by Amber Kizer
Hmm. I sit up and turn down the latest CD Clarice burned for me. Femme rock with minor screaming. No big surprise.
“ ‘No experience necessary. Free donuts. Competitive wages,’ ” I read out loud.
Oh, I bet they pay twelve bucks an hour. At least.
I like. I circle the ad with my Sharpie. Not the same small-penis Sharpie we used in the girls’ bathroom at school, but a different one. This one is purple.
This has potential. I go to the computer and type in the donut shop’s URL for a copy of the application. I like donuts. I can sell donuts. It’s food, pre-spit, with no cleanup.
We’re having Heather’s family over for an engagement party dinner. Mom has been insistent that she meet the whole new clan of in-laws. That’s what she’s calling them: a clan. I think the argyle/plaid outfit Heather wore the first time she met Mom must have seared itself to Mom’s brain. It’s like she thinks it was an ethnicity thing rather than a fashion faux pas.
We’ve never met Heather’s parents. After hearing her mother’s take on sperm as an infectious disease, I’m almost positive this will be an evening I won’t, or perhaps can’t, forget. I’m trying to figure out how to work sex into the conversation, if only to see Mrs. Dean’s reaction. Maybe I can ask about Mike and Heather having babies. That might work.
Mom has worked herself into the tizzy of all tizzies. She’s having this delightful event catered, not because she has arrived at the conclusion that no one she loves should be forced to swallow her food, but because she’s obsessed with having French cuisine. Somehow frogs’ legs and snails spell romance. Can you spell “whacked”?
Personally, I’d like a steak and kidney pie. Termites? Chocolate-covered crickets?
Kidding.
Hmm, what do I think is the most romantic food? I’d say a double grande caramel coffee concoction because that’s what I ordered on my first date with Stephen. But I can’t really smell Starbucks right now without getting nauseated. I hope it’s a phase and I’m not off coffee forever. That would be rough. I’ll have to order stuff I don’t like on all my other dates in case I become allergic when things don’t work out.
The caterer has been here for hours setting up. There are smells wafting around that I’m not sure I’ve ever come across before. My stomach is lurching.
“They’re here!” I close the curtains and yell toward the dining room where Mom has coerced Dad into helping her move the furniture around. She even cleaned out the room of all her crafty stuff so we could eat at the table tonight. I’m sure it’ll be back tomorrow, but it’s a nice change of venue.
“Don’t yell, Gert!” Mom shouts back at me.
“Whatever,” I mutter, and roll my eyes.
I peek out the window. Mike and Heather picked up her parents so they wouldn’t get lost on the way here. Heather’s mom looks just like her. Only very blond, five inches shorter and about a hundred pounds heavier. She’s a bustling hurricane of activity, stomping and fluttering out on the front walk, wearing a sweater with appliquéd hearts and butterflies.
Heather’s dad is also extremely short, but with salt-and-pepper hair that melds into a beard. I think he has a mouth and a chin, but I wouldn’t bet anything irreplaceable on it. It could be a shadow, but short of a total lunar eclipse, I’m not thinking so.
Mike has never looked happier. He isn’t even sweating. Then again, it’s a balmy forty degrees, so maybe his sweat’s evaporated.
I open the door before they even make it up the stairs.
“You must be Gert.” Heather’s mom envelops me in a cloud of floral perfume and a hug that invades my personal space.
“Come in,” I squeak, squirming to break her hold.
Heather’s dad prods me loose. “I’m Art.” There was no trick of shadow: His beard takes up most of his face. However, he does have a place where a voice comes out. That’s a good sign for a mouth.
My mother rushes forward and it’s a battle of perfume and effusiveness. Rather Wild Kingdom–y. “Phyllis, it’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“And you, Betsy. Heather’s told me how welcoming you’ve been.”
“Ah, she’s a sweet one. Our Michael is lucky to have found her. Come in, we’re going to have wine and canapés before dinner.”
