At the request of sharing his cooking secrets, Jorge perks up. “I make the sauce from scratch every morning,” he proclaims. “But the secret ingredient is locked in a safe in the back; you won’t get it out of me.”
“Every morning, really? Show us,” Troy says, gesturing for the camera to come closer.
The kitchen itself is spotless thanks to Grams’s efforts last week. Troy’s bound to love Jorge’s pizza. I fleetingly wonder if this might not be bad after all. Maybe this will be good for business, just like Dad thinks.
And maybe pigs will fly this afternoon.
“Okay,” I say to no one in particular. I turn to Warren and throw him an apron from under the front counter. “I don’t have time to talk about our date right now. Put this on and go wipe down the tables in the dining room.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not wiping down shit.” He throws the apron onto the counter and steps into my personal space. “I’ll spill what I know to the producer.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t go out with you. Just not right now.” I grab the apron off the counter and throw it back at him. “I need to be here, so you can make yourself useful.”
He scowls. “I’m sure they’ll be interested in knowing how the daughter of the owner is sneaking around playing hockey with the derelict. That would make better reality TV than rolling pizza dough.”
“Really? Will it really?” I stop short of stomping my feet. “Does anyone actually care that I play hockey?”
No one, except my parents.
“Reality television. It’s a wonderful thing. People are going to want to see your life fall apart.”
“Right.” I close my eyes. “Cash register it is.”
Oddly, even though there are a ton of people in the restaurant, no one is eating. Or ordering. They must instinctively realize that Jorge can’t cook while he’s got the camera crew in the kitchen. Dad pushes his way through the crowd as I’m showing Warren the price list we keep under the cash register.
“What the—” He sounds out of breath, but he stops short as he sees the setup in the kitchen. “I didn’t expect them until the end of next week.” He turns to look at me, like it’s my fault. “When did they get here?”
“About half an hour ago.” I point to the bar. “The producer is setting up a second shoot for personal interviews. You might want to go talk to him. I think Jorge has it under control in there.” Jorge and Troy are laughing like middle school girls in the kitchen. So much for stage fright; I guess Troy’s reputation of soothing his subjects isn’t just a rumor.
Dad rushes into the other room to try to salvage some element of control over the situation. I glance at Warren to see if he has any questions about the register. He’s ripping open a bag of chips. “What?” he says, crunching. “As long as you’re making me work, I get the employee discount.”
“Fine,” I grumble.
An hour later, Troy and Jorge are BFFs, trading recipes. I think Jorge might have even given away his secret ingredient, but I can’t be sure. I’m hearing a lot of belly laughs and the smell of the signature pizza wafts through the building. The restaurant is full of regulars and people I’ve never seen before. A crowd has formed on the sidewalk out front, some of them wearing T-shirts with “I love Local Flavor,” hoping to get a glimpse of Troy. Mr. McClellan from the hardware store is selling Troy Depalma bobbleheads out of a briefcase perched on the back of his pickup.
We’ve officially just entered crazy town.
And if we don’t produce some food soon; we’re going to have a full-on mutiny on our hands.
Surprisingly, Warren actually seems to have the register down and he hasn’t complained. Since we started, he’s correctly charged a dozen people for sodas and bags of chips. When the phone rings, he answers, “Slice Pizza, how may I help you?” He jots down the order and flashes me a thumbs-up. And then I remember I’m really going to have to go out with him.
For the first time in an hour, I have a minute to take a breath. I have no idea what happened to Jake and the team. They should have been here by now. And just at that moment, a cheer erupts from the front door. All twelve guys burst in at the same time wearing their Slice jerseys. Lori, Caroline, and a bunch of girls from school stream in right behind them; totally bypassing the waiting crowd.
“The Rink Rats are in the house! Let the party begin!” Ethan Carter turns up the sound on the TV. Figures.
Warren grumbles under his breath words I wouldn’t repeat near Grams.
