It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story

by Lauren Morrill

  I find myself in a pod with Lucy Hernandez, Byron Frankel, and hulking Wyatt Hawkins, who’s in line to be the first string quarterback for the BPHS Trojans should Jackson Lewis break his arm or fail a class. Sitting next to him makes me feel like Polly Pocket.

  Lucy immediately launches into her plan, supported by notes she refers to from her phone. Lucy is for sure going to be our valedictorian. She wants to go to Stanford and become a billionaire tech genius. She made this app for when you’re at the movies that uses your location and scrapes data from movie websites to show you what movie starts immediately after yours ends, so that you can figure out what movie to sneak in to next. If you start early enough, the app can create a mini film festival for you that takes you from matinee to midnight on only one ticket. Probably not something you can put on your college applications, since it basically encourages stealing, but definitely evidence that someday Lucy will be able to buy and sell us all.

  Next up is Byron, with his perfectly straight teeth, moisturized skin, and ballet dancer posture. He’s going to audition for every major musical theater program in the country (one of which is apparently in Oklahoma. Who knew?). He’s busy laying the groundwork with dance classes, a vocal coach, and a third summer at Backstage, a camp in upstate New York that boasts more than a dozen alumni who’ve won a Tony. Also, Lin-Manuel Miranda follows him on Twitter.

  And rounding out our little posse is Wyatt, who, based on his sort of Neanderthal persona and the fact that his chief interest is football, I figured would at least fall on my side. You know, Team Not a Clue. But nope, even Wyatt’s got his future planned out. He’s going to the U, where he’ll get a degree in secondary education so that he can be a high school football coach. The only sign that he was wavering at all was when he couldn’t decide between social studies or physical education as a concentration. Not super flashy, but at least he’s got a plan.

  Because when it’s my turn to share, I find myself stumbling and stuttering. I have no plan beyond “college: I want to go there.” Obviously I’ll apply to the U, because hello, in-state tuition. But any sense of a college plan starts and ends there. I have no idea what I want to do when I get there. But I can’t wait to go to college, which until now has seemed like enough. To no longer be saddled with all the shit that comes from growing up and going to school with the same people for thirteen years. It seems like the place where I can finally figure everything out. So my plan has always been:

  Step 1: Go to college

  Step 2: Figure it out

  Because the one thing I know for sure is that when I get to college, I can stop being the Hot ’N Crusty Bathroom Baby. That’s what I want to major in.

  But that doesn’t fly, at least not with Lucy and Byron, two of the most driven human beings on the planet. They immediately launch into counselor mode.

  “How about starting with what you’re not interested in doing?” Lucy suggests, tapping away at her phone. I bet she’s looking for an app that will help me plan my future. Or hell, she’s probably making one.

  “Um, probably nothing with science. It’s not really my jam,” I say. Which is true. I barely scraped by in biology, and chemistry has been an utter disaster for me. The only reason I’m toughing it out is because it’ll mean my required credits will be done and I can spend my senior year science-free.

  “What do you like to do with your free time?” Byron asks.

  Watch a twenty-year-old space soap opera with my dad and pretend to care about my friends’ intricate choreography, which is set to pop music that I don’t particularly like.

  “You could open a pizza place,” Wyatt says, nodding his head on his beefy neck. “Call it Pizza Baby.”

  Ugh. I’d rather spend the rest of my life performing chemistry experiments.

  I’m saved from my career planning team when the bell drones its electronic tone and everyone starts rearranging their desks back into rows.

  “On Monday we’ll be talking about Shirley Jackson’s short story in your text, so make sure you’ve read and are ready to discuss!” Ms. Williams calls over the sounds of feet stampeding for the door.

  Ah, a short story of dystopian murder. At least I’ll have something to say for Monday’s class. Anything’s better than another college inquisition.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  My first Friday shift should be filling me with dread, but I can’t stop thinking about the way Mac’s arm hovered over my shoulder as he held the door open for me today at lunch. I can’t stop hearing his voice telling me he’d miss me. Okay, he said “we’ll miss you,” but he included himself in that. And his smile. And his breath, which somehow wasn’t terrible after all the pizza and ranch dressing he’d scarfed down. And yeah, I’m bummed to be walking into the greasy cocoon of Hot ’N Crusty instead of scooting up close to Mac on the bleachers, but even that isn’t dulling my shine.

