by Amy Cook
“The motorcycle? That’s a bit dangerous, especially in these times, don’t you think? You’re so exposed.” She felt a lot more exposed by the fact that he knew she rode a motorcycle, and that he wouldn’t get out of her home or personal space. The tiny hairs on her skin suddenly rose with her temper.
“I love it actually. And in the case of safety, you can maneuver faster, smoother, and safer on a motorcycle than you can in a car.” Her chin rose slightly, defiantly.
“I love that spark in your eyes. It’s absolutely captivating.” His face grew stern. “But really, Amiel. What would your mother think?” Amiel’s heart plummeted to her toes, leaving her feeling faint.
“What did you say?” Her voice was barely a whisper, Darvey’s words having stolen its strength.
“Your mother. Malinda Hilden.”
“How do you know that?” she whispered in dread, looking around wildly as though her mother would pop out from behind the couch at any moment.
“I saw you on TV a few months ago. At a funeral. I recognized you the minute we met. Imagine, Amiel Hilden moving next door to me of all people!” His grin was bordering maniacal and she swallowed hard. So that was why he had taken such an interest in her. He had stars in his eyes, and he saw her as the brightest one. She put as much steel in her backbone as she could, though it felt like hot Jell-O now.
“Look, Darvey, I’m flattered you recognized me. But I need your promise that you won’t tell anyone about me. Especially my mom. I’m trying to live my own life, but I can’t do that if she finds me. Do you understand?”
“Oh, of course, Amiel. I’d never betray you. Consider it our little secret.” The way his voice caressed the word ‘our’, along with the gleam in his eye, made Amiel queasy. He clapped his hands together startling a jump from her. “Well! I guess I better get out of your beautiful hair so you can finish getting ready for your big night, huh?” He paused, lightly gripping her arm, sending chills across her skin.
“Do think about my offer, though. I’m never far away, Chipmunk.” He winked and walked out of the room. Amiel slammed the door behind him, locking the deadbolt. She stared at the cold metal under her fingers, and made a mental note to look into adding more locks to her door. Letting her head fall forward with a thump, she waited for her heart to stop its painful skittering. It was official. This day sucked moldy socks.
She pulled into Jollyway Diner’s parking lot with five minutes to spare before her first shift was scheduled to begin. Pulling the helmet free, her still very wet hair fell about her shoulders as she jogged to the door. There had barely been enough time to shower and pull on clean clothes before she had had to rush out the apartment door. Grabbing a clip that she had stuck on the edge of her jacket on the mad dash out of her apartment, she pulled her hair into a messy twist and approached the counter. A thirty-something red headed beauty with a curvy body most women would die for, stood at the counter counting cash back for a customer in a cheerful Texy twang. Her hair was abundant with spiral curls that were wild and spunky.
“Y’all have a good night now, Suga.” She waved the man away, before her sky blue eyes settled on Amiel. “Them outsiders love the Texan drawl. Pour it on thick and they give ya endless tips.” She winked. “Y’all must be the new girl.” Amiel’s eyes widened, wondering how she knew she wasn’t just another customer.
“How…?”
“Oh honey, no one comes into this diner lookin’ as spiffy as you.” Amiel looked down at her combat boots, skinny jeans, and the soft pink t-shirt beneath her leather jacket. This was spiffy? The woman pushed a divider in the counter up and came out to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, after workin’ here a few nights, y’all won’t be dressin’ so nice to come to work neither.” She winked again, pulling Amiel behind the counter with her. Once the divider was back in place, her new workmate turned, hands on hips and bright smile in place. Amiel stuck out a hand.
“I’m Amiel. It’s nice to meet you.” The woman looked down at her proffered hand before letting loose a peel of contagious laughter.
“Oh doll, if you don’t got manners! I’m gonna love you!” Her hand was warm, with light calluses on her fingertips. “Joyce Swartz, with a current opening for the slot of best friend, at your service.” Amiel smiled broadly, feeling some of the stress slipping away under Joyce’s sunny disposition.
“Then I’m in luck, because I also happen to be in the market for a best friend.”
