by Shen, L. J.
I was three when my mom, Courtney Shaw, overdosed. She was lying on a bench in downtown Sheridan. A schoolboy found her. He tried to poke her with a branch. When she didn’t wake up, he freaked out and screamed bloody murder, attracting half the school kids in our town and a few of their parents.
Word spread, pictures were taken, and the Shaws had officially become Sheridan’s black sheep. By then, Grams was the only mother I knew. Courtney played a game of revolving doors with an array of tweaker boyfriends. One of them was my father, I assumed, but I’d never met him.
Grams never asked who my father was. She was probably wary of opening that can of worms and going through a custody battle with Lord-knows-who. The chances of my father being a respectable hard worker or a Sunday service attendee weren’t exactly high.
Grams raised me like her own daughter. It was only fair now that she was not fully independent, I stuck around and took care of her. Besides, it wasn’t like the job offers were pouring in from Hollywood and I was missing out on some huge career.
Reign De La Salle was mean, but he wasn’t wrong. With a face like mine, the only roles I could snag were that of a monster.
I entered the kitchen, dropping a kiss on Grams’ cloud of white, candyfloss hair. She caught my arm and pulled me down for a hug. I let out a grateful sigh.
“Hi, Grams.”
“Gracie-Mae. I made some pie.”
She braced the table, pulling herself up with a groan. Grams remembered my name. Always a good sign, and probably why Marla let her stay here by herself before I arrived.
Our house was a seventies graveyard, consisting of all the interior design atrocities you could find in that era: green tile countertops, wood paneling, rattan everything, and electronics that still weighed about the same as a family car.
Even after we redid big chunks of our ranch-style after the fire, Grams went to a Salvation Army thrift store and bought the oldest, most mismatched furniture she could find. It was like she was allergic to good taste, but as with all quirks, when they belonged to someone you loved, you learned how to find the beauty in them.
“I’m not really hungry,” I lied.
“It’s a new recipe. I found it in one of them magazines they have at the dentist’s office. Marla came down with something, bless her heart. Couldn’t even taste the dang thing. She wanted to try it so bad.”
I sat obediently at the table as she slid a plate with a slice of cherry pie and a fork in my direction. She patted the back of my hand on the table.
“Now, don’t be shy, Courtney. Not with your momma. Eat.”
Courtney.
Well, that didn’t last long. Grams called me Courtney frequently. The first few times after it happened, I took her to get some tests done, see what caused her forgetfulness. The doctor said it wasn’t Alzheimer’s, but to come again next year if things got worse.
That was two years ago. She hadn’t agreed to go back since.
I shoveled a chunk of the cherry pie into my mouth. As soon as the pie hit the back of my throat, it clogged up and shot a message to my brain:
Abort mission.
She’d done it again.
Mistaken salt for sugar. Prunes for cherries. And—who knows?—maybe rat poison for flour, too.
“Fine as cream gravy, huh?” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her knuckles. I nodded, reaching for the glass of water next to my plate, chugging it down in one go. I glanced at my phone on the table. It flashed with a message.
Marla: Fair warning: Your gram’s pie is particularly bad today.
My eyes watered.
“I knew you’d like it. Cherry pie is your favorite.”
It wasn’t. It was Courtney’s, but I didn’t have the heart to correct her.
I swallowed every bite without tasting it, down to the last crumb, pushing through the discomfort. Then I played a board game with her, answering questions about people I didn’t know who Courtney had been associated with, tucked Grams to bed, and kissed her goodnight. She held my wrist before I got up to leave, her eyes like fireflies dancing in the dark.
“Courtney. You sweet child of mine.”
The only person who loved me thought I was someone else.
Grace
The next morning, I arrived at the food truck early to prep ahead of opening hour. Sheridan’s Farmers’ Market was open on Saturdays, which meant more competition, more food trucks, more human interaction and its byproduct—more war paint. I put so much makeup on my face on Saturdays, I gave party clowns a run for their money.
