Gabby’s face stretched in an enormous yawn. All these late nights trying to improve her calculus and physics grades were starting to add up, making her feel weary and headachy. She let out a long, defeated sigh and fell forward, resting her head on the counter. This was one reason she preferred manning the ticket window to selling concessions. Because of the set movie times, all the work came in waves, allowing her a break between features. Plus, it gave her a clear view of the parking lot so she could see when Pinkwater returned. Which shouldn’t be for another fifteen minutes. Giving her an opportunity to rest her eyes …
A sharp rapping sound jolted her upright. Gabby blinked rapidly, trying to refocus on her surroundings. Gradually, a figure came into view. Someone was standing just outside the glass partition. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Eyes the same color as the bottle of glass cleaner in the corner of the booth. Prentiss Applewhite. The town’s iconic rich boy … and the reason Sonny Hutchins was dead.
Again Gabby felt that ache in the exact center of her body, like the ghost pain of a missing vital organ. Prentiss freaking Applewhite was standing just a few inches away, looking at her. No, grinning at her. As if he didn’t have a care in the world. As if his presence, in and of itself, was a reason to rejoice.
But of course he’d feel that way. He had never had to pay for driving drunk and killing his cousin. His powerful family had stepped in to rescue him, as usual. They actually had the gall to go along with rumors that Sonny was the one driving when everyone knew it had to have been Prentiss on one of his drunken sprees. The Applewhites’ fairy-tale version even made it into the newspaper, such was their power. Some said they had paid people off. Whatever they’d done, it worked. As far as Gabby knew, Prentiss was never jailed or sentenced to pick up trash or even issued a ticket. Apparently laws didn’t apply to rich people. So in Prentiss’s mind he was perfect, and he probably assumed she thought the same.
“Hi there,” he said. He grinned at her, showing off flawlessly straight white—and no doubt expensive—teeth. The guy was incredibly handsome in that standard sort of way. Dazzling smile. Big, dopey-looking blue eyes. Short blond hair in some sort of hip, messy-on-purpose style, with bangs that stuck up like a fish fin. And the most ridiculously chiseled jaw. He was like a cartoon hunk come to life.
Even before the accident the town’s residents loved to talk about him. He and his family lived in a gigantic Victorian at the end of Elmhurst Drive, one of the nicest homes in the town, if not the whole county. Because the Applewhites deemed Barton schools not good enough for their precious son and sent him to some Episcopal academy in Austin, Prentiss sightings had always been limited to holidays, summertime, and occasional weekends. Gabby had only seen him a few times herself after the accident, driving around in his candy-apple-red Mustang (which was, surprisingly, still intact). But he’d hardly been spotted at all since he’d started at the University of Texas last fall.
So what was he doing there on a weekday? Didn’t he have classes?
Most likely he was skipping. Since being in one of the town’s wealthiest families gave him something like diplomatic immunity, Prentiss probably assumed a college degree was automatic, whether he went to class or not.
“Can I help you?” she asked through a tightly clenched smile.
“I don’t know …,” he said, his voice trailing off as he turned to peruse the Now Showing! movie ads along the brick wall of the cinema.
He didn’t know? Then why the hell had he bothered to knock?
Gabby impatiently tapped her pen against the counter, fighting the urge to spray him with glass cleaner through the tiny cutout hole. Meanwhile, Prentiss rocked on the heels of his Tony Lamas as he scanned the posters, completely disregarding the fact that he was wasting her time.
Oh, come on. It wasn’t as though they were great art. One, for a romantic schmaltzfest that Daphne had already seen twice called Love, Lorna, featured a tearstained letter in soft-focus. The next, which basically showed a pile of bloody body parts, was for a horror flick called Writhe. But the one Gabby hated the most was for the new movie that had just opened a couple of days ago. It depicted a stoic muscleman holding a machine gun while a leggy redhead sidled up against him. Snippets of reviews stood out in all-caps lettering across the top, with phrases like “HIGH-OCTANE!”—as if a film could fuel a pickup truck.