“Please tell me this cretin hasn’t stolen my job.” Jules squeezes between me and Warren. She must have sneaked in with the kids from school.
Before I have a chance to explain, Mark Wilder—who turns out to be the producer of the series—pulls the plug on the fun. Literally. He grabs the cable and yanks it out of the wall. The screen goes blank.
“Can I have your attention?” He has the deep voice of a man who might do voice-over narration as side work. “When the camera crew is done in the kitchen”—he points at me—“feel free to start serving! We want you to enjoy yourselves!”
I hear a big “but” coming.
“But … ,” he says, “with one-on-one interviews happening in the bar, we can’t have more noise than necessary.” He makes a hand gesture that I think must mean we should go back to normal, but he shakes his head when Carter makes a move for the plug. “I’ll remove you from the building, kid. You want a chance to be on television? You’ll leave that cord alone.”
“Mr. Spaulding.” Wilder gestures to Dad in that over-the-top motion he used before. “You’re up first.” I swear an evil grin flashes across the man’s face, but it could just be the light.
I have no idea what they say, but Dad emerges from the bar a half hour later with sweat dripping down his face. He looks like he did after that triathlon last summer—spent and ready to sleep for a week.
One by one, we’re led to slaughter. Jorge gets called after Dad. Grams goes next. They’re going to ask for me eventually, but for some reason they call Warren first. He walks past me with a smirk, and I die a little inside. I’m not sure what story he promised the producer to get a spot in the lineup before me.
Now I know he doesn’t care a bit about the date. He’s going to ruin my life.
Wilder emerges from the bar at seven o’clock. “Time for a fifteen break,” he announces. Troy Depalma dives headlong into the crowd and starts signing autographs. A line appears at the bathroom door.
“You’re up next, Penelope,” Wilder says, following the camera guy outside with a cigarette between his fingers.
A bead of sweat trickles down my back, and it’s not because of the heat from the kitchen.
Out of nowhere, Dad grabs a pencil off the counter, startling me. “Don’t worry about it, honey. It’s just all part of the show. You’ve got nothing to be nervous about.” He squeezes my shoulder.
If he only knew.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the hot seat. The makeup lady whisks a brush across my face, but that’s all the attention I get. Someone else pins a microphone to the front of my shirt. Jules had tried to help me spruce up a little, but I still look like I’ve been cleaning toilets.
I stare into a bright light and the interrogation begins. Wilder stands to one side of the camera while Troy Depalma sits in front of me, just offscreen.
“Just act naturally. Pretend the camera isn’t there. Talk to me about the restaurant,” he says.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can do this. Dad is counting on this to boost business. I just need to stay calm—and not worry about Warren.
“First question.” Depalma looks down at his clipboard. “Your family has owned Slice since before you were born. What’s it been like growing up here?”
The questions go on like this and I start to relax. Wilder nods and smiles at every answer, so I know I’m giving them the right stuff. Maybe I was nervous for no reason. They just want me to confirm the small town feeling of this place. They aren’t trying to
wreck anyone.
“So a couple of the boys tell me that you’re quite the hockey player,” Depalma says, shocking me out of my complacency. “Tell me what it’s like playing on a boys’ team?”
I almost expected it, so I don’t know why it shocks me or why I didn’t think about preparing my answer in advance. I do my best to answer calmly. The show won’t air for weeks. There’s plenty of time to tell Dad. “Honestly, I love it. I’ve always been a skater, but when they asked me to join the team, it was like something in me opened up. Something I never knew I had.”
“Great.” He nods. “So … your parents approve?”
“What?” The blood rushes to my face. “Why would you ask that? Of course. Of course they approve.”
It should be so much easier to lie to Troy Depalma, so why do I sound like an overcaffeinated hyena?
“It’s okay,” Mark Wilder whispers, making the hand gesture that I think means for the camera to keep rolling. “It’s a great human interest side of this story. It’s going to play great with kids who watch this show. We might even come out and film a game.”
