Under the Moon

by Deborah Kerbel

  “No car?”

  I shake my head. Crap, crap, crap! Is there enough light for him to see the sudden gush of sweat flooding my upper lip?

  “This is a drive-thru, you know?” Is that a smile or a sneer he’s trying to hold back?

  I shrug, trying my best to look nonchalant (which is French for cool, in case you don’t know). “I was out for a walk and I got hungry. Sue me.”

  “Whatever,” he says, reaching out to take my money. I drop the coins into his palm, careful not to touch my slimy, sweaty hands to his smooth, tanned skin. He takes the money and tosses it into the open cash register, like it’s garbage he’s glad to be rid of. Then he stands up and turns around to get my food. I rise up on my toes to watch him scoop my fries into a bag and pour my caffeine into a cup. The long, toned muscles in his shoulders and back stick out through the thin layer of his cheap polyester uniform. When he turns back to me, my eyes quickly drop to the ground before he can catch me looking.

  “Here.” It comes out more like a grunt than a word.

  Nice. I guess when you look that good, it’s easy to get through life without a sparkling personality.

  “Thanks.” I take a greasy fry from the bag and pop it into my mouth. It’s cold and way too heavy on the salt. “Yum,” I lie, forcing myself to swallow. “Did you make these?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbles, reaching out to slide the window closed again with a loud bang. Once I’ve been nicely shut out, he leans back on his swivel chair, tilts his dimpled chin up to the ceiling, and closes his eyes. I stare at him in complete shock.

  Quel rudeness! Sure, the people in our village have their faults, but bad manners isn’t one of them. I mean, if you ran a local over with your car, chances are they’d apologize for getting in the way and offer to buy you a cup of tea. Dragging some soda up through the straw, I start to walk across the dark, empty parking lot. My head hangs low as my brain races with questions.

  What’s that guy’s problem? It’s like he thinks he’s better than me or something! I mean, who exactly does he think he is? Just because you’re good looking, doesn’t mean you have free licence to be an idiot! Just my luck. The only person awake on this side of the world and he’s a total prick.

  Now I’m starting to get angry.

  Um, have I mentioned yet that I’m prone to great acts of stupidity when I get angry?

  Spinning around on my heel, I march back toward the drive-thru, determined to set this guy straight. When I bang on the window, he’s so startled he almost falls out of his chair (which gives me more than a small moment of satisfaction).

  The window slides open, only a couple of inches this time. The scowl on his face tells me just how pissed he is to have his nap interrupted. “What now?”

  Okay, so whatever feeble attempt at customer service he’d been making the first time is officially over and done with.

  “I have something to say. Can I come in?” I ask, pointing inside to his crappy little cubicle.

  For a second or two, Rude Dude is speechless. And then a streak of anger rolls over his face. It really can’t be easy to pull off good-looking and grumpy at the same time, but somehow this guy is able to swing it. If I wasn’t so pissed off, I might have been impressed.

  “No, you can’t come in,” he growls, and starts to slam the window again. But I’m faster than he is. I reach out and push my cup of soda onto the track before it can close all the way. The metal frame crushes the cup as it makes contact, splashing the remains of my soda across the counter.

  “Look what you did!” he yells, scrambling around for some napkins. But I’m too mad to even think about apologizing.

  “You know, just because I don’t have a car doesn’t give you the right to be so obnoxious,” I yell, ignoring the mess of soda pooling in front of me. “Did you know that cars idling at drivethrus are major contributors to carbon dioxide emissions? Or are you one of those selfish, clued-out idiots who don’t give a rat’s ass about the environment?”

  Yeah, I’m angry now, and the word-vomit is out of my control.

  “I mean, you should totally be thanking me for walking through here, you know?” I blabber on. “If anyone should be acting so high and mighty, it should definitely be me. I’m the solution here, not the problem!”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to stuff them back in.

  I’m the solution? Ugh, did I really just say that?

  I wait for the inevitable explosion of rudeness. But it doesn’t come. For the first time tonight, Rude Dude actually looks awake. And … is he smiling? Merde, does he think that was funny? Or worse, cute? My hands fly up to cover my burning cheeks as I watch him get up from the chair and leave his little room. A second later, a bright red door swings open from the brick building beside me.

