Any Way You Slice It

by Kristine Carlson Asselin

  “I understand. You got it.” I’m afraid he’s going in for another hug, but he just sort of flaps his arms.

  “And please ask the guys not to mention it either.”

  “Sure thing. Thanks again.” And he walks back into the locker room, leaving me alone in the hallway. The cheers start before I get to the door of the women’s locker room.

  As I’m stripping off my equipment, I wonder if I’ve just traded my emergency money for a couple of weeks of hockey, or if I’m actually doing the right thing. It feels like the right thing. But my parents are still going to kill me when they find out. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep up the charade.

  It’s just that I don’t think I can stop.

  I’ve never felt more alive.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Weekends at Slice when the Bruins are televised are crazy busy. Dad subscribed to the New England Cable Sports channel just so he could advertise games on the big screen. Two of us need to be taking orders, and Dad needs to back up Jorge in the kitchen.

  Tonight is doubly crazy because there’s a rumor the Restaurant Network producers are going to stop by for a site visit. We’re not exactly sure if we’ll know who they are, so we’re on edge every time someone who’s not a regular walks through the door.

  It’s just a regular crazy Friday night to me. I’ve still never been to a Friday movie because Fridays are an all-hands-on-deck sort of night. The only exception are high school dances because all the kids are usually there; but when the dance lets out, I have to hoof it back behind the counter. I’m usually taking orders in whatever I’ve worn to the dance, covered by my apron.

  “Did you eat dinner tonight?” Grams asks, as I change the cash register tape.

  “Um. Not really hungry.”

  “Penelope. You don’t have one of those eating disorders, do you?” She puts her hand on my forehead, like I might have a fever. “I haven’t seen you eat anything all week.” She’s teasing, but she’s got such a mock-stern look on her face, I have to smile. She knows me too well. I’m definitely not a girl who’s going on the cottage cheese and lettuce diet any time soon.

  “Oh, Grams.” I hit the button on the register that advances the paper. “It’s just been a hard week, and I haven’t been hungry.”

  “Boy trouble.” She nods her head, knowingly. I remember when I first met your grandfather. I didn’t eat for a solid month.”

  My shoulders slump and my eyes fill with tears before I can stop. I haven’t talked to Jake since the thing with Warren. One of us needs to apologize. But neither of us is very good at it. Pretty much sums up our entire last four years.

  She lowers her voice. “Did you win this afternoon?”

  I choke when I realize what she’s asking. My eyes water again, and she hands me a paper towel and thumps my back. When I can finally breathe again, I don’t know what to say. “How long have you known.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, sweetie,” she whispers. “I just followed you and Lori one day to the rink. I watched a whole practice session.” She pulls me into a hug. “I don’t believe in keeping secrets, but this one is yours. Promise me you’ll tell them soon.”

  As I sniffle into her cardigan, I’m afraid I’m going to lose it. All I can say is, “Okay.”

  Grams never ceases to amaze. She winks at me as she heads into the main dining room to meet and greet.

  Mom and Steve are scurrying behind the bar and Jules is waiting tables. No date tonight, apparently. She’s serving with her platform heels, just in case. I have no idea how she wears those things without falling flat on her face.

  “Well, I don’t know how you manage to stay upright on ice skates,” she always says when I remark on her shoes. “So we’re even.”

  “Even if they come tonight, they won’t have the cameras,” I tell her. “It’s just a site visit.”

  “When they pick me to be the star of the show, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Jules says. She twirls and almost loses her balance. “It’s going to change our lives.”

  I roll my eyes. Let her dream. When the team storms through the door like a cyclone just after seven o’clock, I cringe. All twelve of them stream in, looking like they’ve got something up their sleeves. The wave of sweat thinly veiled with practically every aftershave product known to man permeates the space and I look up from taking an order from Mrs. Ng and her little girl. I’m so distracted I don’t hear the order.

  “I said, I want the Hawaiian pizza, Penelope,” the girl lisps at me, through her braces.