“Oh, you have no idea how glad I am to have ya workin’ here, girl! The rest of ‘em here are half a bubble off a plumb, if ya know what I mean.” Amiel laughed along with the vivacious woman, though she had no clue what that meant. They walked through the swinging doors that led to a huge industrial kitchen.
“STINT!” Joyce shouted, making Amiel jump. Joyce just laughed and hugged Amiel closer. “Alright, here we got Travis, he’s bus boy.” She pointed out a pimpled orange-haired guy that chose that moment to wipe his nose on his apron. He waved awkwardly before heading back out the doors to bus the tables. Joyce wrinkled her nose. “He’s sixteen, and what y’all just saw is only the tip of the iceberg in his extent of manners. All’s I gotta say, is we’re lucky he ain’t the cook.” Amiel nodded in agreement. “Back here, we got the real cook.” A tall muscular guy stood behind the stove, flipping burgers and tending to a million other food items. The lights glinted off the light sheen of sweat on his dark skin, his eyes fixed on the food, not glancing up at them for even a moment.
“He’s real quiet. Don’t think I’ve heard him say a word since he started workin’ here two years ago. We don’t even know his real name, so everyone just calls him Cookie. He’s amazin’ with food.” She patted her round backside. “I’ve gained a second butt eatin’ that man’s cookin’. But that’s alright, because any man worth his salt loves a big ol’ rump.” Amiel giggled, looking forward to trying some of Cookie’s food. Malinda would have died of a heart attack just looking at the grease covered hamburgers. Their live-in chef made low cal food that tasted like cardboard. Amiel couldn’t wait to learn the true delights fast food had to offer. From the scent in the air, Cookie’s food would blow any of Amiel’s food experience out of the water. Joyce maneuvered her around the counter to point out a girl that was slumped on the floor, painting her nails black. Her hair was long, and in two hot pink pigtails. Her clothes were black with small accents of bright color here and there.
“This here is Sunshine.” The girl looked up at Joyce’s voice and promptly scowled, giving them the one finger salute. Joyce steered Amiel away, leaning close. “Teenagers. Such a joy!” She smirked sarcastically as Sunshine added her second hand into what was apparently her favorite reply. “She’s the dishwasher. Sometimes she mans the cash register if we are really busy…and desperate.” She leaned close. “If y’all ask me, her hippy parents shoulda laid off the weed and picked a name that better suited her. Like maybe, Pumpernickel, or Maleficent would have fit nicely.” Amiel burst out laughing, just as a short rotund man turned the corner in front of them. He wore a striped suit that was very out of place in a diner, thinning hair slicked to the side, and beady little black eyes that immediately made you feel like a bug under his shoe. He had the look of a very portly mob stooge.
“Joyce, shut your yap! I can hear your witch cackle clear across the diner,” he growled out, broody eyes shifting to bore through Amiel with a look of disgust. “And you, you’re late. On your first day no less. This better not be a reflection of what I can expect from your work ethic, or you’ll be selling your body on the street corner at the end of the week, just so you don’t starve.” Amiel’s mouth dropped open as she searched for something to say, but Joyce immediately stepped in.
“Put the fire outta your pants, Stint. She was here five minutes early. I just been introducin’ her to the staff, that’s all.”
“You better watch your mouth, or it’s going to be eating garbage out of the alleys.” Stint shoved a meaty finger in Joyce’s face, at which point
she rolled her eyes, and put both fists on her hips. “Now get your lumpy ass back to the counter. We got customers to serve.” Joyce seemed unimpressed by Stint’s insults or cursing, but Amiel felt that familiar quiver in her muscles; the quiver that signified the inner battle, a delicate war between fear and anger. His finger shifted to Amiel’s face.
“And you, follow me. You’ve already wasted enough of my time today.” Joyce winked encouragingly at her before heading back out into the diner. Joyce clearly didn’t take Stint seriously. Amiel swallowed, following closely behind the man.
“You get here on time from now on. You’re late two times in one month, and you’ll be on probation for a week; ‘probation’ meaning no pay for a week. If you’re late again after that, you’re fired. Got it?”Amiel nodded quickly, stunned. Living a life where no one knew she was Malinda’s daughter, where people didn’t feel the need to tiptoe around her, was slightly more intimidating than she had bargained for. She was grateful to be out from under Malinda’s shadow, yet she was beginning to see just how poorly prepared she was for the life most people considered normal.