Silver lining: it wasn’t rodeo day. I refused to do the rodeo shift. Not since a customer had compared my face to a horse and explained the stud would win in the beauty department.
Karlie was late, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. Even though she was one of the most laser-focused, hard-working people I’d known, she could sleep through anything, a World War included. I didn’t mind her slacking as much as I probably should. The Contrerases paid me well, provided flexible shifts, and Karlie had proven to be an amazing friend in the past four years.
I washed and cut fish, sliced vegetables, made the frozen margaritas, and rewrote and hung the wanted sign on the truck. My best friend stumbled inside at quarter to nine. She wore big pink headphones and a tank top with Bart Simpson on it.
“Hola. Everything good?” She popped her watermelon gum in my face, taking off her headphones. “Rebel Girl” by Bikini Kill blasted through them before she turned off her music app. I shoved the tongs into her hands.
“Woke up feelin’ somethin’ bad is going to happen today.”
That wasn’t a lie. Waking up today, I’d noticed the flame ring on my thumb had finally succumbed to its old age, and half the flame had broken, leaving just the hoop and part of the flame.
It was a hundred and twelve degrees outside—so hot you could fry an egg on the concrete—and probably ten degrees hotter in the truck. Something about today felt different. Monumental, somehow. Like my future had been suspended over my head, threatening to thunder down on me.
“Today’s going to be fine.” She dropped her backpack on the floor, snapping the tongs in my face. “Fine, but busy. There’s already a line outside. Better get your ass to your window, Juliet.”
“If Romeo eats fish tacos at nine a.m., I’d rather stay single.” I laughed, feeling a little more like myself again and a little less like the pitiful girl West St. Claire had made me feel I was last night.
Mrs. Contreras insisted on serving her special recipe fish tacos only. No Tex Mex in this food truck. We only did one type of taco, but we were the best at it.
“Ah, that’s the angle Shakespeare didn’t expand on. Romeo died of Juliet’s fish taco breath, not poison.”
“And Juliet’s dagger?” I tossed Karlie an amused look. She pretended to shove the tongs into her gut like it was a sword, holding her neck as she fake-choked.
“Tongs can be deadly, too.”
I opened the truck window with a smile, determined to push last night away from my mind.
“Good mornin’ and welcome to That Taco Truck! How may I hel—”
The last word clogged up in my throat when I saw his face. A line of people trailed behind him.
West St. Claire.
My smile dissolved.
Why was he back?
“Is this about the tip Tess left yesterday? Because you can have it. Maybe buy some manners.” My gut clenched, my mouth faster than my brain.
Why did I insist on getting socially murdered? Was I subconsciously suicidal? Either way, I didn’t regret what I’d said. I doubted West wanted tacos or a civilized conversation. I knew going toe-to-toe with a guy like him was a bad idea, but he’d been cold and mean yesterday, and I couldn’t help but call him out on that.
West looked like he hadn’t slept all night. He was still wearing the same jeans and faded shirt combo, his steadfast, bored gaze making me feel like dirt. His eyes were bloodshot.
Wordlessly, West handed me a b
all of paper. I immediately recognized it. My face clouded as I unfolded it. It was the ad he’d ripped from the truck yesterday.
“Already made a new one,” I clipped, dunking the paper into the trashcan under my feet. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Get the manager,” he clipped.
It took me by surprise. First of all that he spoke at all. I’d never heard him talk before. His voice matched his looks. Low, smoky, and depraved. Second, it shocked me that he spoke to me. But most of all, I was surprised he had the audacity to boss me around.
“I beg your pardon?” I lifted an eyebrow. My good, right eyebrow. The left one didn’t exist anymore. I penciled it in, though, and since I always wore my gray ball cap, people could hardly tell. The customers behind him lost their patience, shaking their heads, bouncing on their feet. Of course, no one actually said anything to West St. Claire. God forbid someone called him out on his BS.
“Manager. Also known as the person in charge of this truck. You slow?”
