Joyride

by Anna Banks

  I cross my arms and start to walk in a circle. A tight circle that traumatized people walk in when they’re trying to get a grip. “He’s stalking me,” I say more to myself than to him. “Why is he stalking me?” I stop and face him. “Why would you stalk me?”

  He looks mortified at the thought. “That’s reaching a bit, don’t you think?”

  “Look up the definition of stalker, then get back to me on that one.”

  He shakes his head, cussing under his breath. Then he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a folded-up piece of paper. Slowly, he hands it to me. “This is the restaurant. They need a waitress for Saturday and Sunday mornings. You’ll need to talk to Miss May. She’s the manager. Tell her I sent you and you’ve got the job.”

  I open up the paper and examine it:

  Uppity Rooster Café

  Miss May

  Saturday + Sunday from 6 am to 1 pm

  I’ve never seen Arden’s handwriting before, but I’m betting it’s his. It’s definitely boy-scrawl, anyway. It doesn’t have all the frilly loops and neatness of a woman’s penmanship. “I don’t understand” is all I can say.

  He sniffs. “Look, I know I’ve pissed you off worse than an alligator in a bathtub. But I’m trying to make it up to you. This is a good-paying job. These two shifts are the best, and I guarantee you’ll make more money there than the Breeze Mart. I talked to one of the servers who used to work there. She said she can make up to three hundred dollars a shift. Cash.”

  Three hundred bucks a shift. That’s nearly six hundred dollars a week. That’s more than double what I make at the Breeze Mart. “I’ve never waitressed before,” I admit, awestruck at the revelation. Julio would melt in my hands if I brought home that kind of money.

  “How hard can it be? You learn the menu, take people’s orders, then bring it to their table. Believe me, if Rose can be a waitress, you can.”

  I don’t know who Rose is, but Arden’s argument seems valid. I’m not helpless. I’m a hard worker—that is, if there was actually hard work to do at the Breeze Mart. “But then I’d be working seven days a week.” I say this more to myself than to Arden.

  Standing at the Breeze Mart cash register isn’t exactly strenuous, but never getting a day off? Could I really do that? In the back of my mind, I think about my grades. I know it’s wrong to think about myself at a time like this, to think about what if. What if I can keep my grades up and get a scholarship after my family gets back to the States? What if I can make something of myself? But I have to let go of selfish thoughts like that. I have to keep focused on the most important thing. As Julio says, family first.

  But the disappointment frothing in my stomach betrays me.

  “Why would you need to work at both places?” Arden says. “Think how much more time you’ll have during the week if you just work weekends.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t need time. I need money.”

  Arden bites his lip. “Can I just interject something here without getting you all pissed off again?”

  Knowing Arden, probably not. “Sure.”

  “Well, it just seems that you’re uptight all the time. I know you and your brother need money, and I don’t blame you for wanting to take on both jobs. It’s just … what about you? This is supposed to be the best time of your life. Geez, we’re in high school. We’re supposed to look back on this time in our life and remember how fun it was. How can you do that if you work yourself to death?”

  “When I look back, I’ll have something to be proud of. That I helped my family.” I don’t expect Arden to understand. Really and truly I don’t. But I don’t want to have to explain it to him, either. Especially when doubt has become a congealed puddle in my gut.

  “You said that if you didn’t have to work so much you’d spend time with me. That you wouldn’t mind having a little fun. Was that a bunch of BS?”

  I look down at the paper in my hands. He’s gone to a lot of trouble on my behalf. This boy who has pulled a gun on me, scared my friend half to death, stolen my bike (twice), insulted me in front of practically the entire school (accounting for gossip), and held me hostage for one-point-five minutes.

  This boy who stood up for me in the hall, gave me a ride home, let me dump a carton of milk on him without retribution, checked on me at the store in the middle of the night, and has now procured me a good-paying job if I so want it.

  God, but Arden Moss is confusing. Confusing, and persistent.

  I meet his eyes. “I’ll check into this restaurant thing. And we’ll go from there. No promises.”