  “Okay, if you want to talk so badly, come in,” he says, motioning me inside with a tilt of his gorgeous head. Yeah, he’s definitely smiling. Which just makes him even better looking than before.

  Oh man, my pulse is hammering in my ears! Can he hear that?

  Sucking in a deep breath, I clutch my bag of icky fries to my chest and walk through the red door. The whole time, the little voice at the back of my brain is screaming out a warning.

  Be careful, Lily. What exactly are you getting yourself into?

  Which sounds exactly like something my mother would say. Strangely enough, there’s a second little voice screaming in my brain too. This one is a bit louder. And it sounds just like Aunt Su.

  Yeah, he’s hot! You go for it, Lily-girl!

  FIVE

  Rude Dude leads me into the crappy cubicle, drags out a small stool from under the counter, and motions for me to sit. He leans back in his chair and stretches his long legs out toward me. I can tell right away that the holes in his jeans are the artificial, fancy-designer kind that have been cut and frayed to look cool. My eyes hop around the tiny room as I lower my butt onto the narrow stool. There’s a black leather jacket hanging off the back of his chair. The arms of the jacket are so long, the sleeves drag on the dusty floor. In front of the computer monitor, there’s a shiny silver iPod hooked up to a small speaker and playing a melancholy British rock tune. Beside it, there’s a blank notebook page, a Sharpie pen, and a half-read novel sitting splayed open — in the exact same way Mom always warns me about. You’ll ruin that book’s spine, Lily MacArthur.

  I peek at the novel’s title. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. Why am I not surprised?

  The air in the cubicle feels sticky and damp with cooking oil. And no wonder: the entire far end of the room is taken up with a slick, industrial-sized grill and fryer covered in grease and towering stacks of orange paper containers and bags. The space is so small and cluttered, there’s barely room to scratch an itch. I can’t imagine spending hours here on my own. Despite all his bad manners, I actually find myself feeling sorry for Rude Dude. Is it actually possible that someone else’s nights are worse than mine?

  “Okay, you’re here,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “So what do you want to talk about so badly?”

  Eyebrows arched, he leans forward on the chair to hear my reply. A thin chain dangles out from the V of his uniform shirt collar. There’s a solid silver initial ring hanging off the bottom of the chain like a pendant. SB. Somehow, I’m pretty sure those aren’t his initials. Just by looking at it, I know the ring is way too small to fit any of his fingers. My mind stretches wide with possibilities. Who does it belong to and why the hell is he wearing it around his neck?

  He leans a bit further, and suddenly he’s so close I can see the fine, dark hairs of a beard sprouting out through his tanned skin. I take a shaky gulp of air and inhale the smell of toothpaste on his breath.

  Cool spearmint — oh my!

  I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my own breath (did I brush my teeth tonight?) and the little red zit on my chin that I doused with Clearasil just an hour before jumping out my window, and my sticking-out-like-a-chimpanzee ears, and my jagged mess of a haircut from
two weeks ago when I tinted it purple and trimmed it in one of those impulsive moments of stupid bravado that inevitably end up in disaster.

  And in that instant, every last drop of my earlier courage disappears. The best I can muster up for a reply is a squeaky, teeny-tiny, flower-girl voice.

  “Well, I um, kind of said it all out there.”

  “The emissions thing?”

  Nod.

  With a bored-sounding sigh, he leans back on his chair again. I have to admit, the little bit of distance is a welcome relief. “Yeah, I heard that too. But that report was actually ripped apart by a later study suggesting that — unless there’s a huge lineup of idlers in front of you — parking your car, walking into the restaurant, and then reigniting the engine is probably worse for creating carbon dioxide emissions than driving through. In the future, if you’re going to go around spouting science, get it right,” he said. “And also, for your information, I bike to work. And everywhere else for that matter. So you can save your whole ‘I’m the solution to the problem’ bit for someone else.”

  “Oh.” My entire face is burning with a mortified heat. I feel like grabbing one of those paper bags and pulling it down over my head.