“No, I’m disgusted.”
“Well, hurry up and get me off your hands, then. Call your supervisor.”
His eyes were dead on mine. Up close, they weren’t exactly green. They were a wild mixture of sage and blue, rimmed by dark jade.
He and his friends had had fun guessing what happened to my face last night. West had examined me like I was a circus freak. I’d felt like a caged three-headed animal. Desperate to bend the bars, pounce forth, and rip them to shreds with my pointy claws.
Back in reality, I smoothed the clinging nylon wrap sealing the guac in the toppings bar.
“Excuse me for being blunt, but the chances of you wantin’ to work in this food truck are akin to the chances of my joinin’ the Bolshoi. Now get on with your order or move along. I have customers waitin’.”
“Manager. Now,” he repeated, ignoring my words. I felt my nostrils flaring with frustration. I’d heard he was intense, but experiencing it firsthand made me feel like someone had put my heart in a blender and forced me to watch it minced into a puree.
Karlie’s face popped from behind me. She yelped in surprise when she saw him. “Oh my God. I mean, hi. West, right?”
Smooth. She would recognize him in Sheridan University’s crab mascot costume.
He eyed her, not bothering to confirm his identity. Karlie stuck her hand out through the window. He pretended not to notice.
She drew it back to her side, snickering.
“I’m Karlie. We go to Sher U together. I’m the manager here. Well, her daughter anyway. How can I help?”
“I’m here for the job.”
“Serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
And just as deadly. Turn him away, Karl.
“Fantastic. You’re hired,” she chirped, not missing one single heartbeat.
A hysterical, high-pitched laugh involuntarily burst out of me. Karlie and West turned to me like I was crazy. Wait … they were serious? I looked between them, a chill rolling through my spine. An elderly woman behind West cleared her throat, waving at me as if I was the person responsible for the delay.
“You’re joking, right?” I turned to Karlie.
She winced.
“I mean, we do need another employee …”
West jerked his chin behind my back, focusing on my best friend now. “Let’s take this somewhere private.”
“Hop on in through the door.”
For the next few minutes, time moved sideways. Karlie and West scurried to the back of the truck while I stayed at the window, serving customers. Ten minutes later, Karlie came out of the truck, peeled off the want ad, and slipped back in.
“Congratulations! You have a new coworker,” she sing-songed, shuffling back to the grill, flipping a piece of fish that was ten minutes past charred.
I ignored her, preparing tacos as fast as I could and internally convincing myself my life was not over and West St. Claire wasn’t going to kill me as some part of an elaborate bet.
“Shaw, did you hear me?” The whitefish Karlie was flipping kept breaking into small, mushy pieces. I was hot, sweaty, madder than a wet hen, and full of dark, bitter sludge. I was pretty sure if I cut myself open with the knife I was holding to pierce the bag of shredded cheese, that’s what I’d see. Black goo slithering from my veins.
“Loud and clear. I just thought you’d let me weigh in on this, seeing as I’ll be the one workin’ with your replacement.”
“Hear me out. He is Sheridan’s most notorious college hottie. He could bring a ton of customers to the truck. I couldn’t say no, and I knew you’d be iffy about it.”
“Right.” I leaned forward, handing a customer his burnt fish taco with a fake smile. When I’d finished high school, I’d been on the fence about attending college. My instincts told me to hide from the world, slink back to the shadows and live in solitude. But I quickly learned that I didn’t have much choice. I had to get out there and make money. Since I was already saddled with the inconvenience of showing people my face, I figured college was a practical, albeit cruel, solution to securing a decent job.
“He wants a job, does he?” I was on a roll. “I bet he desperately needs the money, seein’ as he ain’t cashin’ in at the Plaza.”
I knew West St. Claire made bank from those fights. Rumor was he’d made eighty grand last year at the Plaza, between selling tickets, taking bets, and charging a fortune for watered-down beer.
“I asked him about that. He said he needed to supplement his income.”