  That is, until I see the SUV with the WCVB logo wrapped around it in very shouty colors parked right next to the front door.

  I notice her immediately. She’s so polished that she practically glows in an impeccably tailored Barney-purple suit and a blond bob sprayed with enough product to withstand a Category 4 hurricane.

  “Rebecca!” She smiles, and a line of perfectly white teeth—which only the best dental work in four counties can buy—nearly blinds me. She’s standing near the counter, but very intentionally not touching it—or anything else, I notice. I have a feeling that if she could avoid letting her designer heels touch the sticky floor, she would, but hovering over the floor is not one of her skills.

  “Molly,” I say. I swallow hard, trying not to let what I’m really thinking read all over my face. Because what in the blooming hell are you doing here is not polite. And even though Molly Landau is the absolute last person I want to see in Hot ’N Crusty, my mother instilled in me the importance of always being polite.

  “I called and called and called, but could never manage to track you down,” she says, enunciating words like she’s tasting every syllable. She’s got an accent that’s somehow Midwest meets mid-Atlantic by way of mid nowhere. “You’re a very busy bee!”

  “Well, school, work,” I say, keeping it purposefully vague. My mom told me she called. Gave me every last message. Mom would never pressure me to do any press I don’t want to do, but she did tell me I should give Molly the courtesy of actually declining. I should have listened, because this would have been so much easier over the phone.

  “Well, it was no problem to pop down here and find you,” she says, and her tone gets extra saccharine, which I think means it definitely was a problem. “Anyway, I’m just here to talk to you about doing an interview. Something to commemorate your sweet sixteen and the fulfillment of Del’s promise of a job. I think it’ll be a fantastic package, a where are they now with a lovely little twist.”

  “What’s the twist?” Julianne asks from behind the register. Her sardonic tone slices through the air.

  Molly smiles, and it looks like she’s been cued. “That she’s right back where she started, of course!”

  Tell me about it.

  I take a deep breath and steel myself, because I really hate confrontation, something I sense Molly was counting on with her surprise appearance. “I’m really sorry you had to come all the way down here, but I’m not really interested in doing an interview,” I tell her.

  Molly presses her red lips together in a thin smile, her perfectly waxed eyebrows narrowing just slightly. “Do you mind if I ask why not?”

  Because I’d sooner climb into one of the pizza ovens than talk into a camera? Because the potential of another viral clip of me—in the era of YouTube and Twitter—makes me want to start walking down Highway 41 and not stop until I hit the ocean? Because no person should ever have to spend this much time thinking about the moment that they exited their mother, much less talk about it on television?

  The only thing about my birth that I’m grateful for is the fact that social media wasn’t yet a thin
g when it all went down. The internet was still in its tween years, making a lot of noise and trying to figure out who it was going to be. There was no meme-ified version of my arrival into the world. The story was olden times viral, meaning it was on TV and in magazines and on a few websites, but there were no retweets or reblogs or reshares of me.

  Still, if you search my name, the first few results are all spots from Molly Landau that went on to live forever on YouTube. She did a package on my first birthday. And then she showed up again for my fifth, getting some B-roll of me blowing out my candles while Del and my parents looked on. But even at five, I’d refused to have a microphone clipped to the collar of my pink dress so that I could answer questions in front of a camera. And my parents never pushed me. When Molly asked again for my tenth birthday, I flatly refused, telling my parents they could go ahead and put me down as a no for all future television requests. The newspaper photos were one thing, but talking in front of a camera? No thank you please.

  I didn’t want to do it then, and I certainly am not going to do it now, when I’m wearing an I’M HOT ’N CRUSTY T-shirt and a matching baseball cap (not to mention the blooming whitehead right in the middle of my chin).

  “It’s just not for me,” I tell her, trying to match that mysterious accent she’s got going on. But instead I think I wind up sounding a little stoned. I remember my mom’s instructions: Be polite, but remember that “no” is a complete sentence. So I smile as warmly as I can. “But I appreciate your interest.”

