Read Online Amelia Anne Is Dead and Gone by Kat Rosenfield - Free Book Online
Authors: Kat Rosenfield
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almost-ghost that I was attracted no attention.
The visor snapped shut under my hand. The car door slammed behind me.
* * *
I had always liked waitressing: the constant movement, folding napkins and filling drink orders, the hours flying by while I paced the dining room. But tonight, I couldn’t concentrate. Knives slipped through my fingers and left gouges on the floor. Tables full of summer people, giddy and boozy at the three-day reprieve of the Fourth of July, laughed and smiled beatifically when I forgot to bring bread or beer. One woman even patted my arm, saying, “Don’t you worry, dear—I’m sure you’ll be off to school soon anyway.”
Halfway through my shift, I stood up too suddenly in the busy kitchen and dropped a full bottle of ketchup on the dirty tile. It shattered, splattered, shards of cheap glass with a viscous red coating skittering across the floor and under the sinks.
Tom, the chef, clapped me jovially on the shoulder and left a five-fingered grease stain on my shirt.
“Ten points!” he called.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I licked ketchup off my finger.
“Hey, I understand,” he said, waving a hand at me. He smelled like garlic and sweat. “You were thinking about some boy, yeah?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I bet!” He winked. “Well, there you go. Everybody’s gotta break one thing before they leave.”
My occasional forays into the world of the living dead had sapped my conversation skills. I couldn’t banter or chitchat—not with Tom, not with the dishwasher, not with the cashier at the XtraMart who would charge me $1.25 for a Coke on my way home. I muttered something about having gotten it out of the way.
“Ah, yeah,” he said again. “I understand! And don’t you worry about that ketchup, one of the boys will clean that up. Don’t wanna send you off with a nasty cut. Travel healthy!”
“I’ve got a few more weeks,” I said, but it was lost in the clatter of pans and the hiss of steam as the kitchen moved to life again. Tom, a good guy, a handsome man who flirted with the older waitresses because he knew that it made them feel good, was already handing a mop to the guy who washed the dishes.
“You get that, Manny, will ya?” he said, and turned back to the stove. He clapped the lid onto a pan with a resounding clang.
“You guys hear about that girl?” he announced, to no one in particular.
There was a chorus of “What?” from every corner of the kitchen. Nobody said,
which girl
. Everyone knew who he was talking about.
I grabbed a new bottle of ketchup, skirting the broken glass as I turned to leave.
“Still no idea who she is,” Tom said. “But I heard something, from a guy who knows one of those cops. You know what he said? Said they think somebody came in and messed around, screwed things up in the crime scene.”
“Somebody like who?” said Manny.
As I slipped through the swinging door to the dining room, Tom’s voice floated after me.
“Dumb kids, probably,” he said. “They do stupid shit like that. Walk all over things. They don’t think.”
The door closed behind me.
CHAPTER
8
W hen the time had come, I hadn’t looked at political science programs, or Greek life, or student body size. I ignored all of that, the picking and choosing, the quick criteria they said would help me to narrow down my overwhelming field of potential futures. Instead, I took a map of New England and a compass, set its piercing metal leg on the black dot of Bridgeton, and drew a wide, red circle around everything within a two-hundred-mile radius.
“What’s that?” my father had said, looking over my shoulder at the bleeding arc, the towns and counties now hidden under a thick, dark ribbon of ink. When I lifted the compass, I saw that it had marred the paper—a stab through the small, black heart of my hometown—and smiled.
“That,” I said, “is everywhere I’m not going.”
“Planning your escape, are you?” he grinned back, then
The visor snapped shut under my hand. The car door slammed behind me.
* * *
I had always liked waitressing: the constant movement, folding napkins and filling drink orders, the hours flying by while I paced the dining room. But tonight, I couldn’t concentrate. Knives slipped through my fingers and left gouges on the floor. Tables full of summer people, giddy and boozy at the three-day reprieve of the Fourth of July, laughed and smiled beatifically when I forgot to bring bread or beer. One woman even patted my arm, saying, “Don’t you worry, dear—I’m sure you’ll be off to school soon anyway.”
Halfway through my shift, I stood up too suddenly in the busy kitchen and dropped a full bottle of ketchup on the dirty tile. It shattered, splattered, shards of cheap glass with a viscous red coating skittering across the floor and under the sinks.
Tom, the chef, clapped me jovially on the shoulder and left a five-fingered grease stain on my shirt.
“Ten points!” he called.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I licked ketchup off my finger.
“Hey, I understand,” he said, waving a hand at me. He smelled like garlic and sweat. “You were thinking about some boy, yeah?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I bet!” He winked. “Well, there you go. Everybody’s gotta break one thing before they leave.”
My occasional forays into the world of the living dead had sapped my conversation skills. I couldn’t banter or chitchat—not with Tom, not with the dishwasher, not with the cashier at the XtraMart who would charge me $1.25 for a Coke on my way home. I muttered something about having gotten it out of the way.
“Ah, yeah,” he said again. “I understand! And don’t you worry about that ketchup, one of the boys will clean that up. Don’t wanna send you off with a nasty cut. Travel healthy!”
“I’ve got a few more weeks,” I said, but it was lost in the clatter of pans and the hiss of steam as the kitchen moved to life again. Tom, a good guy, a handsome man who flirted with the older waitresses because he knew that it made them feel good, was already handing a mop to the guy who washed the dishes.
“You get that, Manny, will ya?” he said, and turned back to the stove. He clapped the lid onto a pan with a resounding clang.
“You guys hear about that girl?” he announced, to no one in particular.
There was a chorus of “What?” from every corner of the kitchen. Nobody said,
which girl
. Everyone knew who he was talking about.
I grabbed a new bottle of ketchup, skirting the broken glass as I turned to leave.
“Still no idea who she is,” Tom said. “But I heard something, from a guy who knows one of those cops. You know what he said? Said they think somebody came in and messed around, screwed things up in the crime scene.”
“Somebody like who?” said Manny.
As I slipped through the swinging door to the dining room, Tom’s voice floated after me.
“Dumb kids, probably,” he said. “They do stupid shit like that. Walk all over things. They don’t think.”
The door closed behind me.
CHAPTER
8
W hen the time had come, I hadn’t looked at political science programs, or Greek life, or student body size. I ignored all of that, the picking and choosing, the quick criteria they said would help me to narrow down my overwhelming field of potential futures. Instead, I took a map of New England and a compass, set its piercing metal leg on the black dot of Bridgeton, and drew a wide, red circle around everything within a two-hundred-mile radius.
“What’s that?” my father had said, looking over my shoulder at the bleeding arc, the towns and counties now hidden under a thick, dark ribbon of ink. When I lifted the compass, I saw that it had marred the paper—a stab through the small, black heart of my hometown—and smiled.
“That,” I said, “is everywhere I’m not going.”
“Planning your escape, are you?” he grinned back, then
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