It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story

by Lauren Morrill

  “No. I told him you were still available. But you know how enthusiastic Del can be,” Mom says. And boy do I. “I’m sure you can still tell him no.”

  I don’t want to tell him no, though. I just want to pretend this isn’t a thing at all. Mom’s right, Del is enthusiastic. And telling him I don’t want the job is going to be like sticking a pin in one of those Macy’s Parade balloons, watching the air slowly leak out until it’s just a pile of bummer wreaking havoc on a major city.

  “You can work wherever you want, Beck. But you need a job. And this seems like a pretty good one,” Mom says gently, glancing up at my dad. Something tells me they’ve already had this conversation.

  “As food service goes, you could do worse. At least you won’t be standing in a drive-through or manning a deep-fat fryer,” Dad says, taking the opportunity to once again show off the silvery scar on the back of his hand that he got from his teenage tenure at Burger Barn. “I bet Del pays better than the Golden Arches, too.”

  “You don’t have to, of course,” Mom adds again. “You can apply for whatever you want. But this is a job with no application, no interview. And you get to wear jeans.”

  I glance around the restaurant, taking in the employees on shift tonight. I’ve never paid much attention to them, even though they show up all over my childhood photo albums. They’re a mix of sullen high schoolers, some of whom I vaguely recognize from Brook Park High, and some older people who look like they’re either about to quit or are resigned to staying here until they die. They are all wearing jeans, the only uniform being their ubiquitous red I’M HOT ’N CRUSTY T-shirts and a black ball cap with HnC stitched in red. As uniforms go, it could be much worse. And Mom and Dad are right. I do need a job. My parents give me a small allowance that has been fine for things like movie tickets or the random dinner out, maybe even the occasional new pair of jeans if I save up and scout the clearance racks.

  But they don’t bankroll me. They can’t. My dad is a middle school social studies teacher who only recently finished paying off his student loans, and my mom has always stayed home. Before I was born, she was a teacher, too. She taught home ec, though I think they called it Family Life Sciences or some other nonsense. She taught cooking, sewing, personal finance, and a bunch of other subjects that are probably a hell of a lot more useful than algebra or trig. But after I was born, she quit. My mom loved teaching, but I’m pretty sure she was always waiting for the position of stay-at-home mom to open up. And when it did, she slid right on over and has been dominating the industry ever since. My mom was always the crafting, baking, story-reading, pretending-playing, home-cooked-meal kind of mom. When I started school, she was room mom and field trip chaperone, and she has done a couple of tours as PTA president.

  But as I got older, she had a little less to do, and so instead of slipping into retirement, she started a side hustle as a baker and cake decorator. She’s really good, but since she works out of our home kitchen, the extra cash it brings in isn’t enough for me to keep up with Tamsin’s weekend shopping trips. And definitely not enough to cover gas and insurance when I finally get my license.

  I for sure need a job. I just didn’t want it to be this job. I was hoping to get away from Hot ’N Crusty, not join its staff. As we shuffle out the door back to Mom’s Subaru station wagon, I’m already formulating a plan to find another gig. And I’ll have to do it fast, because something tells me my parents are fine with me working wherever, but they won’t wait forever.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  My new driver’s license is shiny, the edges sharp. I got it this morning (after which I spent way too much time gloating to Dad that I passed on the first try), so it’s hardly spent any time in my wallet. I can’t stop staring at it. It feels like a plane ticket to my future. I’m one step closer to being an adult. One step closer to leaving Brook Park. One step closer to never being the Hot ’N Crusty Bathroom Baby again.

  “Lemme see that,” Tamsin says, taking the white plastic card out of my hand. She peers down at the postage-stamp-sized photo that’s obscured by holograms and watermarks and all manner of other anti-fake-ID technology, and wrinkles the milky white skin of her nose. “You should have let me do your makeup before you went to take the test.”

  “I didn’t want to jinx it,” I tell her. I take the license back and squint at the photo. I have a zit on my chin, and my hair—usually stick straight—is taking up more real estate in the photo than it probably should. But I kind of like it. You can’t see my freckles, and my green eyes pop against the gray backdrop at the DMV.

  “You’re too superstitious,” Tamsin replies, tossing her fiery red hair.