“So what’s good?” Prentiss said suddenly, turning to face her.
Gabby frowned. “You’re asking me what you should see?”
“I feel like a movie, but I’m bumfuzzled as to which one. You work here, right?”
“Obviously.”
“Well then, I figure you can recommend a good flick.”
“The Godfather is very good. You can even watch it from your home entertainment system. At home.”
Prentiss laughed. “I guess. But I kind of want the live theater experience. Surround sound. Popcorn. Surely you’re at least a little familiar with these here options.” He smiled wide, revealing his pearly teeth. “So what do you like?”
Gabby folded her arms over her chest. “Giving recommendations is not part of my job.”
“I suppose. But you could try to sell me on something. It probably wouldn’t hurt.” He continued to grin at her, as if she were some sassy court jester sent to amuse His Highness. “I mean, you do want my business, don’t you?”
“Frankly, it doesn’t matter to me whether you come in here or not. And anyway, they all suck.…” At that moment, Gabby noticed movement just past Prentiss’s left shoulder. Mr. Pinkwater’s gold Buick was pulling into its spot in the front row. “But … I guess if you really want a suggestion, you might like Rules of War. It’s supposed to be very”—she swallowed—“high-octane.”
“Cool. Give me one ticket, please.”
“Just one?”
He flashed another gleaming grin. “That depends. Would they let you come see it with me?”
Gabby could feel the blood percolating in her cheeks. She’d been surprised, that was all. She’d assumed he’d be meeting some giggly, jiggly thing with too much makeup. Only now he probably thought she wanted to check out the backseat of his Mustang.
“No. No …,” she stammered, wondering if she should try to explain.
“Aw, too bad. Then just one.” He slid a twenty-dollar bill into the tray at the bottom of the partition.
Her face still steaming, Gabby made his change and pressed the button for the ticket. “Thankyouverymuch. Theater’sonyourleft,” she said without making further eye contact. She was having a bad enough day without some tanned sociopath thinking she was melting under his smile. How could someone like him even be related to Sonny?
“Thanks for your help,” Prentiss said.
“Uh-huh,” she replied, still not glancing up. Instead, she concentrated on reorganizing the cash drawer.
“Hope you have a nice day,” he went on.
“Mmm,” she grunted as she straightened the stack of credit card receipts.
For several seconds he remained standing in front of her, either waiting for the usual squealing and panty throwing he got from local girls or to double-check that she’d handed him the right amount of money—she wasn’t sure since she wouldn’t look up. Eventually his shadow moved off, reexposing the setting sun behind him, and she could hear his cowboy boots clomping toward the entrance.
She had a minute and a half to feel relieved, and then Mr. Pinkwater’s stooped form shuffled into view, heading for the doors of the cinema.
“Mr. Pinkwater?” she called out. Unfortunately, he didn’t hear her and stepped through the entrance, the sparse fluff on his bald head flying upward as he passed under the AC vent.
Gabby groaned. Just her luck. Now she had to leave her post if she wanted to speak to him. For an old guy, he sure moved fast.
She could remember first meeting Mr. Pinkwater when she was little and her dad had brought her and Daphne to the movies. She’d thought he was ancient then, and that had been over a decade ago. She had
no clue what his actual age was, but she wouldn’t have been shocked to discover it was in the triple digits.
Mule’s hypothesis was that Pinkwater had actually died sometime near the turn of the millennium but just kept on working as a zombie. Not a bad theory, since he did have snaggly teeth and crepey, mildewy-looking skin that hung over his eyes and gathered in loose folds around his neck—and he did like to show the horror flicks. But Gabby doubted there were enough people with actual brains in Barton to sustain a real zombie.
She leaned the BE BACK SOON! sign against the window, stepped out the rear door of the ticket booth, and fell into step behind Mr. Pinkwater as he lurched across the lobby.
Lila, her loud, twentysomething coworker, was stretched across the candy counter in a cleavage-baring pose talking to Prentiss. As soon as she saw her boss, she quickly stood up straight and smoothed the front of her red polyester uniform.