“Now, over here’s your time card. You come here first thing you walk in that door. Shove it in the machine then put it in your designated card holder over here.” He showed her the ancient machine and the rickety looking shelving system he had set up with a few cubbies, each containing a smudged name for her coworkers. “I expect my employees to clock in and out on time, every day. I’ve very meticulous about the way my establishment is run. I expect my employees to feel the same. So don’t be thinking you’ll be getting overtime, cause I don’t do that crap.” He turned getting up in her face.
“I also don’t take no lip from my workers. So keep your yap shut. That little display you just saw from that hooker up front isn’t acceptable. Don’t start getting any ideas. Got it?” Amiel nodded again, realizing that this job was going to be a lot more trying than she thought. The man reminded her far too much of the one person she had come here to escape; just fatter, shorter, and with more testosterone.
“Good. From now on, you will wear a white button up shirt and black jeans. Make it tight, make it hot, but don’t slut it up. Bring the costumers in with it, don’t give it away for free or on my time, got it?” She blinked, dazed. He wanted her to look like a slut, but not completely, and to act like one but not act like one? He seemed to take her silence as agreement on the matter.
“In the meantime, there’s a spare white button up in the employee lounge that you can borrow. I suppose your boots are fine. The jacket comes off. There’s a peg board in the employee lounge for coats and bags.” He pointed to a small doorless room near the bathrooms. “Everyone’s got a locker, too. You’re responsible for bringing your own lock. Don’t bring one and something gets stolen, I’m not responsible.” She nodded again. It seemed to be all that she was currently capable of. He tossed a blue apron at her. “The apron stays on at all times. There are a couple pens and a note pad already in the front pockets. Greet each costumer with civility and respect, no matter what they do or say. Joyce can teach you the ropes.” Stint sneered over the red head’s name. “You better be a fast learner. I don’t have patience for anything less.” With that he spun on his heel and left her gaping after him.
With a heavy sigh, Amiel squared her shoulders and headed for the employee lounge. After some searching, she found what she assumed was the white shirt in question. It lay slumped in a cardboard box on top of the lockers, forgotten and wrinkled. An orange spaghetti stain on the right sleeve about the size of a quarter, and the name “Tallya” pinned over the left breast made it clear that Amiel was borrowing the clothes of the employee she was replacing. With a shudder, Amiel shrugged out of the jacket and reluctantly placed it in the only empty locker. Not willing to put the dirty shirt on her bare skin, Amiel kept the pink t-shirt on beneath. The borrowed shirt was missing a button, but that would be easily hidden behind the apron. She’d have to go shopping for new white shirts ASAP, because she wasn’t wearing this thing again. Rolling up the sleeves managed to cover the unsightly spaghetti stain. Looking in the half-length mirror on the wall, she surveyed the new look. There wasn’t much she could do about the fact that the shirt was about two sizes too big, though she tied most of it behind her in a knot, and the apron would help mask the rest of its bulk.
“You can do this, Amiel. Toughen up. Chin up, shoulders back.” She gave herself the quick version of her pep talk, rushing out the door before she could chicken out. Joyce smiled and held up a finger to wait as she finished jotting down the order of some patrons across the Diner. Amiel cleared her throat and leaned against the counter, fidgeting with the apron knot that was double tied in front of her waist.
“Excuse me, Miss?” She jumped as a skinny guy with glasses approached from the other side of the counter. He offered a goofy grin, scrunching his nose to keep his glasses from slipping further down it. His hair was messy and his shoulders perpetually shrugged forward in a shy posture. He was cute in a geeky sort of way. He handed her his bill, and she stared down at it for a long moment.
“Oh, um…” She glanced up at Joyce to find her still busily taking orders, unaware of her need. Movement out of the corner of her eye and a feeling of dread told her that Stint was nearby watching her for any sign of failure. Clearing her throat she smiled at the man, and made her way over to the register. Pour on the sugar, Joyce had said.
