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Authors: Lauren Barnholdt
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everyone have to work such long hours?”
“Well, right now’s the dead time,” Noah says. “See, for breakfast and lunch this place gets crazy. But then after, say, two o’clock, it’s pretty dead until we close at seven.”
“You guys close at seven?” How ridiculous. I mean, that’s like, the prime time people go to dinner. You can never get a reservation anywhere for seven o’clock. One time Sebastian and I tried to get into this Italian restaurant in the North End for our anniversary, and they were so booked we had to make our reservation for nine. And that place wasn’t even that popular. Thinking of Sebastian causes a knot to form in my throat, and I quickly take another sip of my shake.
“Yeah,” Noah says. “Most of the, uh, dinner crowd isout of here by then.” It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about, but then I get it. Old people. The majority of their customers must be old people, and everyone knows old people are done with dinner by six and in bed by, like, eight thirty.
“Right,” Lacey says. “And Cooley doesn’t want to hire any more people, because everyone wants the day shifts so they can make good tips. So he just schedules me and Noah to stay, for, like, ever.” She rolls her eyes and then gathers her long red hair up into a ponytail with a hair tie that she picks up from behind the counter. “I keep telling him he needs to hire more people. Especially since it’s probably, like, illegal for him to make us work so much since we’re minors. But does Cooley care about that? Nooo. He just wants the hours covered.” She looks at me nervously. “Are you looking at my freckle?” she asks.
“Uh, no,” I say, quickly averting my eyes. “Definitely not.” I was kind of staring at her, but not at her freckle. Just her hair, which is gorgeous. My own hair is kind of . . . greasy, if you want to know the truth. Shampooing and conditioning has not been high on my list of priorities. Like, at all.
“Hey!” Noah says. “Hannah, why don’t you work here?”
“Me?” I almost choke on my shake.
“Yeah,” Noah says. “You’d be perfect. And Ava said you wanted to get a summer job, right?” Is Noah blind? Doeshe not see that I am completely incapable of doing even the most mundane tasks, such as, you know, showering and doing laundry? How am I supposed to work? Not to mention interact with people. I hate people right now.
“No, thank you,” I say. I decide not to mention the fact that my mom would love it.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to spend my summer in some super greasy, hot diner.”
That seems like an acceptable answer, but apparently not to Noah, because he says, “You’d rather spend it in bed eating ice cream?”
“I’m not going to spend it in bed eating ice cream,” I say. “What makes you think that?”
“Because you’re wearing pajama pants with ice cream stains on them,” Lacey says. I look down. Sure enough, there’s a stain of chocolate ice cream on the knee of my cotton GAP pants, along with some kind of cheese smear. Probably from the whole box of Cheez-Its I inhaled. My face burns with embarrassment. Oh. My. God. What have I become? At the rate I’m going, I’ll probably end up being a four-hundred-pound shut-in. I saw a special about it on Discovery Health. People get depressed and don’t leave the house for a few days, then it turns into a few months, then it’s a year, and finally they have to lift you out with a crane so they can take you to the hospital.
“I’m fine ,” I say to Noah for what feels like the millionth time.
“Then take the job,” he says. He raises his eyebrows, challenging me.
And that’s how it starts.
The First Day of Senior Year
It turns out that Lacey’s in my first period math class, but after we meet in the hall to compare schedules, she sends me ahead and into the math room, because she “has something to take care of.” So I go in and find a seat, and a few
“Well, right now’s the dead time,” Noah says. “See, for breakfast and lunch this place gets crazy. But then after, say, two o’clock, it’s pretty dead until we close at seven.”
“You guys close at seven?” How ridiculous. I mean, that’s like, the prime time people go to dinner. You can never get a reservation anywhere for seven o’clock. One time Sebastian and I tried to get into this Italian restaurant in the North End for our anniversary, and they were so booked we had to make our reservation for nine. And that place wasn’t even that popular. Thinking of Sebastian causes a knot to form in my throat, and I quickly take another sip of my shake.
“Yeah,” Noah says. “Most of the, uh, dinner crowd isout of here by then.” It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about, but then I get it. Old people. The majority of their customers must be old people, and everyone knows old people are done with dinner by six and in bed by, like, eight thirty.
“Right,” Lacey says. “And Cooley doesn’t want to hire any more people, because everyone wants the day shifts so they can make good tips. So he just schedules me and Noah to stay, for, like, ever.” She rolls her eyes and then gathers her long red hair up into a ponytail with a hair tie that she picks up from behind the counter. “I keep telling him he needs to hire more people. Especially since it’s probably, like, illegal for him to make us work so much since we’re minors. But does Cooley care about that? Nooo. He just wants the hours covered.” She looks at me nervously. “Are you looking at my freckle?” she asks.
“Uh, no,” I say, quickly averting my eyes. “Definitely not.” I was kind of staring at her, but not at her freckle. Just her hair, which is gorgeous. My own hair is kind of . . . greasy, if you want to know the truth. Shampooing and conditioning has not been high on my list of priorities. Like, at all.
“Hey!” Noah says. “Hannah, why don’t you work here?”
“Me?” I almost choke on my shake.
“Yeah,” Noah says. “You’d be perfect. And Ava said you wanted to get a summer job, right?” Is Noah blind? Doeshe not see that I am completely incapable of doing even the most mundane tasks, such as, you know, showering and doing laundry? How am I supposed to work? Not to mention interact with people. I hate people right now.
“No, thank you,” I say. I decide not to mention the fact that my mom would love it.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to spend my summer in some super greasy, hot diner.”
That seems like an acceptable answer, but apparently not to Noah, because he says, “You’d rather spend it in bed eating ice cream?”
“I’m not going to spend it in bed eating ice cream,” I say. “What makes you think that?”
“Because you’re wearing pajama pants with ice cream stains on them,” Lacey says. I look down. Sure enough, there’s a stain of chocolate ice cream on the knee of my cotton GAP pants, along with some kind of cheese smear. Probably from the whole box of Cheez-Its I inhaled. My face burns with embarrassment. Oh. My. God. What have I become? At the rate I’m going, I’ll probably end up being a four-hundred-pound shut-in. I saw a special about it on Discovery Health. People get depressed and don’t leave the house for a few days, then it turns into a few months, then it’s a year, and finally they have to lift you out with a crane so they can take you to the hospital.
“I’m fine ,” I say to Noah for what feels like the millionth time.
“Then take the job,” he says. He raises his eyebrows, challenging me.
And that’s how it starts.
The First Day of Senior Year
It turns out that Lacey’s in my first period math class, but after we meet in the hall to compare schedules, she sends me ahead and into the math room, because she “has something to take care of.” So I go in and find a seat, and a few
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