“Got somethin’ on your mind, Katie?” Ms. Norma took the hint.
“Um, I wanted to see if maybe it’s okay . . .” I fumbled before setting the funnel down, determined now. “I wanted to ask for next Saturday off.” Ms. Norma was unblinking and silent as a horned toad, so I continued on in a rush, “I know I said I could work every weekend, no exceptions, but . . . it’s my birthday and—”
“Stop!” She threw an extravagantly jeweled hand up in my face. “Course you can, Katie Connelly.” Relief was just flooding me when she said, “If anyone ever deserved a night off, hon, it’s you.”
And then my face flooded with color. Oh. “Thank you.” So hated getting unnecessary sympathy for my pathetic life.
“Don’t mention it,” she said, “cause I need you to work next Thursday to cover for Doreen. Now get your cute behind out there and make some money for both of us!”
“Yes, ma’am.” I snorted to myself. The uniforms came in two sizes here: large and extra-large—a potato sack would’ve been more flattering.
Just then Bee came barreling back through the swinging doors like someone had lit her fuse. “What the hell?” Ms. Norma exclaimed as Bee smacked into her bosom, causing a Jell-O-mold-like quiver.
“You took the words right outta my mouth!” Beatrice said hotly. “What the hell is an Arnold Palmuh?”
I shrugged. No clue.
“Did ya list the specials for ‘em?” Ms. Norma said as if that was the solution to all our problems here.
“Not yet. I was just takin’ their drink order to start with, like I always do,” Bee said defensively.
“Then go on back out there and list all the drink options we offer.”
“Yeah. Maybe it’s some fancy sports drink or somethin’ . . . Them boys sure do look real athletic-like,” Bee mused, a droopy smile softening her face.
Uh-oh. This was just the sort of thing that usually got Bee into trouble. Not that she did anything more than flirting, but Ms. Norma frowned upon a mother “carrying on like that.” She preferred it if I would do that particular task.
Unfortunately, my flirting skills were nonexistent.
“Get on back out there and offer ‘em some cola. We ain’t got no Gatorade, but I never met a youngster who turned down a cold Co’ Cola on a hot day,” Ms. Norma offered sagely.
“Okay.” Bee smoothed down her hair. “I’m headed out.” Strange. She was usually so unflappable even during our busiest of times.
“And don’t forget to push the meatloaf tonight,” Ms. Norma hissed after her.
I rolled my eyes. So it’s gonna be one of those nights. I was busy pairing squeezy ketchup and squat hotsauce bottles together on my tray when the office phone interrupted my concentration. I looked up to see that Ms. Norma appeared to be too busy adding another layer of frosty lipstick to bother picking up. It continued to ring, and I continued to consider answering it when it finally stopped. Me and my condiment couples were just heading out when the ringing started up again. Sighing, I clattered the tray back down and ran to the office to grab it.
“Good evenin’, Norma’s Diner. How may I help you?” I mechanically answered, then listened while a panicked pre-teen voice asked to speak with Beatrice Howard right away. One of her kids was apparently throwing up. Ew. “Hang on a minute,” I said calmly. I’ll just go get her.”
On my way out the swinging doors, they swung back open to reveal Bee muttering something about “This ain’t no cloth napkin joint.”
“Hey, Bee,” I intercepted her before she could rush on. “I’m real sorry, but I think one of your kiddos is sick. Your cousin’s on the phone.”
She instantly came down from her tizzy, chagrin and concern fighting it out for control over her face. “Oh, Good Lord! I tol’ Shawntel she had no business eatin’ two hot dogs on top of all that ice cream!” Concern won out.
“Well, I can take over for you—” I stuttered to a halt when I saw her face fall. “I’ll split the tip with ya,” I said, easily reading her.
After a beat, she heaved a resigned sigh and shoved her tray and order pad into my hands. “Alrighty, Miss Katie. They’s all yours, and hoity-toity as all get out, but I ‘spect you’ll get a fine tip if you’re willin’ to put up with their strange demands and sneerin’ attitude.” After that bit of advice, Bee scurried to the office already in mom-mode, shouting their drink order over her shoulder, “Them Arnold Palm-things is really just half-tea, half-lemonade!”
Huh? That’s a new one. I pondered what kind of people ordered such an exotic drink, and if it was any good, while I pushed through the double doors. My feet stopped dead in their tracks two paces in.
Whoa!
A set of ice-chip eyes, belonging to a very large male, looked up at me expectantly for a hard beat, then just as quickly looked away before blithely continuing his conversation. Well, obviously I wasn’t their waitress returning with their drinks. But somehow, I felt stung by his frosty stare. I was still frozen, mid-step, like an ice sculpture when he looked up again. His mouth curled into a sneer to say something to his friend, who very briefly glanced in my direction and then away as though annoyed.
Double whoa! I felt color begin its creepy appearance up my neckline.
They were sitting nonchalantly, in the booth that sat up to six well-fed customers, and were doing a nice job of taking up the ample space. The one wearing a tattered baseball cap was facing the opposing side, which was standard seating practice. The one with dark hair, pronounced muscles, and cold, staring eyes was sprawled out across from him with his back against the wall. He was facing outward, with one long arm draped across the backrest, his feet crossed at the ankles on top of the seat I was gonna have to wipe down as soon as they left.
Make yourself at home, why don’t you? I thought before realizing that Beatrice had been holding out on me. She had failed to mention the two “hoity-toity” guys sitting in her booth could easily pass for movie stars. Not sure why, but I would’ve liked to have been prepared for that. Hoity-toity I could deal with. But when you added looks that could slay Aphrodite . . . well, I wasn’t sure I could even speak to them without stuttering. They simply exuded self-confidence, money, and class. Two seconds. That’s all it took for me to see exactly who they were. Which meant they’d used the exact same two seconds to see exactly who I was—a waitress in a dumpy uniform, working in a dive, at a dead-end job.
Feelings of inadequacy instantly flooded me.
Furiously, I yanked down the back of my skirt, where it rode up in the back, then whirled around to get their drinks going. If I waited any longer, they would think I was dumb on top of dumpy. So I hustled to the prep area where the drink dispenser was hiding, and after expertly filling red plastic cups halfway with lemonade from the fountain, I hesitated over the tea options. Should I go for the sweet or unsweet tea? Probably sweet. Like Ms. Norma said, most teenagers preferred their drinks on the sugary side. Not that those guys looked remotely like teenagers . . . more like college-age superheroes.
After topping off each drink smartly with a lemon wedge, I retied my drooping apron and pulled back my shoulders. Go time. I could do this. I mean . . . just because those guys more resembled male models than frat guys didn’t mean they were better than me. Besides, I reasoned, they were probably perfectly nice. Winding my way around tables towards their booth, I plastered a smile in their general direction trying to convey how efficient I was. The one facing me didn’t acknowledge my entrance in any way. Just talked right along, staring right through me with flinty eyes like I was made out of glass.