Gabby caught up with Pinkwater at the door to his office. “Mr. Pinkwater? Could I speak with you for a second?”
His bleary eyes found hers. He looked inordinately shocked, as if he couldn’t understand what language she was speaking or even fathom what type of creature she was. “I suppose,” he said eventually, starting the sentence with a sigh. “Come inside.”
It took a couple of minutes for him to unlock his office, set down his briefcase, and settle into the leather chair that looked as cracked and ancient as he did. Meanwhile, Gabby stood patiently in front of his desk. She stared down into a cut-glass candy dish piled high with petrified peppermints and butterscotches, no doubt the very same mass of sweets that had been sitting in that bowl on the day he’d hired her—three years ago. It was a bad sign. Proof that Pinkwater had rarely asked people into his office for happy reasons, like raises and promotions.
Mr. Pinkwater looked over at her and frowned. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward a square metal and vinyl chair that had been shoved carelessly into the corner. As Gabby pulled it over to face his desk, she noted that the seat and armrests were covered with a fine layer of dust. Even more proof of Pinkwater’s bah-humbug, don’t-bother-me nature. While he busied himself with some papers, she snatched a Kleenex from a box on the desk and wiped off the cushion before settling onto it.
Gabby glanced at the clock on the wall above Mr. Pinkwater’s shiny head and realized that her sister was probably applying for the hostess job that very moment. Hopefully she’d get it—if she had even remembered to show up, of course. Gabby closed her eyes and sent out a cosmic plea that Daphne wasn’t doing anything stupid during the interview, like smacking gum or texting her latest guy obsession. Please don’t let her start doing cheers when they ask about her experience, she urged the forces of the universe.
Then again, knowing the way things were, probably all Daphne had to do was smile and bounce and she’d get the job.
Eventually Pinkwater finished messing with his files and looked up at Gabby. “Now then,” he said, his chair letting out a crackling sound as he leaned forward. “What’s so important that you are leaving the theater short-staffed for almost five minutes?”
Gabby bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from pointing out that he had kept her waiting.
“I was wondering … since I’ve worked here for a few years now … and I think I do a pretty good job … would it be possible for me to get …” She met his eyes—two glints of blue ice amid all that saggy flesh—and swallowed hard. “… a small raise?”
Mr. Pinkwater started shaking his head the second she stopped talking. “No, no. That’s just not possible.”
She’d been expecting this answer, but it still bothered her that he couldn’t even pretend to think it over. “Why not?”
His brows rose, lifting mounds of skin so that his upper lashes were actually visible, and the craggy slits of his eyes regarded her for a long moment. Obviously no one had ever questioned him like this before. Gabby started to panic, worried that he might get angry enough to fire her. Then she’d really have failed her mom.
“It’s my policy,” he replied. “Yes, you’ve worked here a good while—longer than most. And yes, you do good work. But you’ll be going off to college in less than a year, right?”
“Well … yes. I mean, I hope so.”
“You see? I lose most of my teenaged employees after three years, tops. I’ve got to save raises for the people who stick around. People with families.”
“But I’m trying to help my family.”
“Yes, yes. I know cell phone bills can be big. But there’s nothing I can do. Maybe if you young people spend less time texting, you’ll find yourself with more money. You should learn that before you go off to college.”
“But that’s not … I don’t …” Gabby pursed her lips and inhaled deeply through her nose, trying to cool the inferno raging inside her.
It was the stupidest of reasons. She was being denied a raise because she was smart and determined enough to go to college? Because Pinkwater thought all teens were irresponsible? She wanted to help with food and rent, not waste money on expensive clothes or the latest gaming system!
Only now it was too late. Mr. Pinkwater was already back on his feet and trundling toward the door. Judging by the steep curve of his frown, there would be no further explanation or second thoughts. She knew she’d already pushed things as far as she could with him.
“Thank you, sir. For … listening,” she said as she stepped back into the glare of the lobby.