  “Ok, Mai, I got it. I’ll have Jorge put extra pineapple on it for you,” I say, hoping to appease her. Her mother always gives me an extra egg roll when I sneak away from Slice to Ng’s Asian market next door, so I try to reciprocate when I have the chance.

  Jake’s waiting in line behind Mr. Donelan, who owns the appliance store. He’s fidgeting with a package in his hands, but I can’t tell what it is.

  I try to focus on Mr. D. “The usual, Penelope.” He hands me a twenty.

  “Of course. Large cheese with just a smattering of pepperoni.” I smile.

  “Don’t forget the red pepper flakes,” he says, as he turns to sit and wait for his order.

  “Right.” I make a note on the pad and then hand the order across the back counter to Jorge.

  Jake’s smile extends to his ears and his dimples are deep as craters, as he slides the package across the counter. “Don’t open this here,” he whispers. “I know your dad doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it. But we couldn’t wait for you to see it.” He winks, and glancing around as if to make sure no one’s looking, he opens his jean jacket to expose the shirt he’s wearing. “Think of it as a peace offering.”

  It’s the new team jersey; the words “Slice Pizza” emblazoned across the front. My heart stops beating for a second. I look behind me to make sure Dad’s not watching. “Why the hell did you put that on the shirts?” I hiss. “You can’t let them see that.”

  “What?” He looks like I’ve just popped his birthday balloon. He closes his jacket, the smile fading. He gestures to the back door. “Can I talk to you outside?”

  I look at Jules, who’s got three people in front of her register. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”

  “Where are you going?” she asks, smiling at the customer, but not keeping the annoyed sound out of her voice. “It’s a game night; this is just the beginning of the crowd. And the TV people could be here any minute!”

  “Don’t worry; I’ll take your break instead. Just give me two minutes.”

  Outside in the chill air, I cross my arms to try to stay warm. “Seriously, Jake. You’ve got to tell the guys they can never wear those jerseys in here. My parents won’t see them at school, but …” The plan starts to unravel in my mind.

  I’ve got to come clean. They’re going to see the shirts, or see a newspaper article, or talk to another parent. A different part of my brain isn’t worried about them knowing I’m on the team, but it’s trying to figure out how to make the sponsorship seem like Dad’s idea.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, with a clipped tone. It’s as if the light switches out of his eyes as his gaze drops to the ground. “We shouldn’t have come. I just thought you’d like to see them.” He starts to walk away, and the cold cuts through me. Not just the temperature. I’m losing him.

  “Jake,” I call after him, but I have no idea what to say.

  He stops and turns around. “I don’t understand why your dad doesn’t want the name of the restaurant on the shirts. Seems like a good way to advertise. But what do I know?”

  “It’s not that Jake. It’s just—” I stop short of spilling everything as a noise distracts us and we both stare over at the parking lot.

  A van with the Restaurant Network logo pulls into a space. Two guys get out of the van and walk toward the building. I close my eyes and try to pull it together. I’ve got to get back inside before the crap hits the fan. Jake is staring at me, waiting for an ans
wer.

  “I haven’t been a hundred percent truthful.” I decide to give him part of the truth, hoping I can salvage our friendship, at least. “I promised Coach the money without asking my parents first, but I couldn’t tell Coach no after I’d said yes. So I gave him my own savings. My parents haven’t actually agreed to sponsor the team yet.”

  Jake stands with his mouth open before he speaks. “You’re kidding. You gave him your own money? Does Coach know?”

  “No and you’re not going to tell him. And you’re not going to tell my dad either.” I stare at the building. “I’m still going to ask him, but I have to do it carefully.”

  Jake looks suddenly suspicious, like he’s figured out that if I can lie to my dad and Coach, then I can certainly lie to him, too. “Is there something else you’re not telling me, Pen?”