  “I’m disappointed. For a minute, I thought you actually had something interesting to say. Sure there isn’t anything else you wanted to tell me?”

  I clear my throat, hoping to scrape the squeak out of my voice. “Well, yeah, you were pretty mean back there. All I was trying to do was order food. Haven’t you ever heard that customers are always right?”

  “Okay, sorry. You’re right.”

  An awkward silence wraps around the room while Rude Dude scratches his scruffy cheeks and stares at me thoughtfully.

  “That all?”

  I nod again.

  “So if you’re done with your little tirade, maybe you could answer a question for me?”

  “O-kaaay.”

  “Tell me what a kid like you is doing up so late at night. It’s past four in the morning.”

  My eyes dive down to the floor as my brain scrambles to come up with something. The truth is too hard to explain and too far out to believe. I’m a freak who can’t sleep and I’ll probably be dead in a few days and I don’t want to die alone like my Aunt Su so I’ve been wandering around in the dark looking for company.

  Yeah, sounds pretty lame. And this guy probably wouldn’t care anyway. “I … I just couldn’t sleep,” I lie. “And it was a nice night, so —”

  “So you figured you’d come here and harass the drive-thru attendant?”

  My mouth drops open. “I’m harassing you?” Why does it totally feel like it’s the other way around?

  The corners of his lips curl down into a frown. “And anyway, aren’t you a bit young to be wandering around by yourself in the middle of the night? I mean, don’t you have crime rates here? Are small-town people really so ridiculously trusting?”

  Man, this guy has some serious charm issues! Suddenly on the defensive, I sit up as tall as I can on that stupid little stool and summon up my most disdainful expression — which isn’t as easy as it sounds. Trust me, if you haven’t been cursed with shortness, then you have no idea how hard it is to look badass when you’re five foot nothing. “I’m almost sixteen, which is plenty old enough to be out at night. And anyway, what about you? Aren’t you a bit young to be working the graveyard shift in a drive-thru?”

  His sleepy, bored voice suddenly turns sharp. “Well, I am sixteen. And what I’m doing here is none of your business.”

  Those last four words come at me like flying circus knives. I have to swallow hard to push down the lump that’s rising in my throat. Okay, I can take a hint. Time to change the subject.

  “So, is it always this busy around here?”

  Shrug.

  Unbelievable, now he’s pouting like a little kid who got his cookie taken away. I try again. “What do you do in this room all night? Don’t you get lonely?”

  “I read. And I sleep. At least I try to. Now that the season’s over, it’s pretty dead. You’re my first customer in three days.”

  “You mean nights.”

  “Whatever.”

  I shift my weight on the stool, searching my brain for something interesting to say. Not because I care what he thinks, really. I just don’t want to seem like one of those twits from school who gets tongue-tied around good-looking guys.

  “So, um, what do your parents say about you working the night shift?”

  Ugh, I feel like slapping myself. Just brilliant, twit!

  It’s obvious my idiocy offends him. His eyes darken at the mention of his parents and his mouth twists into a weird line. “Not much,” he snaps, the words landing like a couple of bricks at my feet. And right then and there, I decide it’s time to stop asking this guy personal questions. Everything about him is warning me to stop — like he’s just slammed the door shut on his personal life.

  Cue to exit, Lily!

  I rise to my feet, still gripping the bag of uneaten fries. “So, maybe I should just let you go back to your nap?”

  “Wait a sec,” he says, nodding in the direction of my uneaten food. Dark grease has covered the bottom half of the paper bag, turning the bright orange into a slimy, wet brown. “I just want to say … well, those fries are crap. You don’t have to pretend they’re any good. I made them about five hours ago.” As if to apologize, he takes the bag from my hand and hurls it into the trash can on the other side of the room. He looks at me and shrugs. And in that quick flash of a second, he actually looks kind of guilty. “I shouldn’t have sold them to you. I can make you a fresh batch if you want.”

  What? A fresh batch? Is it possible that just maybe he isn’t a total cad? Warmed as I am by the gesture, I have to refuse. “No thanks. I better get going before my mom notices I’m gone and calls the police.”

