Eighteen
“Oh, crap,” Opal said, dropping a bunch of empty plates
with a clang. “AHBL!”
“Already?” I asked.
“We’ve only been open fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, but we only
have one wait, and that wait is Tracey,” she said, stabbing two
orders onto the spindle in the window between us. “We’re already in
the weeds.”
She bustled off,
cursing under her breath, while I pulled the tickets off, glanng at
them. “Orders,” I told Jason, who was sitting on the prep table
behind me, reading the Wall Street
Journal.
“Call ’em,” he said,
hopping down.
“You sure? We’re
behind already.”
“If you’re going to
be in the hole, you have to learn to call out orders,” he said,
walking over to the grill station behind me. “Go
ahead.”
I looked down at the
top ticket. “Mediterranean chicken sandwich,” I said. “Order fries.
Side salad.”
“Good,” he said. “Now
hit that salad. I’ll do filet and drop those fries.”
I nodded, turning to
the back table and grabbing a small plate from the shelf above. For
all my time growing up in restaurants, working in one still felt
brand-new. But there was nowhere else I’d rather be.
At graduation a week
earlier, I’d sat with the rest of my class, fanning my face with a
damp program as the speakers droned on and assembled family and
friends shifted in their seats. When we all stood up, grabbing our
caps to throw them in the air, a breeze suddenly blew over, lifting
the air and all those black squares and tassels up overhead to take
flight like birds. Then I’d turned, searching for the faces of my
friends. I saw Heather first, and she smiled.
I was supposed to go
back to Tyler, yes. But things change. And sometimes, people do as
well, and it’s not necessarily a bad thing. At least, that’s what I
was hoping the Saturday after Luna Blu closed, when my mom showed
up to help me pack my stuff. My dad was there, too, and Opal, all
of us making trips from my room to Peter’s huge SUV, chatting as we
did so. Opal and my mom hit it off immediately, which I had to
admit surprised me. But as soon as she found out my mom had handled
all the financial stuff at Mariposa, she started picking her brain
about how best to do things at her new place. The next thing I
knew, they were at the kitchen table, a notepad between them, while
my dad and I finished the job.
“Does that make you
nervous?” I asked him as we took out my pillow and my laptop,
passing by them. My mom was saying something about payroll, while
Opal jotted on the page, nodding.
“Nah,” he said.
“Truth is, your mom kept that restaurant afloat for two years
longer than it should have been. Without her, we would have closed
a lot sooner.”
I looked at him over
the hood of the SUV. “Really?”
“Yeah. Your mom knows
her stuff.”
I was thinking about
this later, when I was finally packed up and we were getting ready
to leave. I’d said my goodbyes to Deb, Riley, Ellis, and Heather
the night before, at a farewell dinner—fried chicken,
naturally—that Riley’s mom cooked for me at her house. My goodbye
with Dave had been more private, in the hour he was allotted after
I got home. We’d sat together on the steps to the storm cellar,
hands intertwined, and made plans. For the next weekend, for a
beach trip if he could ever get away, for all the calls and texts
and e-mails that we hoped would hold us together. Like my dad and
Opal, we weren’t kidding ourselves. I knew what distance could do.
But there was a part of me here now, and not just in the model. I
planned to come back to it.
As I shut the car
door, everything finally in, I looked over and saw Mrs.
Dobson-Wade, standing in her kitche. Dave was at work, their other
car gone, and she was alone, flipping through a cookbook. Watching
her, I thought of my mom, and all the problems we’d had over the
last two years. Trust and deceit, distance and control. It had
seemed unique to us, but I knew it really wasn’t. I also knew that
just because we’d found a peace didn’t mean everyone could. But
Dave had done something for me. The least I could do was try to
return the favor.
When I knocked on her
door a few minutes later, my mom and dad behind me, she looked
surprised. Then, as we came inside and I explained why I was there,
a bit suspicious. Once we sat down at the table, though, and I told
her the story of what had happened that night, how Dave had come
for me, and told my dad where I was, I saw her face soften a bit.
She made us no promises, only said she’d think about what we’d told
her. But then, something did happen. To me.
It was when we were
getting into the car to leave. Opal and my dad were in the driveway
to see us off, the house mostly empty behind them. It was so weird,
like the reverse of when I’d left Tyler with him all those years
ago. With all my departures, he’d never been the one watching me
go, and suddenly I wasn’t sure I could do it.
“It’s not goodbye,”
he said as I hugged him tight, Opal sniffling beside him. “I’ll see
you very, very soon.”
“I know.” I
swallowed, then stepped back. “I just ... I hate to leave
you.”
“I’ll be fine.” He
smiled at me. “Go.”
I managed to hold it
together until I got into the car and we drove away. As the house,
and them beside it, receded in my side mirror, though, I just
started bawling.
“Oh, God,” my mom
said, her hands shaking as she hit her turn signal. “Don’t cry.
You’re going to make me totally lose it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said,
rubbing my nose with the back of my hand. “I’m okay. I
am.”