“No, you can’t.” I’m fumbling with my microphone as I stand up, but I can’t get it off my shirt.
“Whoa.” Depalma jumps up and pushes me back into the chair, but I step backward and knock it over.
It’s like it’s all happening in slow motion from outside my body. The camera guy moves in to get closer to my face. My hands are shaking as I try to disentangle myself from the microphone cord.
“Miss Spaulding!” Wilder is trying to save the shoot.
At that moment, a commotion erupts from the other room. Someone is screeching. I hear my dad’s voice above the rest. “Okay, let’s just calm down … oh holy crap.”
I finally succeed in separating myself from the microphone and sprint out of the bar, leaving Wilder sputtering. I take one step into the hallway that separates the two rooms, and splash into water that practically covers the soles of my sneakers.
The crowd has dispersed, but most of them are still standing on the sidewalk out front. Jules is sitting on the counter, covering her nose with her hand, trying not to laugh. Lori and Jake are standing on the seat of the front booth, both looking like they’d love to be outside with the crowd.
“What the heck happened?” I call to them.
Lori makes a grimace and gestures to the ladies’ room. But it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure it out. Dad emerges from the supply closet with a plunger and rushes past me toward the bathroom, where water is still flowing.
“Get in there!” Wilder calls from behind me, as the camera guy rushes after Dad. At the same moment, the front door opens and Warren strides in still wearing the apron I threw at him earlier.
“Get the hell out, McNeill.” Jake jumps off the seat into the water on the floor, splashing me and Lori. He takes two steps forward. “I know you had something to do with this.”
Warren scowls. “No effing way.” He pulls off the apron and tosses it onto the nearest table. “Nothing you can prove anyway, Gomes.” He flicks his head at me. “I’m still expecting that date, Spaulding.”
I can’t see Jake’s face because his back is to me. And he speaks so quietly, I have no idea what he says.
But Warren blanches. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Yeah, I would.” Jake waves his hands as if to shoo Warren outside. “Get the hell out.”
Warren narrows his eyes. “Only because I don’t want to stand in sewage.”
“What the … ?” A man I’ve never seen before gingerly tiptoes past Warren as he’s leaving. The dude is trying to avoid getting his expensive shoes wet, and not remotely succeeding. He’s tall and lean, wearing a pinstriped suit and bright-blue tie with short-trimmed thinning hair. “Are one of you Penelope Spaulding?”
I raise my hand. I’ve got no energy for anything more for anyone associated with Local Flavor or the Restaurant Network.
“Great.” He strides forward and shakes my hand, but the effect of professionalism is lost in the splash of water. “I’m Paul Steen. I’m here to talk to you about your interest in Johnson and Wales University culinary program.”
Chapter Nineteen
Forty-five minutes later, Jake and Lori are sitting with me on a table in the dining room, like an island in the middle of our flooded restaurant. As much as being hip to hip with Jake should be amazing, I can’t enjoy it.
Lori scrolls through something on her phone. “Anyone want to take a quiz on who’d be the last survivor on a deserted island?”
“My dad is going to kill me.” I hang my head so far, my neck cracks. Jake looks at me, a horrified expression on his face. “After everything.” I gesture around at the ruined restaurant. “And I botch my interview with the dude from the culinary school.”
Lori pats my shoulder. “What a doof. Why the hell would he show up here, at night, to talk to you about college? Makes no sense. And besides, you sounded fine.”
We hear movement from down the hallway.
“Well, I was trying to do you a favor!” We hear Paul Steen’s voice before he emerges from the back, looking annoyed. “Tell your dad to call me when he’s not standing in sewage.”
Dad yells from the bathroom. “I don’t need any more favors today! Get out of my restaurant!”
Ugh.
Dad comes out thirty seconds later. “Why do these Restaurant Network people feel the need to rub salt in the wound?”
I blink at him for second. “That wasn’t a Restaurant Network dude. He was from Johnson and Wales. He talked to me for half an hour before we sent him back there.”
