pours him a fresh cup.
“Ma, he says that to anyone who still has their own teeth. No offense, Earl.”
“None taken,” he says. “But you got your own hair, too, so you’re twice as pretty.”
“See?” Mom says. “You’ll do great tonight. Just great.”
Yeah, just great. Just awesome. Just … kill me.
“Ready, Hurley Girl?” Dani asks.
I tug once more on the dress and take a deep breath. Only for a little while. Just until things get back on track. “Let’s do this.”
“The basic rule is to smile a lot,” she says, leading me into the kitchen. “Even when you feel like choking someone, keep on smilin’. The minute you show them you’re pissed, you lose.”
“Kill them with kindness. Or cheesiness.” I flash her a test grin. “Got it.”
“Sometimes the rowdy ones get a little grabby,” she says, flipping on the tap water. She fills a plastic pitcher and cups and sets them on the prep counter. “If you smack them straight away, they usually back off. You can also try the tray-in-the-lap maneuver, but that takes some practice, and—”
“We training for food service or self-defense here?” I cross my arms over my chest.
“There’s a fine line, Hud.”
“This gig gets better by the minute.”
Dani shrugs. “You get used to it.”
I return her easy smile, but the words drop into my stomach like overcooked biscuits. You get used to it . According to the crazy, bug-eating guys on those survival shows, human beings are the most adaptable creatures on earth—we can get used to just about anything. Doesn’t mean it’s okay. I mean, who wants to get used to eating grubs and collecting maple leaves for toilet paper? No thanks.
“Hold this.” She passes me an empty serving tray. “I’ll load you up with waters, and you balance it. Ready for a cup?”
“A whole plastic cup of water? Hold me back!”
Trick laughs behind us, dropping a pile of stir-fry veggies onto the grill. “You taking bets on this, Dani?”
“Definitely.”
“Put me down for seven,” he says, squirting oil onto the veggies with a loud hiss. “I lose, I’ll make your favorite tonight. I win, you empty the grease traps.”
“You’re on,” she says.
I sigh and steady the tray with both arms extended beneath it, elbows bent, fingers curled up over the edge. “Just load me up so we can get this over with.”
“But you’re not holding it right. You have to—”
“It’s not brain surgery, Dani. Come on.”
She shakes her head and sets down one cup first, then another, followed by the water pitcher. “So far so good?”
“Keep it coming,” I say.
Dani gives me two more cups, a half smile creeping across her mouth as she holds another one over the tray.
“Hit me,” I say, and she drops it. A millisecond later, the tray, the pitcher, and all five cups crash to the floor.
“ Ooh! Why’d you play me like that, sweetheart?” Trick stomps his foot and curses over the grill as water streams down my legs into a sad little puddle on the floor. Honestly, if this awful dress were any shorter, I’d have to change my underwear.
My so-called best friend laughs as she kneels to pick up the cups. “Looks like I’m gettin’ corned beef hash for dinner tonight,” she says. “ That’s what’s up.”
“Just sat a party of ten.” Marianne, the resident Hurley Girl lifer who’s been here almost as long as the diner itself, makes the announcement from the kitchen doorway. When she sees my predicament, her heavy bosom bounces with laughter. “Learning the tray, huh? On the shoulder, honey, not the arms. Put your back into it.”
“You people are full of helpful advice.” I grab a clean dish towel from the shelf and mop up my legs, then the floor. “You set me up!”
“Yep. You just lost your tray-dropping virginity,” Dani says. “Congrats.” She loads up her tray with fresh waters, in actual glasses this time, and hefts it onto her shoulder, nodding for me to follow her to the dining
“Ma, he says that to anyone who still has their own teeth. No offense, Earl.”
“None taken,” he says. “But you got your own hair, too, so you’re twice as pretty.”
“See?” Mom says. “You’ll do great tonight. Just great.”
Yeah, just great. Just awesome. Just … kill me.
“Ready, Hurley Girl?” Dani asks.
I tug once more on the dress and take a deep breath. Only for a little while. Just until things get back on track. “Let’s do this.”
“The basic rule is to smile a lot,” she says, leading me into the kitchen. “Even when you feel like choking someone, keep on smilin’. The minute you show them you’re pissed, you lose.”
“Kill them with kindness. Or cheesiness.” I flash her a test grin. “Got it.”
“Sometimes the rowdy ones get a little grabby,” she says, flipping on the tap water. She fills a plastic pitcher and cups and sets them on the prep counter. “If you smack them straight away, they usually back off. You can also try the tray-in-the-lap maneuver, but that takes some practice, and—”
“We training for food service or self-defense here?” I cross my arms over my chest.
“There’s a fine line, Hud.”
“This gig gets better by the minute.”
Dani shrugs. “You get used to it.”
I return her easy smile, but the words drop into my stomach like overcooked biscuits. You get used to it . According to the crazy, bug-eating guys on those survival shows, human beings are the most adaptable creatures on earth—we can get used to just about anything. Doesn’t mean it’s okay. I mean, who wants to get used to eating grubs and collecting maple leaves for toilet paper? No thanks.
“Hold this.” She passes me an empty serving tray. “I’ll load you up with waters, and you balance it. Ready for a cup?”
“A whole plastic cup of water? Hold me back!”
Trick laughs behind us, dropping a pile of stir-fry veggies onto the grill. “You taking bets on this, Dani?”
“Definitely.”
“Put me down for seven,” he says, squirting oil onto the veggies with a loud hiss. “I lose, I’ll make your favorite tonight. I win, you empty the grease traps.”
“You’re on,” she says.
I sigh and steady the tray with both arms extended beneath it, elbows bent, fingers curled up over the edge. “Just load me up so we can get this over with.”
“But you’re not holding it right. You have to—”
“It’s not brain surgery, Dani. Come on.”
She shakes her head and sets down one cup first, then another, followed by the water pitcher. “So far so good?”
“Keep it coming,” I say.
Dani gives me two more cups, a half smile creeping across her mouth as she holds another one over the tray.
“Hit me,” I say, and she drops it. A millisecond later, the tray, the pitcher, and all five cups crash to the floor.
“ Ooh! Why’d you play me like that, sweetheart?” Trick stomps his foot and curses over the grill as water streams down my legs into a sad little puddle on the floor. Honestly, if this awful dress were any shorter, I’d have to change my underwear.
My so-called best friend laughs as she kneels to pick up the cups. “Looks like I’m gettin’ corned beef hash for dinner tonight,” she says. “ That’s what’s up.”
“Just sat a party of ten.” Marianne, the resident Hurley Girl lifer who’s been here almost as long as the diner itself, makes the announcement from the kitchen doorway. When she sees my predicament, her heavy bosom bounces with laughter. “Learning the tray, huh? On the shoulder, honey, not the arms. Put your back into it.”
“You people are full of helpful advice.” I grab a clean dish towel from the shelf and mop up my legs, then the floor. “You set me up!”
“Yep. You just lost your tray-dropping virginity,” Dani says. “Congrats.” She loads up her tray with fresh waters, in actual glasses this time, and hefts it onto her shoulder, nodding for me to follow her to the dining
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