  His eyes light up. “Awesome. You’ll need to see Miss May this Saturday at two p.m. That’s when things slow down at the café.”

  “Wait. Isn’t this place in Destin? That’s too far for me to ride my bike.”

  “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Every Saturday and Sunday? I don’t see that working out.” It’s not just that Arden isn’t what I would call dependable. Even if he keeps his word and picks me up, I’m afraid of what Julio may think of it. And especially what Julio will think of it when he finds out whose son Arden is.

  That’s when I decide that Julio will never find out. Problem solved, right?

  Arden shrugs, unconcerned. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

  “Do I even dare ask what you expect in return?” It’s a valid question and we both know it. Our little lunchtime squabble replays in my head. I’ll pay you for your company. Oh. My. God.

  Arden grimaces. “Consider it penance for my sins.”

  “How about gas money instead?”

  “Deal.”

  * * *

  I wait for Miss May on the bench seat in front of the hostess stand. There are still a few tables with guests in the dining room and I wonder if I’ve come too early. “She’ll be right with you,” the hostess says.

  The restaurant is fancier than I expected and I’m immediately intimidated. The last time I sat at a table with an actual tablecloth on it was never. Orange juice is served in what looks like wineglasses. There are decorative roosters everywhere, some made of cast iron, some made of porcelain, some small, some large, some almost hidden among the others. It’s the mascot of the place, apparently. It’s definitely uppity. And rooster-y.

  I take a menu from the stand to study, in case Miss May is in the quizzing mood and I’m disgruntled to find that even the menu is made with fancy paper and ornate font, and the prices are listed as whole numbers without the cents or a dollar sign or anything. It lists things like Blackberry Grits and Baked Brie Delight.

  Definitely intimidating.

  While I’m trying to memorize the names of the scrambles—so far I’ve got The Floridian, The Hey Lucy! and the Bacquezo down—an older woman with wise eyes tips down the menu to peer at me. Her reading glasses almost slip off the tip of her nose.

  “Carly, I presume?” she says. Great. She says things like “presume.” I’m screwed.

  “Yes,” I say. “Miss May, I presume?” Yep, didn’t pull it off. The older lady smirks, but not unkindly.

  “Yes. Would you like to come sit with me? I have an open table in the corner where we can chat.”

  The table is set for four with real cloth napkins wrapped around the silverware and fancy wineglass thingies and a lovely bouquet of hydrangeas in the center that might actually be real. And did I mention there’s a white tablecloth?

  I pull up one of the plush comfortable chairs and wait for Miss May to speak. I’m suddenly less intimated by the tablecloth and more grateful for it because it hides my hands fidgeting like mad in my lap.

  “So, you know Arden from school?” I can tell by the look in her eyes she thinks I’m dating him.

  “He’s in a few of my classes,” I say. I don’t want her to think we’re dating, but what if she’s only considering giving me this job because she thinks we’re dating?

  “He’s a sweet boy.” She’s baiting me.

  “Is he?”

  She laughs.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a waitress tucked into a corner table on the opposite side of the room. She’s counting a giant wad of cash, bill by bill, and I can tell they’re not all ones. I’m hoping Miss May doesn’t ask me directly if I’m dating Arden, because now I’m tempted to lie just to get this job.

  I need a job that offers wads of cash that aren’t all ones.

  “He is when he wants to be,” she says. “So. Down to business. When can you start?”

  Okay, good. No lying involved. “Today. Right now.”

  She smiles, nodding. “That’s a good answer, Carly. But I won’t put you to work on the spot like that. Can you come in tomorrow morning? And I’m talking early, about six o’clock. I need you to replace one of my openers. Is waking up early an issue for you? That’s the one problem I always have when I hire a teenager.”

  “I’m a morning person,” I say, and it’s actually the truth, but by now I would tell her anything to get this job. I visualize in my head how many shifts and wads of cash it would take to get my parents back to the States. I imagine a huge box that I keep stuffing money into and then presenting it to Julio with a big bow on the top.