  I shake my head, but the tears well up behind my eyes again. I haven’t cried this much since sixth grade. “I’ve got to get back to work. You guys should get out of here.” I feel Jake’s eyes linger on me as I walk back through the kitchen. Dad is barking orders in a stage whisper, and he opens his mouth as I pass, but I keep walking back to the front counter. I so don’t want to answer any questions right now. I’ve disappointed everyone important in my life. Jules looks at me like I’ve murdered her cat, but before anything else I take the package, so carefully wrapped, stuff it down to the bottom of my backpack and shove it back under the counter.

  I ignore Jules and her annoying glare, and pick up a pad. “Can I take your order?” I say to the next person in line, a skinny guy with bleached-blond spiky hair. If I didn’t already know it was Troy Depalma, the Restaurant Network logo on his button-down shirt would be a dead giveaway.

  “Well then.” He glances at my name tag. “Penelope. Give me a slice of the best ‘local flavor’ in New Hampshire, please.” He grins like it’s the best pun he’s ever told. Jules is beaming over at him, almost drooling, and I half wish she’d taken the order instead of me. All I can do is smile weakly and watch Jake over Troy’s shoulder tell the boys they have to leave.

  They all look like I’ve canceled spring break as they stream out the front door. A few of them take selfies as they leave, trying to get Troy in the background. They manage to take half a dozen large pizzas with them, and I have no idea where they’re going to eat. I shouldn’t have made them leave. Someone who looks like a producer eyes them up and down—and finally follows them outside.

  The rest of the evening, I try to smile at customers. Aside from not getting orders wrong, though, I’m not really listening to anyone. I’m paranoid about what the producer said to the team out in the street, but I’m too embarrassed to text any of them to ask.

  The site visit lasts two hours. They take some pictures of the space and make a lot of notes. Jules manages to photobomb at least two of the shots, and eventually, she convinces the camera guy to take a test shot of her with Troy. Dad watches nervously from the kitchen until they leave. Troy signs autographs for everyone in the room and winks at Jules as he leaves.

  I feel her forehead in mock concern. “You’re not going to pass out or anything, are you?”

  “Did you see him?” She’s practically panting. “He is so hawt. Oh. My. God.” She whips her phone out and starts texting.

  Conversation buzzes around me for the rest of the evening, but nothing registers. The only thing I can think about is the jersey in my backpack.

  My jersey. Not a loaner from a ten-year-old boy.

  And how crappy I feel about being a jerk to the team.

  After closing, I sling the backpack over my shoulder after checking to make sure my precious package is still there. It’s cold tonight, so I move fast on my walk home. But I’m also watching every car that whizzes by, waiting to see if Jake drives by. Would he even stop if he did?

  I key into the house and sprint up the stairs. When I get safely into my room, I pull out the shirt and spread it on my bed. I don’t care about the side that says “Slice Pizza.”

  The thing that makes me cry is what’s written on the back.

  “Spaulding” is spelled out above the number “ten.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’m dying to show my new jersey to Grams, but when I tiptoe downstairs later to find her, I hear voices.

  “Are you sure you don’t know something?” Dad’s voice echoes from the kitchen as I hover in the hallway, one foot off the ground. I don’t dare move.

  “Of course I don’t know anything, why do you think she would tell me?” Grams scoffs.

  The pause suggests that my dad has cocked his eyebrow and is now glaring at my grandmother. I know the look so well, it pops into my head. I close my eyes and say a little prayer that she doesn’t spill my secret. Softly, I put my left foot down and hope the floorboards don’t creak. Dad’s superpower is amazing hearing, and he almost always knows when I’m out of bed.

  It only takes Grams twenty seconds to break. “Oh, okay.” She sighs, and I can tell she’s irritated. “I know something, but I’m not telling you. Just believe me that it’s not illegal or immoral, and no, it won’t cause massive numbers of customers to flock to the competition either.”

  His voice gets lower—he’s really mad now. I strain to hear what he says next. “She’s my daughter.”

