skinny build, thin face, long narrow nose, and beady brown eyes. He walked up to Francie, tapped his watch, and said, “Three and a half minutes late, Francine.” Then he laughed awkwardly. “But who's counting?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Terwilliger. Traffic was really bad today,” Francie explained, mirroring his phony smile. “This is my friend Sydney. The one I told you about over the phone?”

  Sydney took a step forward and held out her hand. “Hi. I'm Sydney Bristow.”

  Mr. Terwilliger grabbed her palm and began pumping it up and down. “Yes, yes, hello. Sydney, is it? It's very nice to meet you. Yes.”

  She hoped her revulsion wasn't too noticeable as Mr. Terwilliger maintained his limp, greasy grip. She felt a slight pang for Francie. For weeks she'd been complaining that her boss was a major weirdo, but Sydney had never pictured anything this bad. Eventually, he let go and gestured to a nearby door.

  “Well then. Why don't we go into my office?” he said. “I have some forms for you to fill out.”

  “I'm going to go start my shift,” Francie said, peering over her shoulder to give Sydney a reassuring smile. “Come find me when you're done.”

  Sydney entered the sparsely furnished wood-paneled office, discreetly wiping her palm on her linen skirt. She sat down in a squeaky red vinyl chair as Mr. Terwilliger plopped into his seat behind the desk.

  “Here you go,” he said, passing her a pen and a double-sided application form. As she bent over the sheet and began filling it out, she expected Mr. Terwilliger to excuse himself and say he'd come back later when she was done. Instead, he just sat there, swiveling back and forth in his chair and tapping his pen against the edge of his desk.

  Sydney tried to ignore him, focusing as hard a
s she could on the questions in front of her. It didn't take long to fill in the blanks. The only real job she'd ever had was one horrible night spent baby-sitting her neighbor's three children.

  “Let's see,” Terwilliger muttered as she passed the form back to him. “Excellent grades. Yes. National Merit Finalist. Very nice. Scholarship . . .” He grew silent, his face slowly sagging as he scanned the rest of the document. Eventually he set down the application and tapped his fingertips together. “I take it you've never had a food service position before?” He said “food service” in a reverent tone, as if it were second on the world importance scale to finding a cure for cancer.

  “Um, no,” Sydney replied, her mind whirling. “But I did sell boxes of candy for a school fund-raiser,” she added with a hopeful smile. No need to tell him she'd only sold two chocolate bars—both to herself. “I also did some theater arts back at my high school, so I'm not shy around people. And I'm on the Bruins track team, which shows I'm coordi-nated. Right?” She continued to fix him with an enthusiastic grin, bracing for the eventual thanks-but-no-thanks dismissal.

  “I see. Yes.” Mr. Terwilliger intertwined his fingers and nodded slowly. After a few more minutes of reviewing her application, he smiled. “Well, Sydney,” he said. “I think we could definitely use you on our staff.”

  Sydney gaped at his small, rodent eyes. “You mean I've got the job?”

  “In fact, could you start today? We're a little shorthanded.”

  “Today?” she repeated, blinking rapidly. Had he actually offered her a job? Did Francie bribe him or something?

  Mr. Terwilliger stood up and crossed the room. “There should be several spare uniforms in the storage closet. Don't worry, they're clean. I'll want you to train with Francie at first, then maybe you can go it alone after a couple of hours.”

  “That sounds great,” Sydney said, a flush spreading across her cheeks. It was only a waitress position, she knew that, but the fact that some-one found her worthy of employment, that someone (even if it was a human ferret) was willing to take a chance on her, filled her with an unexpected sense of pride. Thank god for Francie. Sydney walked over and reached out to shake her new boss's clammy hand. “Thanks. Thanks very much.”

  Mr. Terwilliger opened the office door and gestured outside. “You may not have a lot of experience, but I have a feeling about you, Sydney. I think we'll find you were born to do this job.”

  Five hours later Sydney was hiding behind the restaurant's gigantic stainless steel coffeemaker.

  “How do you do it, Fran?” she asked in a whisper, while rubbing the heel of her left foot. The truth was, even though Francie had been nothing but encouraging, and Terwilliger had felt confident enough to hire her on the spot, Sydney was beginning to think she wasn't cut out for this job at all.

  “Well, for one, I don't wear two-inch heels,” Francie replied, checking her reflection in the burnished metal of the coffee machine. She smoothed her ponytail and straightened the collar of her Pepto-Bismol-pink uniform. “You're going to have to get some more comfortable shoes if you're going to do this.”

  “Hey, I was dressing for an interview. I had no idea I'd start today,” Sydney retorted, moving on to her other foot. “Besides, that's not what I meant. What I wanted to know was, don't you ever feel . . .” She floundered for the right word.

  “Majorly stressed?” Francie finished for her. “All the time. Don't worry, Syd. You're doing great. It takes a while to find your legs, then it's like you're on autopilot.” She gave Sydney a reassuring pat on the shoulder and went back to measuring out the Colombian coffee grounds.

  It's just a job, Sydney told herself as she slipped her shoes back on. It's a way to break from Dad and stand on your own feet financially. If your feet can survive the first day.

  “You got that coffee brewed yet?” hollered a man from a nearby table.

  “Just three more minutes, sir,” Francie called back, smiling politely. Then she leaned toward Sydney and murmured, “Sounds to me like he should switch to decaf, don't you think?”