  “Good. We’ll do all the paperwork today so you can start training first thing in the morning. I’ll supply you with a couple of our logo T-shirts and an apron, but you’ll be responsible for wearing nonslip shoes and nice black pants to work.”

  I nod, relieved that I already have those things from working at the Breeze Mart. “So that’s it? I’m hired?”

  “You’re hired. Any friend of Arden Moss is a friend of mine. I just hope you’re a good friend and a good waitress.” She chuckles. “But there’s a secret to making money here, Carly. Would you like me to share that secret with you?”

  I nod.

  “Secret is ‘yes.’ That’s your answer to everything our guests ask of you. If they ask if they can have an extra plate with butter on the left side, you say yes. If they want their coffee mug heated in the microwave before you even pour the first cup, you say yes. If they want you to take a picture of their family sitting at the table—even if you’re up to your eyeballs in work and don’t have time for it—you say yes. Yes makes money for all of us. Think you can manage that?”

  “Absolutely yes.”

  * * *

  Arden puts the truck in park on the side of the road. The headlights of an oncoming car light up the cabin, illuminating his disdain. “The least you could do is act happy even if you’re withering on the inside,” he says. Then he mumbles something that sounds like “grouchiest person on the planet.”

  I sigh, watching him take out a pocketknife and open the small cardboard box in his lap. He pulls out what looks like a bunch of crayons all attached together. “I’m not withering on the inside, I’m just tired and I have to get up early in the morning, remember? What is that?”

  “Fireworks, of course. I told you, we’re celebrating.”

  When the next car passes by, I see on the label of the box that the “fireworks” are actually Black Cats. Who celebrates with Black Cats? They’re just loud and annoying—nothing pretty or celebratory about them. “There’s nothing to celebrate. I got the job because of you, not anything extraordinary that I did to earn it.”

  “Who cares how you got it? I swear you’re determined to be miserable.”

  I yawn. “Six o’clock comes early for the both of us. It’s almost eleven. You’re not getting out of giving me a ride.” It bugs me to have to depend on Arden for a ride, but I don’t want to take any chances on being late in the morning so riding my bike is out of the question, in case I misjudge how long it will take me to get there. It’s way farther than the Breeze Mart, and I’ll probably drop ten pounds just from the commute, but I’m still practically salivating over the thought of being flush with cash. Riding my trusty old bike a few extra miles one way is so worth it.

  A tiny pang of guilt washes over me; I haven’t told Julio about the restaurant gig yet. In fact, he would probably (possibly) be wondering where I am right now, except I told him I picked up an extra shift at the Breeze. He doesn’t expect me home until I’ll be leaving again—at which point I guess I’ll break down and tell him that I have another job. I didn’t want to tell him yet though. I don’t want to get his hopes up about bringing in extra income in case the job doesn’t work out for whatever reason.

  It’s just that Julio holds tightly to his hopes. They are fragile, delicate things and he clings to them with a desperation I pray I’ll never know. Sometimes I don’t think it’s even that he misses our parents. I think it’s that he’s terrified of being responsible for me all by himself.

  I think Julio feels like he’s alone.

  He’s never said that, of course, but how can he not feel that way? Maybe when I start bringing in more money, he won’t feel so burdened with me. Maybe he’ll start to look at me as a true helper instead of an obligation.

  “Seriously, can we skip the celebration tonight? I’ve got to get some sleep.” I don’t want to screw this up. So much depends on it. I glance down at my study menu wishing it were still daylight so I could see the ingredients of the Fountainbleau omelette. The more I can memorize now, the less time I’ll have to spend training, the sooner I can make my own money and not split it with the trainer.

  Arden’s face falls and I almost regret my tone. But I can’t afford feeling sorry for Arden Moss. Not if he’s going to jeopardize the job he just got me. “Just one hour?” he pleads. “I’ll get you to your house by midnight, I swear.”

  “Fine, but you have to keep ordering stuff from me.”