  From the way her jaw is twitching, it looks like it’s taking a Herculean effort for Molly Landau to keep that local Emmy-winning smile plastered on her oddly ageless face. But she’s a professional, so of course she doesn’t crack.

  “Well, that’s unfortunate,” she says, and I don’t know if it’s the Botox or just good training, but her face manages to remain placid. “I really think a story like that could bring a lot of joy to people. The news is so negative these days, and I know folks would love to see an update from a bright young woman like yourself. It would be a great opportunity for you to talk about things that matter to you, maybe give a platform to a pet cause. And of course, it would make a wonderful addition to a college application.”

  She cocks an eyebrow at me, and I can tell she’s really giving it the business. But as my mom likes to say, “no” is the end of a conversation, not the start of negotiations. (See? My mom really is great at pep talks.)

  “Again, I appreciate that, but it just isn’t something I’m interested in,” I say. “Thank you for stopping by.”

  She nods, and I can practically hear her teeth grinding from over here.

  “Can I get you something to eat?” Julianne asks, leaning over the counter with a snide smile. I like this feisty, screwing-with-a-local-celebrity Julianne. “We could box it up to go.”

  Now Molly’s professional mask slips, her lip curling slightly. I wonder when Molly Landau last ate pizza. Or any complex carbohydrate.

  “No, thank you,” she says. She hoists her leather tote bag higher onto her shoulder and pivots on her impossibly high heel. “I need to get back to the station.”

  As she passes me, she reaches out for a handshake, but of course there’s something extra, too. Because when I grasp her hand, I feel her press a crisp card into my palm.

  “Do call me if you change your mind,” she says, her beauty queen smile back with a vengeance.

  “Thank you,” I say. I take the card and slide it into my pocket. “Again, I’m sorry you had to come all the way here for nothing.”

  With one last smile and a quick glance around the dining room, she’s gone.

  “Damn. You like, leaned in,” Julianne says when the door shuts behind Molly’s purple pencil skirt. I can’t believe it. I think Julianne just paid me a compliment.

  I blow out an enormous breath, my shoulders sagging, and it’s at that moment that I realize my hands are shaking. My shift hasn’t even started yet and I’m already sweating. I feel like I just walked out of the ring with a prizefighter and didn’t get knocked out. I don’t know how I managed to do that, except that the only thing worse would have been agreeing to do her ridiculous “package.”

  “Thanks,” I say to Julianne with a smile.

  I may have played at being confident and strong, but I don’t come by it naturally. I hope Molly doesn’t come back. I don’t know if I have it in me to say no again. I might just have to quit and convince my parents to move to another town.

  “I hate confrontation,” I tell Julianne, “but I hate being on TV even more.”

  “Do we embarrass you, Pizza Princess?”

  I look up from the counter and see Tristan hanging out in the doorway that leads into the kitchen. He’s smirking, because of course he is. And for maximum annoyance, he skulks back out through the kitchen before I can even try to say something back.

  And my shift hasn’t even started yet.

  “Yo, Del, how was your date?” Jason asks as Del emerges from the kitchen. I didn’t realize he was here, and thank god he didn’t come out while Molly was here. The two of them tag teaming would have been much harder to say no to.

  Del wipes his hands on his jeans, leaving a streak of flour. He must be helping Joey prep dough for the weekend, since dough is best after it’s been hanging around in the walk-in fridge for a few days. These are the facts that fill my head now.

  “Her cat was sick, so she had to leave early to take him to the vet. But I sent her a text message about seeing a movie this weekend, so hopefully we’ll get another try,” Del says, holding up both hands to show his fingers crossed. My heart breaks for the man. I mean, sure, he’s a bit of a goofball, but seeing him fail to recognize the “my cat is sick” date ditch tactic is like watching a puppy try to talk through a glass door.

  And then I watch Del turn and try to walk through the swinging door to the kitchen, only to miss and half crash into the doorframe. The poor man is so tragic.

  I follow him back to the office and clock in, securing my ball cap over my hair and dropping my purse in the corner. Then I return to the front where Julianne is carefully turning all the cash in the same direction in the register drawer while Lena, a day waitress who sometimes takes an extra evening shift on busy nights, is wiping down trays. I grab a rag and help her.