Mom has hearts and wedding bells, the tissue-paper kind you get at the Hallmark store, hanging from the ceiling. There’s crepe paper and confetti. It’s like wedding decorations suicide-bombed themselves in protest. Just a little over-the-top.
I stuff a cracker with cheese into my mouth and sip a goblet of sparkling cider. No wine for me.
The evening divides itself into the women discussing wedding plans and the latest in event trends. The men sit together as if the women are contagious, talking about fishing, golf and the stock market. Art isn’t terribly into sports and Dad doesn’t know anything about stocks, so it’s a grunt-and-pause type of interaction. Mike pretty much tries to keep things going. I sit by myself eating things I recognize, like grapes and cheese. The rest of the food all appears alien and brown. “Romance” isn’t the word that comes to mind.
We move into the dining room for dinner. The caterer is wearing a white apron, has a terrible fake French accent and is serving us. It’s a freakin’ good thing I filled up on cheese when I see the main course. I’ll spare you the gagging and the breathing through the nose.
The engagement cake is finally brought out, with little cups of espresso and cookies. I have a big slice of cake because it’s four hours after the canapés and I’m falling asleep from boredom.
Finally they leave. Mom looks pleased. “Did you have a good time, honey?” she asks me. She appears momentarily fragile.
“It was great, Mom.” I kiss her cheek.
“You think so?” She brushes my hair from my face. She hasn’t done that for years.
“Yeah. Night.” I slump up the stairs.
“I love you, Gertie.”
I pause. She doesn’t say this often. “Love you, too.”
Dad’s asleep on the couch.
My phone rings before the sun is even up. “ ’ello?”
“This is Darcy at the Donut King. We got your application. Am I speaking with Gertrude?”
“Yes.”
“Come in Monday. You’ll be taken through orientation. Plan on being here for four hours. See you then.”
“Wait.” I rub my eyes.
“What?”
“I got the job?” I ask.
“Yep. That’s what this says.” She hangs up.
Whoa. I’m a working girl now.
THE FOOD CONTINUUM
Raves: Romantic Food
Ice cream: one bowl, two spoons
Tiramisu (just sounds romantic)
Chocolate truffles
Champagne
Grapes and strawberries
Toasted cheese sandwiches
Rants: Very Unromantic Food
Spaghetti
Swapped gum
Internal organ meat
Fish eggs, aka caviar
Stinky cheeses, like
Brie Soup
Hmm, what else? There must be something I’m missing.…
I have a terribly bad feeling in my stomach. I think there’s something very, very wrong with Clarice. She hasn’t returned my phone calls and I’m certain she’s ducking around corners to avoid me at school. I can’t think of anything I’ve done, so I’m clueless. I track down Maggie outside her third-period class. “Is Clarice avoiding you?”
Maggie pauses. “I haven’t seen her today.”
I nod. “I’m pretty sure she saw me and then ducked into the main office so she wouldn’t have to walk by me.”
“Do you think something’s wrong? Is she mad at us?”
I feel much better hearing Maggie say “us” rather than “you.” “I don’t think so. I can’t think of anything she’d be mad about.”
Maggie shifts her books and looks at the big clock on the wall. “I have her in the next class. I�
�ll let you know.”
Here’s what’s bothering me. “Have you talked to her since her date with Spenser Saturday night?”
“No, I’ve left a couple of messages.” Maggie grimaces. “You think it went badly?”
“I can’t think of anything else.”
“Hmm. Me either.” Maggie walks off while I scoot into my next class.
Lunch is just Maggie and me.
“She said she was throwing up sick.” Maggie drinks her water and opens a travel pack of Goldfish crackers.
“Did you see her puke?”
“Nope. And she wouldn’t look at me.”
I lean in and whisper, “Does Spenser seem tense to you?”
“Yeah. More pissed than usual.”
“Yeah. You think it’s connected?”