  Funny how they are different. Grams’s voice gets louder when she’s angry. “Yes, but she’s also my granddaughter. And she’s a person. Almost an adult. She deserves a little trust and respect.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears, but a few leak out and I wipe them away.

  “I don’t like not knowing where she is.” He’s so angry; I can barely hear him, now. “She can’t be at the library all the time.”

  Grams make a weird snorting sound. Like she’s laughing, but trying not to laugh at my dad. I’m stunned. Only she could get away with that.

  “I recall a teenager who once lived under my roof who wanted—no, had—to spend weekend nights cruising the mall or he would be ostracized from his friends. Oh, and no, his mother couldn’t follow at a discreet distance. And that was before cell phones.”

  “C’mon, Mom. It’s not the same thing.” I hear the teenage boy’s voice as he says it. Just a hint of a whine, and just like that Grams wins the battle.

  “Adam, sweetheart, just trust her.” She sighs. “Or try asking her—who knows, maybe she’ll tell you.”

  He scoffs. Is he crying?

  “She won’t tell me. She’s too angry about the damn show. And college. Sometimes I think she never wants to talk to me again.” And I hear something else in Dad’s voice. Regret? Sadness? Exhaustion? I can’t put my finger on it, but suddenly I can’t breathe. I turn as softly as I can and tiptoe back upstairs.

  Sleep would be good. Too bad my brain won’t shut down and let me get a good night. Just one is all I ask. Morning is the worst. I feel like I’m sleepwalking most mornings.

  At 6:00 a.m., when Jake’s name pops up on my phone, my heart skips a beat. I feel horrible that I made him and the guys leave the other night. I’ve tried calling him, but he hasn’t answered any of my calls.

  BTW, remember to dress up today.

  Getting that stupid short text message gives me the first feeling of hope I’ve had all weekend. The guys on varsity usually dress up on game day—Jake suggested the Rats start doing it, too. I always thought it was kind of awesome to see the guys in shirts and ties rather than T-shirts and ripped jeans. We’re far from varsity, but I’m wearing my best jean skirt, knee-high black boots, and a sheer top over a cami. I can’t wait to see Jake in his shirt and tie, even if he isn’t quite talking to me yet.

  I slink down the stairs, afraid of running into Dad after overhearing his fight with Grams last night.

  He’s pouring coffee when I creep into the kitchen. I’m not usually this dressed up for school. I’m hoping he doesn’t notice.

  “’Morning, sunshine,” he says, in a resigned voice. “Special day today?”

  “Sort of.” I g
rab a cup and pour myself some coffee. I just need to say it; I’m hoping he’s still riding the high of the Restaurant Network visit last night. Before I get to the real issue, I decide to butter him up about his favorite topic. Unfortunately, I have a hard time keeping the bitterness out of my voice. “Did Troy like anything he saw last night, aside from Jules?”

  “Penelope.” He takes a deep breath. “Your attitude …”

  I make a conscious effort not to react.

  Don’t respond. Don’t respond. Keep your cool.

  He closes his eyes like he’s seeing the future and starts over. “This could be the thing that takes us to the next level,” he says. “’It could mean people coming up from Boston, it could mean franchising opportunities.”

  “Couldn’t we achieve the same thing with a different show?” I can’t help myself. It just comes out.

  “Yes.” He sighs. “But this was the opportunity they offered. It would be foolish to turn it down. It’s going to give us a lot more visibility.”

  I remind myself why I started the conversation in the first place, and take the opening. “You know how you’re always telling me that we need to be present in the community? That the customers need to see the name ‘Slice’ in order to remember it?” I sip my coffee demurely hoping he’ll be proud I remembered his philosophy of philanthropy.

  “Yeees,” he says slowly, as he walks to the table and sits down. “Does this have something to do with the show?”

  “Not exactly, but it could be sort of related.” I ponder my next words carefully as I take a bagel out of the freezer and pop it in the microwave to defrost. “The hockey team from the rink lost their sponsorship,” I blurt. “Tim’s House of Pizza bailed.”

  So much for carefully considered words.