  “Definitely,” Sydney said, looking at Francie in amazement.

  Francie made the job look almost fun. In fact, Sydney had a brand-new respect for her friend. Francie joked with the customers and listened to their stories with real interest. She even knew some of the regulars by name. For the first two hours, Sydney had followed her around, learning things like how to tell the regular-brew coffee from the decaf (red versus blue carafe), how to write down orders in the shorthand the cooks were used to, and how to fold the flatware into the green cloth napkins. She'd even acquired the singsong cadence Francie used when greeting her customers. “Hello, my name is Sydney and I'll be your waitress. Can I interest you in one of our award-winning appetizers?” But somehow, she couldn't quite pick up Francie's positive attitude.

  “So how's our rookie doing?” Sydney looked over and saw Robyn, one of their coworkers, a skinny redhead with a thick Texas drawl. She was standing on the other side of Francie, pushing an order slip through the window to the kitchen area. “You about ready to collapse yet?”

  “She's doing great, aren't you, Syd?” Francie asked, nudging Sydney with her elbow. “For the past hour she's been handling those front booths all by herself. She's a natural.”

  “Really?” Robyn asked, loading several tumblers of ice water onto her tray. “Everyone been treating you nice?”

  Sydney nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “Well, if things get real boring, just do what I do.” She hoisted her tray high over her head and started backing toward the dining room. “Just make a game of trying to figure out what people will order before they tell you. It's not exactly Wheel of Fortune, but it helps.” She pivoted and walked off.

  “Thanks. I'll try it,” Sydney called after her. Then she picked up her own serving tray and smiled at Francie. “Okay. Here I go again.”

  “Only three more hours,” Francie said encouragingly.

  Sydney headed back to her assigned area, ready for a fresh start. She managed to ignore the throbbing in her feet as she refilled a coffee cup for a man at the bar, found a clean high chair for a young couple's wiggly toddler, and took back someone's supposedly overcooked fish.

  Just as she was about to retreat behind the coffee-maker for another break, the front door swung open and Sydney could see a man silhouetted against the setting sun. He walked in and immediately sat down at one of the front booths she was assigned to cover. She took a good look at him, deciding to try Robyn's game and figure out what he might order. The man had thinning, stringy blond hair, a stocky build, and an extremely wide, pockmarked face. Definitely one of our meat-and-potatoes platters, she guessed. With a cold beer to wash it down.

  As Sydney approached, the man straightened up and blatantly stared at her, his bleary blue eyes traveling down her body as she set a glass of ice water and a menu on the table.

  “Hello,” she greeted him, trying to sound as polite as possible. “My name is Sydney, and I'll be your waitress. Could I interest you—”

  “Oh, you could interest me, all right, doll.”

  “—in some appetizers?” she finished through clenched teeth. “Perhaps some hot—”

  “Yeah, I like things hot, all right.”

  “—shrimp quesadillas?”

  “I'll tell you what, Cindy.” He shut the menu and leaned forward, lowering his voice to a wheezy murmur. “Why don't you bring me a cup of coffee and then we'll talk about what I want.”

  Sydney's facial muscles ached from forcing herself to smile. “Right away, sir,” she said, then quickly spun around and marched back to the wait station.

  She veered around the wooden pillar separating the wait station from the rest of the dining room. Francie and Robyn were there picking up orders.

  “Excuse me, guys. Um, Francie? On a scale of one to ten, how angry would Mr. Terwilliger get if I dumped a pitcher of ice water in some guy's lap?”

  “What? What guy?” Francie asked, glancing a
round.

  “The creep in the corner.”

  Francie and Robyn craned their necks around the pillar and gasped simultaneously.

  “Oh, no. That guy is the worst,” Francie said, shaking her head. “Honey, I am so sorry. If I'd seen him come in, I would have dealt with him myself.”

  “You poor thing. I can't believe you're stuck with that asshole on your first day,” Robyn muttered.

  “So . . . you guys know him?”

  “Unfortunately yes,” Francie replied, rolling her eyes. “He comes in a lot. He always camps out at a table for like half a day and gives the waitress a hard time. It's like his reason to keep on living.”

  “Have you told Terwilliger?”

  Robyn snorted. “He won't do anything. For one thing, he'd be too scared to approach the guy. Besides, he always runs up a big bill. That's all Terwilliger cares about.”

  “Why don't I take over?” Francie said, taking a step toward the man. “I'm used to handling the jerk.”

  “No!” Sydney grasped her arm and pulled her back. “That wouldn't be fair. I've just got a row of booths and a couple of people at the bar to take care of. You guys each have half of the dining room.”

  At that moment a voice called out, “Hey! Cindy! I wanted that coffee now, doll. Not next summer.”

  Francie and Robyn gave her matching sympathetic looks.

  “Don't worry,” Sydney said, filling a large brown glazed mug with coffee. “I can handle him.”

  She cemented what she hoped was a friendly-yet-not-too-friendly smile on her face and strode back to the man's table. “Here you go,” she said, setting the cup down in front of him. “So what can I get you?” she asked, reaching into her apron pocket for the order booklet.

  The man's eyes twinkled maniacally. “How about your phone number?”

  She tightened her grip on the pad and pencil and took a deep breath. “Might I suggest a bowl of one of our homemade soups?” she asked. Stay calm. Remember, you're getting paid way below minimum wage to put up with this crap. “We have potato leek, chicken tortilla, gazpacho—”