  So, just between you and me, that’s a lie. Mom would never notice I’m gone because she never wakes up. Neither does Dad, for that matter. My parents are the complete opposite of me (just further proof of my genetic mutation). If they don’t get their solid eight hours a night, they get really grumpy and mean. No, Mom isn’t going to wake up. But still, I figure it’s probably a good idea to end this strange little rendezvous on a high note.

  “See you later,” I say, pulling open the red door.

  “Yeah,” Rude Dude replies.

  With a wave over my shoulder, I step out into the night. Call me crazy, but it feels like he’s actually sorry to see me go.

  Maybe that’s why I can’t resist taking one last peek at him as I walk away from the drive-thru. He’s sitting in his chair facing the window and his face is lit up by the neon orange sign shining down from outside. His hands are folded behind his head and he’s leaning back with his eyes closed, as if he’s already asleep. With his face all calm and peaceful like that, he looks even better than before, and I actually have to stop myself from going back there and knocking on his window again. What is wrong with me? There are plenty of good-looking guys at my school, but I’ve never gotten so unglued over any of them before. What makes this guy so different?

  That’s when I notice a heavy wristband of silver and gold winking out from beneath his cheap uniform sleeve. Whoa — nice watch, man! Even from a distance, I can tell it’s expensive. Suddenly, red flags started waving all around my brain. Who exactly is this guy and why is he working the crappiest job known to mankind? iPod, designer jeans, leather jacket, nice watch — he definitely doesn’t look like a guy who needs cash this badly. I mean, can you think of a worse job than the graveyard shift at a deserted drive-thru stand in an out-of-the-way village? How does he have such expensive things if he makes minimum wage? Is he some kind of drug dealer? Or maybe the job is a mafia cover. Or maybe he’s in the witness protection program and there’s a team of highly trained killers on his tail. My imagination swirls with scenarios all the way home as the gravel road Cinammon-Toast-Crunches beneath my shoes.

  It isn’t until I’m
sneaking up the stairs to my bedroom that I realize I didn’t even ask his name.

  SIX

  September 7th

  It wasn’t technically what you’d call a daydream. More like a daymare, I guess. I was staring out the kitchen window imagining the details of my upcoming funeral ceremony. Mom and Dad are there, of course, along with my cousin Robert from Rouyn-Noranda, Mr. Duffy, and Ms. Harris, my teacher from last year. That’s it. Pretty poor showing, if you ask me. But at least everyone’s crying — that’s a small consolation. Ms. Harris is particularly sobby. And when she throws herself onto my lowering coffin and wails out a teary apology for the C she gave me in Poetry last year, I can actually feel myself smile through the daymare. Suddenly, Rude Dude walks into the scene and lays a fresh carton of french fries at my grave. He shuffles his feet on the artificial grass and opens his mouth to say something. But I never get the chance to find out what because that’s the exact moment when Dad’s voice punctures my thoughts.

  “Almost forgot — a letter came for you yesterday, Sweetness.”

  I look up to see him lumbering across the peeling linoleum floor holding the letter and wearing a grin. Quite obviously thrilled to be the bearer of good news. “And it’s not a credit card company trying to sell you your first debt-by-plastic. It looks like a real, honest-to-goodness, handwritten letter.” My dad is like a giant, overeager puppy sometimes — and most especially on the rare occasions when I come to stay with him. I live with Mom pretty much all the time. I love my dad, but his condo is small and the only bed he has for me is the lumpy pull-out couch in the living room. Not that I really care about comfort, but when you can’t sleep, it’s nice to have a room of your own to pass the hours. For years, he’s been promising to get a bigger place with a proper room for me. But I know that costs a lot of money and my dad’s not exactly a billionaire. Even though he works like a dog, when you manage a local non-profit charity there’s not much extra room in the paycheque for luxuries like real-estate upgrades. Mom is the money-maker in our family — which is just fine with Dad. Simple things make him happy. I’m pretty sure that if he won the lottery tomorrow, he’d give it all to his charity so he could keep living the way he always has. My dad loves life. Big time. If people were fonts, my dad would be something like SNAP. Bold, crisp, and one of a kind.