I think for a second that Dad’s going to pass out. “No.” He shakes his head and turns around. “No. Oh, Christ. I didn’t recognize him. I’ll have to call and apologize in the morning. I hope I haven’t ruined your chances.”
It’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.
It’s been dark for two hours, and we’re still sitting on the table. It’s like none of us wants to get wet, so we don’t move. “I just want to know why he did it.”
Lori shrugs. “Warren?”
I nod. “Obviously.”
Jake looks at his hands.
“The whole school’s been talking about how you made him vacate the building using only a meatball sandwich a few weeks ago,” Lori says.
We lower our voices as the camera guy walks by again. He’s already filmed us a dozen times at our perch on the table as he follows the plumber through his repair. I’m pretty sure they must have also caught the exchange between Dad and Mr. Steen. Troy Depalma left long ago, but I can only imagine what footage they’ll decide to use of the flood.
“I did what?”
Jake opens his mouth, and shuts it again.
“Yeah.” Lori stretches her legs out straight and looks down at the swirling brown water covering the linoleum. “Story goes he came here to challenge Jake and the team to some sort of grudge match and apparently you interrupted. He’s been the butt of a ton of jokes about how he’s easily distracted by girls and meatballs. You can imagine how those go down.”
I bump Jake’s arm. Which isn’t difficult since our elbows are touching already. “Did you know?”
He nods. “I thought you did, too.” He’s still looking down, but glances at me out of the side of one eye. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
I’m not really sure what to do next. Lori’s feet are stretched across the seat in front of her and she’s leaning against the wall with her head back. She glances up and catches my eye.
“So, he flooded the bathroom.”
Shrugging, Lori says, “We know it’s Warren, but there’s nothing we can do about it. We’ve got no proof.”
Jake looks at me with a totally pathetic expression.
“Stop the pity party. It’s not your fault.” I reach over and put my hand on his shirt, rubbing his back.
“I’m sorry, you guys.” He puts his head in his hands again. “I had a feeling he was going to try some
thing. You should have been able to count on me to have your back, and I totally botched it.”
I shake my head. “No you didn’t. I should have known something wasn’t right—I never should have let him stay tonight. I figured he was safer where we could see him.”
Jake sighs. “I try to keep my head down and mind my own business, but it just doesn’t seem to do me any good—I attract trouble like grease on bacon.”
I put an arm around each of them. “Don’t be so dramatic. It happened. We’re here now. No one got hurt. This whole day will be the stuff of legend we’ll tell our kids someday.”
No, I did not just mention Jake and me having kids someday.
He looks up at me and blushes, which makes me look at Lori, who’s chuckling.
“It would be nice, though, just once, if Warren could get a taste of his own medicine. He’s spent too many years bullying other people. It would be nice to see him get what he deserves.”
She can’t be serious.
I cringe. “I don’t like the sound of that. I’ve seen a lot of movies where the devious plan goes horribly wrong and the good guys end up in worse trouble. Or dead.”
Jake punches me and laughs. “What movies are you watching?”
Maybe it’s the completely sincere way he says it, or maybe it’s just where we’re sitting. Now I’m laughing, too. “You’re kidding, right? Just promise me when things get dark and the bad guy walks in with a chain saw, one of you won’t say, ‘let’s split up.’ ’Cause I’m not doing it.”
After the night we’ve had, it feels good to laugh.
When Jorge comes out of the kitchen, the three of us are clutching our stomachs. He’s wearing hip waders, and I’m tempted to ask him where he had those stashed. “Are you guys crazy? This is … this is …” And suddenly he’s doubled over, too.
For some reason this makes us laugh even harder.
It’s ten o’clock, and the emergency plumber finally gets the water to the offending toilet turned off. “You’ll need to call the building inspector tomorrow to make sure you’re clear to open up, but you shouldn’t have any more problems with the water.” He sloshes his way out the back door.
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