He scrubs a hand through his hair, then grimaces and peers around the bar. “You’d make a far sight prettier front of house rep than me,” he replies. Then he eyes me again, more suspiciously this time. “What’s a nice girl like you doing down this end of town, anyway?”
“Believe me,” I reply, letting my Boston drawl come out on full display now. “This is the end of town I’m used to.” I follow his gaze around the bar. It’s dingy, yes, but I’ve seen a lot worse. You don’t even want to know what the kitchen at my old place looked like after a busy night.
He chuckles. “Well, it’d be a probationary period at first, just to see how you get on. Some of our customers are the, ah, rougher sort…” He eyes me again, as though waiting for me to flinch or react to that. When I don’t, he shrugs. “When can you start? Because that sign’s been posted for weeks, and—”
“Do you need anyone tonight?” I ask, cutting him off.
His eyebrows rise. “All right then.” He juts his chin toward a supply closet on the opposite end of the bar. “Cleaning supplies are in there. I’ve just been going through the books in the back, but if you want to get started up here, we’ll work faster. Doors open at eight.”
“I’ll be done in half an hour then,” I reply, surveying the place with confidence.
He chuckles again and slaps the counter on his way into the back. “You keep up that attitude, and you’ll definitely keep this gig.” Then he vanishes, and I get to work.
3
By the end of the first week of school, I’ve gotten into a rhythm. Classes in the mornings, followed by lunch with one or another girl from my dorm, before splitting my afternoons between either study sessions or more classes.
I’ve found a few decent acquaintances—at least enough that I don’t need to eat any meals alone in the dining hall, although I wouldn’t say we’re exactly friends yet. We don’t hang out outside of mealtimes. But I’m confident I’ll get there, eventually.
I’ve only seen Bette once since our initial meeting, and she was warm enough, stopping to say hello to me in the middle of the campus green—all while the two girls from our floor who I’d been working with stared at me agog. Afterward, I asked what the big deal was, and they burst into gushing whispers.
“Bette’s family owns half of Boston, don’t you know?”
“Shipping empire heiress—”
“Her brother is the hottest—”
“Believe me, if she likes you, you’re in, here.”
The other girls’ words buoyed my spirits. Between that minor amount of social success, and the fact that I’d managed to keep my job a secret so far, I was on track for a great first year here.
My job is the only slight potential snag in my plan. It means I don’t have free time in the evenings, so after dinner I have to constantly make up excuses for why I can’t hang out in Leah’s dorm room, or go to the movies with Sara, or meet Yvette at the club on Friday.
The other girls are clearly all starting to think I’m a homebody. But that’s better than them suspecting the truth.
On Friday, I wait patiently in my room for the sounds of other voices on our hallway to die down before I slip out the door, dressed in the head-to-toe black that makes up the unofficial uniform of the dive bar industry. I wait until I’m off campus entirely to head toward my real destination, weaving through town to reach the bar via the long way around. I get there just before my weekend shift starts, at 10pm sharp.
When I step inside, Henry is already behind the bar, flooded with more customers than I’m used to seeing in the tight space.
“Where have you been?” he barks. Over the last week, we’ve reached an accord of our own. He knows I’ll stay late to tidy up after my shifts, as long as he lets me come in a little bit later than the opening hours, since I have to sneak off of campus first.
I’m already shrugging out of my coat and ducking under the counter to join him. “Sorry. Got caught up with homework.”
“College kids,” he grumbles to one of our regulars, Pat, a man around Henry’s age who works at a mechanic shop on the corner.
“You should be proud of her,” Pat argues. “She’s trying to make something of herself. Not like us old lazy grumps.” Pat winks at me elaborately behind Henry’s back, and I laugh, rolling my eyes.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I scold him. “Besides, piecing cars back together is a lot more impressive than memorizing some mathematical theories. At least, if you ask me.”
“You’re majoring in math?” Pat shakes his head, clucking his tongue. “Never mind. I take it all back.”
I snort. “I don’t know what I’m majoring in yet,” I call, as I skip toward the far end of the bar to serve a rowdy group of middle-aged businessmen banging on the bar top for attention. “Still have to decide that.” I signed up for a wide range of classes, just to get a feel for everything. So far, I’m not loving my Calculus course, which I signed up for because it’s a prerequisite for a ton of different math and science majors. But I’m fascinated by my Intro to Psych class, as well as by the linguistics course I chose on a whim.
Still, a little voice at the back of my head whispers at me to be practical. I know mathematics is what I should be studying. It’s the quickest way to get ready for a post-college career that will earn me enough money to both pay back my college loans and start to save for Jake’s future college expenses, too.
But there’s a little part of me that can’t help noting: I’ll be just as bored in an engineering job as I am right now in this math class. Doesn’t that count for anything?
No, I remind myself, scooping the group of rowdy businessmen’s empty glasses off of the counter and setting about pouring them fresh pints of beer. Not unless you want to spend the rest of your life working in places like this.
I need to get my head in the game. Be smart about this opportunity. If I want to make the most of my life, both during and post-college, than I need to pick a practical major. Something that will help my family and me out from here on.
“Missy.” Henry’s voice breaks through my reverie. I startle and realize that one of the pints I’m pouring has overflowed.
“Crap. I’m so sorry,” I call over my shoulder to the customer, one of the more red-faced of the business group.
“That’s all right.” He eyes me from the head all the way down to my toes and back—although he lingers for a longer time than is comfortable on my chest. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart.” He actually winks, then, and I cringe internally.
Much as I enjoy tending bar for the nicer customers, I can’t deny that we see a lot of men like that in this line of work, too. I turn my back to finish pouring his pint, and I don’t bother to wipe all the excess foam off his glass before I pass it back to him with a tight smile.
He makes sure to touch my hand while he takes the glass from me, and I smile through gritted teeth, fighting an urge to roll my eyes. Or to toss the beer in his face, when he drops his gaze to my chest again, his upper lip curling in a leer.