“Alright, honey, let’s see what we have here.” She didn’t bother trying to fake a Texan accent, but she did pour on the sugar with false endearments. She did a quick survey of the register, thankful that it wasn’t too different from the one she’d used at the spa. She pressed a few buttons, having to cancel it twice before she got it right.
“Sorry, sir, this is my first night. I’m still a little nervous,” she explained when he glanced at his watch, hoping for understanding. She offered her best and brightest smile. He stared at it for a moment, before kindly returning the gesture, pressing his glasses further up in place.
“Oh that’s alright. I figured you were new. I haven’t seen you in here before.” His eyes slipped down to her chest, and she tensed a moment before realizing that he was reading her name tag. His nose scrunched as he squinted then leaned back, smile in place. “Besides, I knew Tallya. And you definitely are not her.” Amiel’s cheeks reddened, feeling the fool for forgetting to remove the tag. She did so now, plucking it from the shirt and tossing it in one of the many pockets of her apron.
“Sorry about that. My name is actually Amiel,” she explained as the drawer finally dinged open, and she counted out his cash. “I’m just borrowing this shirt for the night.”
“Good to know. The thing looks like a blimp on you.” She smiled shakily, unsure if it was a joke or an insult. His face gave away no clue as to his intention, and so she merely smiled and took it in turn.
“Yeah, time to go shopping I guess, huh?” He nodded seriously.
“Yes. But that’s alright because eight out of ten girls like that sort of thing, or so the statistics say. And I’m a huge believer in statistics. So long as you are one of those eight girls, you should enjoy the experience. Of course if you are not one of the eight, it could be rather torturous, I suppose.” His brow furrowed, lips pursing in thought. Amiel grinned. He had said it all in a way that made her think he was honestly trying to assure her that as a female it was perfectly statistically acceptable for her to enjoy shopping for a new shirt. His gaze suddenly turned curious, as though waiting to hear her reply as to where she stood in those statistics.
“I’m one of the eight.”
“I knew it! Statistics!” He sighed dreamily, pressing the glasses up his nose once more as he reveled in a silent love affair with statistics. “I’m Pellerton the Third, by the way.” Amiel smiled as she handed over the cute nerdy guys change.
“Well, thank you for coming to Jollyway Diner, Pellerton the Third.” She winked, and he shook his head with a depreciating grin.
&n
bsp; “Funny thing is I don’t think there was a second or even a first Pellerton in my family. And I’m pretty big into genealogy, so I think if there were some Pellertons I would have found them. I have a feeling my parent’s just liked stodgy important sounding names.” He paused, nose scrunching. “Of course, I haven’t delved too deeply into the Viking side of my family as of yet. I’ve been pretty busy lately. I doubt I’d find the name Pellerton there, but you never know about these things. They certainly had plenty of other truly fascinating stuff! Fascinating! Did you know that they…” He waved a hand through the air. “Never mind that, you’re busy and I am late.” He shrugged, before handing her back a ten dollar bill. “Here, you can use this towards getting a shirt that fits better.”
“Thanks! Have a wonderful night.” Amiel smiled gratefully as he disappeared out the door. She was just pocketing the bill when Stints voice near her ear scared the bajeebers out of her.
“You handled that well,” he acknowledged gruffly before disappearing again. Joyce appeared at her elbow, jaw slack.
“What was that about?”
“I have no idea. I just…worked the cash register?”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he might be bein’ nice now, honey, but keep an eye on that barracuda. He’s moodier than a sidewinder caught up in a twister. Grabbier, too.” Amiel nodded, grateful for the warning.
“Alright, Suga, let’s start trainin’ y’all up before the midnight rush hits.” They spent the rest of Amiel’s shift exploring the ins and outs of her new job. Sure enough, around midnight there was a huge influx of patrons. Apparently this was the time when many people’s jobs ended, or began, and despite Stint’s surly attitude, Jollyway was the most popular place to eat in the late night hours. Joyce said it was because Jollyway had the best safety protocols for a Rabid attack, and with Cookie’s food thrown into the mix, the place was a star attraction. By the end of her shift, Amiel’s feet were killing her, and she couldn’t wait to get home, showered, and into bed.