  “I think I’m just ’stitious enough,” I mumble.

  “Can you blame her? We can’t all fail as epically as you,” Colin says.

  “I maintain that that was bullshit,” Tamsin replies, her voice rising in pitch and volume. Tamsin would sooner die than join the debate team, which is a shame, because I’m pretty sure her righteous indignation would be enough to thoroughly dominate the state tournament. “I had plenty of space to make that right on red. That car was nowhere near hitting me, and that woman was clearly hangry or undercaffeinated. Or maybe they shouldn’t have hired such a nervous passenger to administer the test. It was like driving with my great-grandmother.”

  “If ever there was a time to drive like your great-grandmother was in the car, I’d think the driver’s test would be it, Sis,” Colin says with an eye roll. Not like he has room to talk. Sure, he passed his test on the first go, but two weeks later he wrapped his pickup truck around a telephone pole. He walked away with barely a scratch, but Mr. Roy confiscated his license for six months as punishment. He only just recently got it back, along with a brand-new truck he hopefully will not total this time.

  Tamsin’s “birthday extravaganza” plan turned out to involve an evening at Pearce Lake. It’s been a pretty low-key affair for something she dubbed an “extravaganza,” but this sort of thing is exactly my speed. Which is comforting, because it means that maybe Tamsin gets me after all. It’s still warm for late September, so we ate burgers and dogs that Eli cooked on his dad’s Smokey Joe, then waited for the sun to set so the boys could unleash an entire box of fireworks that lasted a good twenty minutes and only nearly burned Colin’s eyebrows off twice.

  Since then, we’ve mostly just been hanging out, the doors open on Tamsin’s forest green Range Rover, a playlist coming from the speakers. The boys have been getting in a little batting practice with some sticks they found on the lakeshore, sending rocks splashing out into the water. Baseball season doesn’t start until February, but they all play fall ball for a regional traveling team. Which means year-round they’re perpetually batting with whatever found objects are lying around, like an athletic tic. If the boys are in the vicinity of something they can use as a bat, you’ve got to be prepared to duck or risk getting beaned in the forehead.

  Mac drops his stick and ambles up the sand, shoes in hand. The moonlight casts a silver glow over him, as if the universe knows a guy like that deserves his own personal spotlight. I remember the first time I really noticed him. It was the first day of freshman year, and he’d come back from summer break a good five inches taller, his hair shaggy, his braces gone. He looked grown into his body, sauntering around with a rangy, relaxed gait that I now know so well I can recognize him just by the sound of his big feet hitting the ground behind me. I fell pretty hard right away, but I didn’t actually get to speak to him until last year. Natalie’s dance studio had just closed, so she switched over to the Madison School across town. She ended up in the same class as Tamsin and Cora. The four of us started hanging out soon after, and when Cora started dating Eli, suddenly our group expanded by three dudes, Colin and Mac coming along for the ride. Our first day back from winter break sophomore year, Mac slid into the chair next to mine at what would become our lunch table (a fact I still cannot get over), and I swear I nearly melted into a puddle of Beck right t
here on the speckled linoleum floor. He flashed that impossibly white, impossibly straight smile and introduced himself.

  “I’m Mac,” he said as he opened his milk carton, and in what has to be the single greatest conversational achievement of my entire life thus far, I managed not to reply with, “I know.”

  I’ve been a goner ever since.

  He smiles that same smile at me now as he makes his way up the shore toward me. I smile back in what I hope is a totally cool, relaxed way and not in an “oh my god I want to tackle you straight into that water and make out like a demon” way. I suck in a breath, wondering if he’s going to join me on the picnic blanket where I posted up, but then Tamsin lets out an epic squeal that gets everyone’s attention.

  “It’s live!” she says, waving the glowing screen of her phone around. It’s just after midnight on Saturday, which means the Sunday paper is now online. And because no one robbed the bank downtown or drove their car into the community pool, there’s my birthday photo, front and center. My parents are grinning, Del looks like he just won the lottery, and my smile only barely makes it to my eyes. It’s far from the worst photo of the lot (the sixth grade shot, where I’d attempted my own bang trim the previous evening, is particularly brutal).