She nodded, turning
onto the main road. But after driving about a block, she hit the
signal again, turning into a bank parking lot. Then she cut the
engine and looked at me. “I can’t do this to you.”
I wiped my eyes.
“What?”
“Uproot you, make you
leave, whatever.” She sighed, sniffling again, waving one hand as
she added, “Not after I’ve railed against it for the last two
years. It’s just too hypocritical. I can’t do it.”
“But,” I said as she
dug a tissue out of her massive middle console, blowing her nose,
“I don’t have any other option. Unless you want me to go to Hawaii.
Right?”
“I’m not so sure
about that,” she said, starting the engine again. “Let’s just
see.”
In the end, we
compromised. My mom let me stay, in exchange for a promise that I’d
visit her regularly, either in Tyler or Colby. As for my dad, he
had to be convinced that Opal, who’d offered me her spare room in
exchange for doing some setup work for the new restaurant, was not
getting in over her head. It was my job to keep in close touch with
both of my parents, returning phone calls and e-mails, and being
honest about what was going on with me. So far, it had been easy to
hold up my end of the bargain.
I loved being able to
finish out the year at Jackson. For once, I was really part of a
class, able to partake in rituals like senior skip day and yearbook
distribution, my time at a school ending when everyone else’s did.
I studied for finals with Dave on his living room couch, him
reading up on advanced physics, while I struggled with
trigonometry. Then, while he worked, I pulled cram sessions at
FrayBake with Heather, Riley, and Ellis, powered all around by
Procrastinator’s Specials he made personally. Dropping my napkin on
the floor one day, I bent down to get it, only to catch a glimpse
of Riley’s foot, idly wound around Ellis’s. They were keeping it
quiet, but it seemed maybe she was changing her dirtbag ways, as
well.
Come fall, when I
started at the U, I’d move out of Opal’s and into a dorm, taking my
simple living skills with me. In the end, I’d gotten into Defriese,
too, but there was never any question that I’d continue to follow
that third option, and stay. As for Dave, he’d gotten in everywhere
he applied, naturally, but had decided on MIT. I was trying not to
think about the distance too much, but it was my hope that no
matter what happened, at least we’d always be able to find each
other. I had a feeling I’d continue to put my packing skills to
good use after all.
“How’s that salad
coming?” Jason called out as I sprinkled a handful of
carrots.
“Ready,” I replied,
turning back and putting it in the window.
“Great. Get the bun
and sauce ready for this sandwich and we’ll be
golden.”
As I pulled out a
bun, tossing it on the grill to brown, I glanced through the
window, just in time to see Deb bustling past, tying an apron
around her waist. “I thought you weren’t working today,” I called
out to her.
“I just stopped by to
pick up my tips from last night,” she said, grabbing two water
glasses and filling them with ice. “But Opal was melting down, so
I’m on now.”
I smiled. With the
model done, Deb had found herself with entirely too much time on
her hands. As it turned out, though, the same skills that made her
such a good organizer also made her a great waitress. She’d only
just started, but already she’d improved Opal’s working system by
leaps and bounds. And acronyms.
“Where’s that
sandwich?” Tracey said, poking her head in the window.
“Anyone?”
“It’s coming,” Jason
told her. “Keep your pants on.”
She made a face, then
grabbed the salad, adding a ramekin of dressing and sliding it onto
a tray. Behind her, Deb pulled off another ticket, stabbing it on
the spindle.
“Order,” I
said.
“Call
it.”
I looked down.
“Margherita pizza, extra sauce, add garlic.”
“Good. Plate this and
I’ll get started.”
He slid the sandwich
down with a spatula, and I picked it up, placing it in the basket
I’d prepared. Behind me, the radio was playing, and I could hear
the customers just beyond the wait station, and Opal chattering. I
thought of my dad, somewhere in Hawaii, maybe doing this same
thing, and missed him, the way I always did. But then, I did what I
knew he’d want me to, and got back to work.
It was a busy rush,
keeping up for about an hour and a half. Even though I botched a
quesadilla, letting it k too long, and forgot to call a burger that
we then had to comp, it all went reasonably well. Finally, around
one thirty, Jason told me to take a break. I picked up my phone,
grabbed a water, and headed outside to the back steps.
It was sunny and hot,
another summer scorcher, as I started scrolling through my
messages. I had a voice mail from my mom, checking in about going
to Colby that weekend. An e-mail from the U about orientation. And
one text message, from Dave.
There were no words,
just a picture. I clicked it, watching as it filled up the screen.
The shot was four hands, two with circle tattoos, all wearing
Gerts. Behind them, blue sky and a sign: WELCOME TO
TEXAS.
“Hey, Mclean,” Jason
called out. “Order up.”
I slid my phone back
into my pocket, then drained my drink. As I came back into the
kitchen, stepping past him, I crumpled the cup in my hand, then
turned to take aim at the garbage can behind me. I shot, sending it
arcing toward perfect center. So pretty. Nothing but
net.