“Definitely probable.” Maggie munches on her crackers.
“We have to figure it out.”
“Your first day at work?”
“Yep. I didn’t even have to officially interview or anything.”
“Is that good?”
“We’ll find out.”
I’m surprisingly nervous as I follow a fellow worker around getting the grand tour of the Donut King innards.
“This is the back room.” Dreadlock girl has a tattoo of some type of spider on her neck. Either that, or it’s a pine tree. I’m not sure. Seriously, though, trying to figure out each of her visible tattoos is vastly more interesting than this orientation. Am I destined to be a donut serf? I’m not thinking so.
“We make the donuts from the mix.” She points at bags that say Drisco King’s Famous Donut Mix. “Don’t ask what’s in the mix. I can’t tell you. Not even the managers know what makes the mix. It’s a secret.”
Ah, good to see the Cold War is still sizzling on the fried-dough front. “Uh-huh,” I say.
“That’s the mixer. Where we mix the dough.”
Holy-Mother-of-Trans-Fats, this is painful.
“You don’t need to worry about making dough, though, since you’re new. It’s a seniority thing. I was just trained and promoted.”
“How long have you worked here?” I’m wondering what type of company loyalty it takes to be able to turn on the car-sized KitchenAid.
“About five years.” She shrugs like the time has flown by.
Lord, I never want to be here long enough to get the coveted training.
She points. “Be careful around the oil. They keep it really hot. We change it, but you won’t be changing it because you’re new here.”
“Right.” There’s a theme.
“This is where we throw away the day-old donuts that don’t sell overnight. But you won’t be doing that because—”
“I’m new here?”
“No, because you aren’t working the early-morning shift.”
“Oh.” And to think I thought I’d cracked the code. I scratch my head. The paper cap thingy is hot and itchy. So chic.
“Basically you’re going to take orders at the counter. Make sure you listen carefully and put the right donuts in the boxes. Nothing ticks a customer off like getting a cream-filled instead of a pudding-filled.”
“Really?”
“Yep, and they’re impossible to tell apart, so don’t worry if you mess up a couple of times.”
Okay, so maybe I’m really bright, but it looks like the whipped-cream ones have blue sprinkles and the pudding ones have red sprinkles. “Do the sprinkles change?”
“What?”
“The sprinkles—one’s blue and one’s red.” I point.
Her eyes get all big and buggy. “Wow. Never noticed that.”
“Oh.” I give her my best I’m-an-idiot-too-just-got-lucky look.
“So anyway. That’s it.” She turns in a complete circle as if she’s making sure nothing else has changed.
“How do I work the cash register?” Color me silly, but taking money does seem to be the primary reason for running a business.
“You don’t. You’ll be scheduled with someone who has been trained on it.”
I don’t get to touch money? Is this close enough to the bottom, Dad? I’m not trusted with the secret recipe, the oil or the cash. And I’m on probation until they figure out whether or not I can keep cream and pudding straight. Challenging.
“You get paid every two weeks.”
“That’s cool.” Do I ask about my starting salary? Is this my place?
“And when you work the late shift, not the early-morning shift but the late shift, you can take up to four dozen day-olds with you. It’s a perk.”
“That’s almost as good as getting a company car.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
“Personally, I took donuts home for the first few weeks. Gained weight and got really sick of the smell. You’ll smell like them in a few weeks. Then you probably won’t want to touch a donut for the rest of your life.”
“Oh.” That’s a piece of divine wisdom for you. Smell like donuts? How bad can that be? People like donuts, right?
“I have to go make some dough. Kelly has the register. Holla if you have any questions.”
“Sure … holla!”
“What?” She turns.
“You said to holla if I had a question. I—Never mind. What’s my starting salary?”
“You make five twenty-five an hour.”
“What?” That’s it? No. “Really?”
“Yeah, I know it’s a good start. And they give you a quarter raise every six months. I have to go make dough now.” She disappears.