  The glow of the screen illuminates Tamsin’s wide grin. “You look good, Beck. That purple tank is a good color for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, letting the compliment wash over me. The top was from Tamsin. She’d given it to me that morning at school, wrapped in matching purple tissue paper and an explosion of ribbons.

  Mac leans over her shoulder to peer at the phone, and I try not to melt into the ground as he stares at the photo of me. Does he like the purple tank? Can he see the zit on my chin that was just erupting but I’ve successfully beaten back with the drying stick Cora gave me? Does he like the way I curled my hair so that it framed my face, something Natalie and I learned from watching a YouTube video?

  “You’re so lucky. Free pizza for life? That’s, like, goals,” he says.

  I immediately deflate. Of course he’s not actually looking at me. His eyes are on the extra large pepperoni pizza in front of me. Because pizza is irresistible. Whereas I’m just … me. Being overshadowed by pizza is basically the story of my life.

  “I think I’d rather be born at Margaritas,” Eli says. “A lifetime supply of tacos sounds amazing.”

  “If you were born at Margaritas, they’d be closed by now. They couldn’t afford to feed you, you human dumpster,” Cora says.

  I’ve heard about ten thousand variations on this conversation throughout my life, of course. Everyone has an idea of just what unlimited supply they’d like to have. Ice cream? Cheeseburgers? My uncle Nate often says he hopes his future wife has their baby at a bank, as if unlimited cash is on the table. Me? I wish I could have been born at MacArthur Toyota. Mac’s dad is always giving away free cars for charity events and stuff, so had I made my messy debut in their glossy white auto showroom, maybe I’d be the Prius Princess instead of the Hot ’N Crusty Bathroom Baby. I could be driving a sweet new car to celebrate my birthday instead of getting ready to sling pizza for a couple of dollars over minimum wage. And I probably would have spent every birthday of my life with Mac. Why couldn’t my mom have had a craving for a test drive instead of a slice?

  A breeze blows past, and I shiver, pulling my hands into the sleeves of my Brook Park Trojans shirt. I’m glad we’re not experiencing a second summer. If it were a little warmer, I have a feeling Tamsin would probably be encouraging everyone to skinny-dip. She’s always pushing our group to be a little bit wild. And skinny-dipping is something I could happily go my whole life not doing. While stripping down to my undies in front of Mac sounds all right in theory, I’m hoping to get a few more romantic milestones out of the way first. Maybe kiss him before he sees the pink cotton llama undies I’m sporting tonight.

  The playlist blaring out of Tamsin’s car shuffles, and an old boy-band song comes on. Tamsin and Cora immediately jump up from their blanket on the sand, falling effortlessly into the rhythm and choreography.

  “C’mon, Natalie!” Cora cries, waving her up to join them on their makeshift stage at the lakeshore. “You know you know it!”

  Natalie groans beside me, but after a beat of protest, she jumps up and falls into step beside them, shimmying and spinning and executing some pretty impressive arm movements. I wonder if it’s a dance class combo, or if they made this up while hanging out when I wasn’t around. I know it happens. Sometimes I have to help my mom with cake deliveries, or they’re on trips for dance competitions. It’s never on purpose, so it’s fine. Really. I just try not to think about it.

  As the girls drop to their knees in this coordinated slide-and-spin maneuver, the boys drop their rocks and sticks to watch the impromptu performance, their whoops and cheers bouncing around the still lake water like skipping stones.

  “Beck, you should join dance with us!” Tamsin says, grinning down at me on the blanket. She’s shimmying in little circles, but it’s not a loose movement like Natalie’s and Cora’s. That’s because Tamsin is practically a prima ballerina, tall and slender and stork-like. She can leap and pirouette, but when she does dance team moves, she always looks like a badly animated mannequin. It’s only barely a flaw, because she somehow still manages to revel in her ballerina grace in a way that’s magnetic. Everything about Tamsin is. Maybe it’s her confidence. Even when she’s twerking like someone’s midwestern grandma, she still manages to look cool.

  Tamsin’s invite is nice, but it ignores the fact that I have the moves of a drunken flamingo. I inherited my dad’s coordination, which is so lacking that even the hokey pokey eludes him. You want me to put which foot where now?

  “Yeah,” Cora says, still shaking her hips to the next song on the playlist. “Tuesday and Thursday. You can ride with us.”