  He purses his lips. “Let me see the menu.”

  I hand it to him and turn on the overhead light. His eyes scan up and down. “I’ll have the Veggie Delight, no bell peppers.”

  “It doesn’t come with bell peppers, sir. Just mushrooms, tomatoes, and spinach.”

  He grins. “Good job.”

  I grin, too. “Okay, one more order and then we’ll celebrate.”

  “I want the, uh … Black Bean Benedict, please. With the sauce on the side.” I can tell by his expression that he would never in a million years order this, which is hard not to find charming.

  His order stumps me, though. I have no idea what sauce he’s talking about. “Uh, okay.”

  “You’re faking it, I can tell. What’d you forget?”

  “The sauce.”

  “It’s chipotle hollandaise sauce, whatever that is.”

  I sigh. Hollandaise sauce? Might as well be blueberry ketchup for all I know. It makes me feel better that Arden doesn’t know what it is either. “I’m going to screw this up.”

  “No, you’re not. It’s not even your first day. Geez, calm down. It’s probably just a fancy word for ranch or something.”

  “It’s not just that,” I say, aware that my voice has now grown whiny. “How can I recommend any of the menu items if I’ve never had it before? And I can’t afford to have it, even with my employee discount.”

  “You’re overthinking this. And you’re sitting on my slingshot.”

  “What?” I feel around under me and sure enough, there is a small metal slingshot with rubber tubing. “Why do you have a slingshot?”

  “For these,” he points down to the pile of Black Cats in his lap. “We’re going hunting.”

  “We definitely are not going hunting,” I say with finality. I only eat animals out of the package.

  “Well, we’re going terrorizing then. To the skate park first, then we’ll swing by Mayor Busch’s house to see if he’s home. Here, let me show you how to do it.”

  I’m terrified to find out what “it” is exactly. Especially when it sounds like Mayor Busch is one of our “targets.” And I’m pretty sure targeting a public official is a felony. I lick lips shriveled dry. “Remind me what we have against the mayor?”

  “He’s a friend of my dad.”

  “Nope. Not a good enough reason.” Not by a long shot. I get it; Arden has no love for his dad. But me? I
’ve learned enough about him through Julio to have a hearty respect for him, even if I’ve never met him. Julio says he’s to be feared—so I definitely fear him.

  Arden smirks. “So we need a reason to terrorize people?”

  “If we don’t, then we’re just jerks like that guy at Destin Commons.”

  He laughs. “Well, it just so happens that Mayor Busch is nothing less than a douche.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better about whatever it is you’ve concocted tonight.”

  “No, I’m serious. When I went in to talk to Miss May, he was eating breakfast there. She says he comes in every single day, runs the waitresses ragged, then leaves two quarters on the table as the tip.”

  It sounds legit, but I scrutinize his face in the moonlight. He seems sincere. Slowly, I nod. “You’re right. He sounds douche-y.”

  “So here’s what we’re gonna do.”

  I watch in horror as this lunatic rolls down his window, places a Black Cat in the slingshot, lights the firecracker, waits a second for the fuse to burn, then shoots it out the window and into the woods. It explodes before it hits the ground, the glow of which illuminates a nearby fern. It dies out on the ground in an unimpressive string of orange ash.

  “Oh, no way, I’m not doing that,” I say, taking the slingshot from him and testing the weight of it in my hand. I roll down my window without realizing it. Then I pull back on the slingshot and pretend to aim at something in my side of the woods.

  Arden hands me a Black Cat. “After you light it, count to three, then shoot it.”

  “What if I wait too long?”

  “Just going out on a limb here, Carly, but I think it will actually explode in your hand.”

  I take in a deep breath. I don’t want to do this at all, but at the same time, I want to do it so much that my hands are almost shaking. “Give me the lighter.”

  I watch the flame dance for a second, then let it go out.

  “Just do it,” Arden says, as if auditioning for a peer pressure commercial.

  I strike the lighter again and, without letting myself think about it, hold the fuse to the flame until it ignites.