the coffee schedule again. “Count how many shifts you have, Blue. Then look at how many everyone else has.”
I study the sheet. “So I’m working less than half-time?”
“For now — if that’s okay with you?” She says it like a question so I know it’s totally fine if I disagree. But I don’t.
“I think pseudo-half-time sounds about right.” I wipe the counters as I talk and Arabella punches numbers into the cash register. Aunt Mable refused to get computers, preferring instead to buy a giant antique cash register with a jingly bell that sounds every time you make change — jolly enough to make you somewhat forget that you just dropped nearly five bucks on a large cup of coffee.
Arabella unties the strings at the back of my apron and kicks my butt up the stairs towards are apartment. “Go have fun. Go do something. I’m learning business here. You know, valuable life lessons and all that.”
I feel guilty so I whine at her. “No — you should be out at the beach and exploring the island — I should work all the time. You’re my guest!”
“I’ll tell you when I need a break — just stick to your serving blocks…” she shows me the schedule yet again. “And the rest of the time — go get a life!”
“Oh, thanks, now I feel really cool,” I say. But I know she knows me. And I know Aunt Mable — probably even my dad — would agree. My over-thinking tends to bog me down.
“Oh, you are,” she says. “You just don’t know it yet.” She gives me a dramatic wink and then rushes back to take orders from the coffee crowds.
Upstairs, I take my time wandering around the apartment, sitting on the surfboard couch and trying on the various garments Arabella has left on coat hooks — not because she wears them — but for added ambiance. One shirt is a Hawaiian print button down. I slip it on and look in the mirror over the Tiki bar; it’s a rectangle and oddly placed so I can only see my body but not my head. But it’s enough to let me know that even if my bets friend thinks I’m cool, I’m not cool enough to pull off the retro Hawaiian print shirt so I put it back where it belongs — out of my reach.
Chapter Five
One week, two beers, three sarongs, four slurred come on from lame-os at the Navigator Lounge, five suncream applications (three from self, one from Chili Pomroy, one from Arabella — e.g. no one exciting), six slices of pizza, seven jogs, eight frozen lemonades, nine half-shifts of serving coffees and creamy drinks, and — to make up for the lack of decent sleepage — finally ten good hours last night.
I wake up refreshed and famished. Good sleep does that to me: bad sleep and I can’t look at food until a couple hours have passed and coffee has made its way into my system. But good sleep — bring on the bacon. Or bread products. Or eggs. Or — enough. “Bels, I’m heading to the Black Dog.”
Arabella’s answer is muffled, from the depths of her covers. Despite the heat, she sleeps with a sheet and two blankets. “Bringmebacktwocreullers?”
“If they have any…” I tell her and shove some crumpled bills into the pocket of my jeans. It’s eight in the morning on Sunday and if you don’t get there early, the best baked goods are gone. “Sleep well,” I add to her on my way out the door and since we’ve been sort of passing by each other at odd hours of the day and night, it never occurs to wonder why she’d want two crullers — and that maybe she’s not alone in her bed.
After I pay for three giant cinnamon sugar twists (no crullers left), I beg two of them and take the other to the beach. It’s low tide and since it’s early, the only people out are families with young kids building sandcastles and daring to dip a toe into the cold water. Being island-bound is awesome — it’s an insular life; we keep seeing the same people over and over again and by now we’ve eaten in all the restaurants, been to all the beaches except the private ones, and
I study the sheet. “So I’m working less than half-time?”
“For now — if that’s okay with you?” She says it like a question so I know it’s totally fine if I disagree. But I don’t.
“I think pseudo-half-time sounds about right.” I wipe the counters as I talk and Arabella punches numbers into the cash register. Aunt Mable refused to get computers, preferring instead to buy a giant antique cash register with a jingly bell that sounds every time you make change — jolly enough to make you somewhat forget that you just dropped nearly five bucks on a large cup of coffee.
Arabella unties the strings at the back of my apron and kicks my butt up the stairs towards are apartment. “Go have fun. Go do something. I’m learning business here. You know, valuable life lessons and all that.”
I feel guilty so I whine at her. “No — you should be out at the beach and exploring the island — I should work all the time. You’re my guest!”
“I’ll tell you when I need a break — just stick to your serving blocks…” she shows me the schedule yet again. “And the rest of the time — go get a life!”
“Oh, thanks, now I feel really cool,” I say. But I know she knows me. And I know Aunt Mable — probably even my dad — would agree. My over-thinking tends to bog me down.
“Oh, you are,” she says. “You just don’t know it yet.” She gives me a dramatic wink and then rushes back to take orders from the coffee crowds.
Upstairs, I take my time wandering around the apartment, sitting on the surfboard couch and trying on the various garments Arabella has left on coat hooks — not because she wears them — but for added ambiance. One shirt is a Hawaiian print button down. I slip it on and look in the mirror over the Tiki bar; it’s a rectangle and oddly placed so I can only see my body but not my head. But it’s enough to let me know that even if my bets friend thinks I’m cool, I’m not cool enough to pull off the retro Hawaiian print shirt so I put it back where it belongs — out of my reach.
Chapter Five
One week, two beers, three sarongs, four slurred come on from lame-os at the Navigator Lounge, five suncream applications (three from self, one from Chili Pomroy, one from Arabella — e.g. no one exciting), six slices of pizza, seven jogs, eight frozen lemonades, nine half-shifts of serving coffees and creamy drinks, and — to make up for the lack of decent sleepage — finally ten good hours last night.
I wake up refreshed and famished. Good sleep does that to me: bad sleep and I can’t look at food until a couple hours have passed and coffee has made its way into my system. But good sleep — bring on the bacon. Or bread products. Or eggs. Or — enough. “Bels, I’m heading to the Black Dog.”
Arabella’s answer is muffled, from the depths of her covers. Despite the heat, she sleeps with a sheet and two blankets. “Bringmebacktwocreullers?”
“If they have any…” I tell her and shove some crumpled bills into the pocket of my jeans. It’s eight in the morning on Sunday and if you don’t get there early, the best baked goods are gone. “Sleep well,” I add to her on my way out the door and since we’ve been sort of passing by each other at odd hours of the day and night, it never occurs to wonder why she’d want two crullers — and that maybe she’s not alone in her bed.
After I pay for three giant cinnamon sugar twists (no crullers left), I beg two of them and take the other to the beach. It’s low tide and since it’s early, the only people out are families with young kids building sandcastles and daring to dip a toe into the cold water. Being island-bound is awesome — it’s an insular life; we keep seeing the same people over and over again and by now we’ve eaten in all the restaurants, been to all the beaches except the private ones, and
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