He waved away her words with a big mottled claw of a hand. “Yes, yes. Get back to work now,” he said before shutting the door.
Gabby clenched her teeth and fists. Creepy old velociraptor! Normally she respected Mr. Pinkwater. He wasn’t exactly likeable, but at least he wasn’t calling her sugar and making chitchat about the football team like all the other shopkeepers in town. Right now, though, she wanted to string him up by his scaly hide and hang him next to the giant inflated hot dog above the snack bar.
She spun around angrily and nearly collided with Prentiss, who had walked up behind her for some stupid reason.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed, rearing back slightly. His right hand held a jumbo bucket overflowing with popcorn—obviously the work of Lila, who was known to short cups and cartons by a centimeter if she didn’t like someone. “What’s up? Bad day?”
He was still wearing a big doofus grin, as if everything around him were happening for his own amusement. As if nothing could ever go wrong. And even if something did—like a drunken joyride that caused a pesky car crash and ended someone’s life—then Mommy and Daddy and all his fawning sycophants would step in to make it better.
This was a guy who would never have to work hard. A guy who had no idea what it was like to feel real frustration or disappointment or guilt.
Suddenly all the anger she felt toward Pinkwater shifted onto Prentiss, and if she hadn’t been absolutely certain it would cost her her job, she would have punched him in his perfect-right-triangle nose.
“Excuse me,” she muttered, and scurried past him to the box office before he could ask her which theater seat she recommended he sit in.
Oh, it was a bad day, all right. One of the worst. As if some archnemesis were sticking pins in her voodoo doll likeness. She had failed with apartment managers and she had failed with her boss. And the only person willing to talk to her was the most morally reprehensible guy in Barton.
Once she reached the snug safety and quiet of the ticket booth, Gabby rested her head on her hands and gazed out the partition glass, trying to clear her mind of Pinkwater’s scowling face and Prentiss’s idiotic grin.
Across the parking lot, a girl was strolling down the sidewalk of Bowie Street. Maybe it was the tilt of the head and the goofy half smile on her face. Or maybe it was the slow, twisted way she was walking with a gigantic plastic-wrapped garment slung over her shoulder. But something made Gabby fix on the girl and recognize her as Daphne.
And something else—perhaps the fact that she was two miles
away from the Lucky Wishbone restaurant, ambling at the pace of a drunk snail—told Gabby that her sister, once again, had forgotten to apply for the hostess job.
The bad day had just gotten worse.
Daphne slowly turned the knob and eased the front door open a couple of inches. The living room was empty, and she could hear muffled voices coming from her mom’s bedroom. If she was quick and quiet, she could make it.
She widened the gap enough to slide inside, careful not to push it open to the angle where the hinges creaked and making sure her plastic-swathed dress didn’t snag on the scuffed wood. Then she silently shut the door and tiptoed to her room. The plastic rustled a bit and the floor let out a faint moan when she stepped into the hallway, but otherwise she made no sound.
There, she thought as she opened her side of the closet and hung the dress on the far end of the rod. It gleamed slightly in the half-light like a gold nugget in a pan of pebbles, and she wondered if Gabby would notice. No, she decided. Gabby didn’t even seem to take stock of her own clothes. Why would she go through Daphne’s?
She slid the door shut, spun around, and instantly let out a squeal of surprise. Gabby was standing in the doorway to their room.
“So you’re home,” she said. Her wavy hair hung down around her shoulders, free of its usual clips and elastics. She looked pretty but stony. Like a Roman statue. “Please tell me you applied for that job.”
Daphne was prepared for this. Her mouth curved in a weak grin and she wrinkled her forehead apologetically. Now, what was it she was going to say? Something about after-school tutoring?
“I knew it!” Gabby exclaimed, before Daphne had a chance to launch into her rehearsed explanation. “So what’s your excuse this time, huh? That you had to buy a dress?”
A prickly feeling spread over Daphne, like a sudden rash. “How did you …?”
Sass & Serendipity Page 8