At least one of us will be making dough.
A raggedy office lady rushes in. “Miss? Miss? I need three dozen, please.”
“How may I help you?” I put on my best please-the-customer smile and pull on gloves. With my hairnet and little paper booties, I feel like asking for a scalpel, but I’m sure that’s higher up the career ladder.
When I get home I crawl into bed and hit the messages on my phone.
“It’s Maggie. Clarice won’t talk to me. Her grandmother says it’s because she’s too sick to come to the phone. But then she whispered that Clarice has been crying all day.”
“Should we go over there?”
“If she wanted us to know, wouldn’t she tell us?”
Maybe not. Maybe it’s bad. “Do you think Spenser and she got into trouble?”
“Like pregnant?”
“Maybe.”
“They haven’t had sex yet, have they?”
“I don’t think so, but it’s not like we’re there or anything. And she could be pregnant without actually going all the way, if the stuff … you know.”
“True, but I don’t think they’ve progressed to no bottoms.”
“Would she tell us?”
“We demanded details the last time.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to tell us.”
“She has to. We’re her friends.”
“I say we give her till tomorrow, then force her.” I’m not feeling like dealing with crap with kid gloves.
“Deal. How was donut land?”
“Fascinating.”
“Tell me tomorrow, ’kay?”
“How’s Jesse?”
“Don’t ask me that.” Maggie hangs up.
Well, okay then. What’s that mean?
We don’t even make it to first period the next day at school before Clarice and Spenser blow.
Spenser slams his locker door. “I told you I didn’t want to have a relationship.”
I pause, grabbing Adam’s arm so he’ll stop moving. If Clarice won’t come clean, I am sure as hell going to watch this so I know what’s going on.
Clarice sniffles. Her eyes are puffy, her cheeks are blotchy and her nose is red like Rudolph’s. “But—” She can’t get any other words out before breaking down.
Spenser stands there and says, “I’m way too young to limit my possibilities.”
I’ve seen enough. I move toward Clarice. I think we’d all have placed bets this wasn�
�t going to end in the fairy tale she had hoped for, but it still sucks. Clarice sobs against my shoulder.
Spenser spins out of Adam’s reach. “Jesus, I was honest about it. What do you want from me?” He storms off, slamming the outside door behind him.
I lead Clarice to the closest bathroom while Adam flags down Maggie and fills her in. I glare at Pops and Giggles whispering behind their hands. Great, Clarice has made the gossip train. Lovely.
Spenser has a point. We girls beg and beg for honesty, but when we get it, we don’t want to believe it and hope it’ll change.
“He wanted sex.” Clarice says this like one equals the other. “It was nice.”
I stay quiet.
“I thought we were together-together. I thought it meant something. Didn’t it mean something? He hates me.” Clarice sobs.
“No, he doesn’t hate you,” I say, without adding that he probably regrets the sex as much as she regrets it, but for vastly different reasons.
Mr. Slater starts the class, facing us for a change. “Mr. Alexander, how are you going to spend your beautiful week of April’s spring break?”
“I’m going to Corpus Christi with my brother.”
Everyone has plans but me.
Slater narrows his eyes at Tommy. “You’re finished with your paper, then?”
“Uh, sure,” he says, squirming.
“That’s what I thought. I’ll look forward to seeing it turned in early on Monday after break. Ms. Millman, how about you?” Slater turns his attention to the Spanish Club’s human mascot.
“The Spanish Club trip to Colombia.” She even speaks English with a put-on accent, like Spanish was her first language. In her dreams.
“And your paper?”
“Coming along nicely.” She smiles.
“Of course. Mr. Chapman?”
“Working on my paper, sir.”
“Very good. You are all obviously the most self-motivated group of students I’ve ever taught. So you’ll have no problem reading Conrad’s Heart of Darkness in addition to your plans.”
There’s a collective groan. At least I’ll have plenty of time to read.