  “What do you think Del is doing wrong on his dates?” I ask, still feeling a truckload of sympathy for him and wanting to forget my local news showdown.

  “I think the date format does him no favors,” Lena says, dropping her rag as she secures her long braids in a tight bun on top of her head. “Del is … a lot, and when you trap all that energy and rampant positivity in a chair and aim it at another person sitting across the table, I’m guessing it can get a little relentless.”

  “That’s super insightful,” Julianne says, and I’m surprised that there’s no sneer, no gazing at her shoes. Talking to Lena, Julianne seems like a different person. Hell, with anyone in Hot ’N Crusty but me, she’s a downright social butterfly.

  “Also, that mustache is just tragic,” Lena adds, and we all nod.

  “You should be a life coach,” Julianne says, bumping the cash drawer closed with her hip. It gives back a little ding of protest. “You should be Del’s life coach.”

  “That is a made-up white people job,” Lena says. “I’m in school to be a family therapist. And Del cosigned my student loans, so no, I will not tell my boss he’s a bad date. Now excuse me, I need to deliver some breadsticks.” She turns and takes a basket from the pass-through and drops it on a freshly wiped tray. As soon as she’s gone, Julianne reverts back to her default setting with me: sullen with a side of withdrawn. But I can’t shake the look on her face while talking to Lena. And I start to wonder if maybe Julianne might warm up to me, too. I pin the notion to my mental corkboard. It would be an ongoing project, that’s for sure.

  The night is a total blur of activity. I remember Del telling me Friday nights are always nuts, and it doesn’t take me long
before all the training that was stuffed into my brain just sort of clicks. I stop worrying about messing things up because I’m too busy doing things. I take orders. I bus tables. I scoop what feels like eleven tons of ice into a billion red plastic cups, filling them at the soda fountain behind the register. I swipe debit cards and learn to studiously avoid eye contact as the person fills out the tip line, or busy myself as they reach for the tip jar positioned next to the register.

  I had a few stumbles, of course. There was the great vegan standoff with a dreadlocked white girl who clearly wandered into the wrong restaurant.

  “I’d like a large pizza with nut cheese,” she said.

  “With what?” I didn’t know what nut cheese is, but it sounded like an affliction for which you seek urgent medical care.

  “Nut cheese,” she said again, slowly like maybe I didn’t speak English. “It’s vegan cheese.”

  Vegan cheese? What’s the point? “Um, I don’t think we have that.” I glanced over my shoulder to check the board over my head, but I knew the answer. Hot ’N Crusty doesn’t even have gluten-free crust. I wouldn’t put hard money on Del stocking any kind of cheese-substitute. “I guess we could go no cheese if you want to make it vegan.”

  “You really should have a dairy-free option,” she replied.

  “Well, um, we don’t.”

  “You should.” She crossed her arms over her flannel shirt and cocked an eyebrow at me.

  We stared at each other for a few brutal seconds, enough time for me to contemplate how much it must have hurt when she had that ring shoved through her septum. Did she think I was lying about the nut cheese? Or maybe that some would magically appear if she scolded me long enough? Or maybe she wanted me to get in my car and drive over to the ShopRite and pick up a bag of it. Whatever it was, she wasn’t budging, so finally I just told her I’d find Del. He offered her a cheese-less pizza and a discount, which she took, grumbling about nut cheese the whole time.

  There was also the moment when a tray of eight sodas needed to be delivered to a table. The busers were busy, so I took a step toward it, even putting my hands on the edge of the tray with the kind of blind confidence of a person going ice-skating for the first time. Luckily, Julianne stepped in before I could wind up covered in about a hundred ounces of sticky liquid. Which I filed away as a sign that Julianne didn’t totally hate me. I mean, if I were her enemy, she probably would have sat back and enjoyed watching me take an impromptu soda bath. Julianne herself only made it out from behind the counter before Frank practically sprinted across the restaurant to pull the tray from her shoulder. Though I don’t think that one was about avoiding a disaster so much as a very enthusiastic act of chivalry. It hasn’t escaped my notice the way Frank tends to blush when he’s around Julianne.