“He needs to supplement his manners,” I retorted.
“Why? Was he mean to you?” Karlie’s brows slammed together.
Just thinking about last night infuriated me. I looked away, changing the subject.
“And anyway, what do you mean, you knew I’d be iffy about it?”
“Come on.” She threw her arms in the air like we both knew the answer to that question.
“Come on, what?”
“Seriously? Fine. I’ll go ahead and say it. But promise you won’t get mad.”
“I won’t get mad.”
I was already fuming.
“Well, the truth is, you tend to be intimidated by people, Shaw. Then you go and base your opinion of them on what you think they’re like.”
“Am not!”
“Do too. Look at you. You’re livid because I hired someone you don’t even know just because he’s got a reputation. Guess what? We all have a reputation. Sorry, Grace, but it’s true. I’m the brainiac know-it-all with the nineties obsession; you’re the emo girl with the scar. We’re all categorized. Stereotyped by our flaws and weaknesses. Welcome to life. It’s a bitch and then you die.”
Fearing I’d say something I’d regret, I kept my mouth shut. Karlie stopped tossing extra-dead fish, spun, and clasped my shoulders, forcing me to face her. She massaged my deltoids through my pink hoodie.
“Look at me, Shaw. Are you listening?”
I offered her a grunt.
“Maybe he is nice.”
“Chances are he is evil.”
I knew I was letting my insecurities get the better of me, but based on his looks, reputation, and social status, West St. Claire was a perfect candidate to ruin my life.
“If he’s evil after the first shift, let me know and I’ll give him the boot. No questions asked. Not even one.” Karlie forced me into a handshake, making a one-sided deal with me. “You have my word. I know you think I’m starstruck, but to me he’s just a fellow student lookin’ to make an extra buck. I’m drowning in schoolwork and my internships are going to take the front seat once we finish this year. I need this. Now can you stop sulking?”
Unfortunately, Karlie made sense. West hadn’t technically wronged me. If anything, he’d given me one heck of a tip and hadn’t even asked for it back.
“Fine.”
She grinned, turning me back to the line of people waiting for their food.
“That’s my girl. Quick, tell me if you can see him in the p
arking lot. I asked if he could start today and watch me work the grill, but he said he had plans. Is he still around?”
I craned my neck, humoring her reluctantly. I spotted him straight away, the side effect of him being a head taller than the rest of humanity. He was leaning against his red 2016 Ducati M900 Monster, his Wayfarer sunglasses intact.
I recognized the girl with him, even from the back. Raven hair, endless tanned legs, and the same tiny shorts that couldn’t cover a pencil. Tess. She talked to him animatedly, flinging her hair and giggling. They’d probably spent the night together. West didn’t respond to whatever she was saying. He turned around, slapped a helmet over her head in one rough movement, buckled it around her chin, and hopped on the motorcycle. She slid behind him, snaking her arms around his torso.
He took one of her hands and placed it over his crotch.
“Yup. About to ride into the sunset, or closest STI clinic, with Tess Davis.” I accidentally crushed a crunchy taco shell as they zipped through the parking lot, clouds of dust curtaining their figures.
Karlie made a face. “She always draws the best bull. I wonder who he’ll do next?”
Hopefully his hand. We don’t want any mini-Wests populating our planet.
I spent the next five hours listening to Karlie pondering West’s taste in women, serving people, and obsessing over the disastrous turn my life had taken.
When I opened the truck’s doors to leave, a pair of ballet shoes sat on the stair. I picked them up, frowning. They were around my size, brand-new, but out of the shoebox. There was a note stuck to them, scribbled lazily.
Better start practicing.
“What the …?”
My words from this morning bounced inside my head.
“The chances of you wantin’ to work in this food truck are akin to the chances of my joinin’ the Bolshoi.”
West St. Claire had jokes.
Unfortunately, I had a feeling I was about to become his favorite one.
West
Bzzz.
Bzzzzz.