  I gulp, because now I have an actual reason why I can’t join dance. One that has nothing to do with my complete and total lack of rhythm or ability to move my feet and arms simultaneously.

  “Love to, but can’t. I have to work,” I reply.

  “Oooooh! Where?” Cora asks.

  I spent all of Friday after school shuttling around with my mom in a last-ditch effort to find another job. I started at the cool boutiques downtown, and the bookstore off the square, but they seem to only hire adults and the stray college student with good availability. I can only work after school and on the weekends, which severely limits my employability anywhere that doesn’t have a deep-fat fryer. So just as I suspected, my only options were of the fast-food variety. There was an opening for a bagger at ShopRite, but it only paid minimum wage, and I’d have to wear a red button that said, “Thank you, no tips please.” Del offered to pay me three dollars more, plus tips. As much as I want to run screaming from Hot ’N Crusty, I need the money. And I need to not wear polyester while dunking frozen french fries in hot oil.

  “Wait, are you…” Natalie trails off, knowing better than to bring it up directly.

  “Oh my god, you’re working at Hot ’N Crusty!” Tamsin squeals. “Are you going to have to wear that awful T-shirt?”

  I sigh. Might as well lean into it now, I guess. I throw up some halfhearted jazz hands, then think better of it and cross them over my chest, tucking my fingers into my armpits. “You’re looking at the newest staffer at Hot ’N Crusty Pizza,” I say, but any trace of enthusiasm gets trapped in my throat. I feel like I’ve just taken a giant step backward from my friends, and true to form, I’ve tripped over my own feet on the way.

  “Please tell me you get to wear a crown instead of the baseball cap. They call you the Pizza Princess, right? You should totally demand a crown.” Tamsin’s giddy fascination with my employment is bordering on morbid, like I’ll be slicing up bodies in the morgue, and she’s hoping I’ll let her come watch. Well, not so much bodies, more like my reputation. There will be no running from the whole bathroom baby thing come Tuesday, when I officially start. “
Does anyone cool work there?”

  I shrug, because I’ve never paid all that much attention to the staff at Hot ’N Crusty. It never occurred to me that one day they’d be my coworkers. Even though half the staff is around my age, I think I’ve been subconsciously thinking that if I didn’t notice them, they wouldn’t notice me, and any potential connection would be severed.

  “I think that guy from calc works there. Fred or Ford? Or something?” Colin says. “You know, tall guy, super smart? Like, major nerd. He seems nice, though.”

  “Ugh, hopefully it’s not just a bunch of antisocial trolls,” Tamsin says, rolling her eyes like she’ll be burdened by proxy working with Fred-or-Ford and his compatriots. Tamsin’s not really a jerk, but she sure can play the part sometimes.

  I’m saved from having to answer—or even consider the awful possibility that Del really will try to get me to wear a tiara—when Mac drops down onto the blanket next to me. He’s so tall and broad that he barely fits. His feet hang off the fleece, his heels digging into the sand. He’s got nice feet, for a dude, the nails trimmed and not at all like the gross talons my dad sports. He leans back on his hands, his wrist brushing mine. A gasp catches in my throat, though I try to let it out slowly, a sigh I hope no one can hear. Mac’s all energy, heat radiating off him like a furnace. He glances up at the inky black sky, a scattering of stars shining through since we’re a few miles outside of town. He lets out an enormous yawn.

  “Tired?” I ask.

  He nods. “Coach has gone on this big cardio kick and has us doing high intensity interval training and plyo. It’s seriously kicking my ass.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, as my sole source of exercise is taking Pup, our ancient basset hound, on a leisurely walk around the block. It also doesn’t help that I lose all ability to ask, because at that moment, Mac leans his head to rest on my shoulder. I freeze as if he’s a hummingbird and the slightest movement will scare him off. I breathe in the smell of his shampoo—something in the Axe family that I’d normally roll my eyes at, but in this moment is irresistible. I will my body to be still, to enjoy the warmth of him and the way the blond curls that fluff out from beneath his ball cap tickle my cheek. He smells like fireworks—literally and metaphorically. I want to pour that smell into a candle that I can burn to visit again and again. This is the closest I’ve ever been to him, and it’s thoroughly lighting me up. But I can’t stop shivering with nerves and excitement.