Emmylou’s doubled as a convenience store, with shelves full of instant noodles, one-dose packs of Advil and Pepto-Bismol, and penny candy. We also sold single rolls of toilet paper, expired gum, and last week’s issues of the Hopuonk Mariner and the Boston Sunday Globe. On every copy of the Mariner we had in stock, I was featured on the cover.
Brad and Scottie were there, drinking their second cups of coffee, basically harassing us. Brad drank black coffee, but Scottie ordered Twix-flavored, just so he could comment on how disgusting it was. We specialized in coffee that was dessert.
Scottie leaned over the counter, pouting at Heather. He reeked of alcohol. He wasn’t even hungover yet—he was still drunk from the night before.
“Come on,” he said to her. “Don’t be gay. Just let me touch your boobs. Just for one second.”
Heather put the Saran Wrap down, crossing her arms over her chest. Since they weren’t officially together, Scottie felt like he constantly had to chase her, which she liked.
“Get away from me, fuckass,” she said, but she was smiling.
“Three seconds.” Scottie pushed because of Heather’s smile. “What size are they?” he asked.
Heather answered, “D,” and seemed both like she was used to being asked this question and like she didn’t necessarily mind answering it.
There was an understanding that only hot girls worked at Emmylou’s, and also that they would give free coffee to their friends. The coffee girls were between the ages of fifteen and twenty (I was hired young), but the girls on the older end usually only worked a few shifts, because they were enrolled in beauty school. We appealed mostly to the other high school kids in our social group, middle school girls who wanted to be like us, and dads. The dads were gross.
Half of the fluorescent overhead lighting was broken, giving the whole place a dismal feel. The floor had black-and-white checkered tiles, and everything else—including the walls and ceiling—was hot pink. Our uniform—black booty shorts and pink aprons—went with the walls.
Just then, Corvis walked in with Kristen. My eyes widened when I saw them—like I said, Emmylou’s was understood to be a popular-kid sanctuary. Besides that, Corvis thought the uniforms were sexist. I’d overheard her saying it once.
Scottie noticed them next. He elbowed Brad, cupped his hands over his mouth, and shouted, “Get out, lesbos!”
“Come on, man,” said Brad. “Shut up.”
Corvis looked Scottie straight in the eye and clasped Kristen’s hand.
“We just want a cup of coffee,” she said.
“Go to Dunkin’ Donuts, dyke,” Scottie said. He was laughing maniacally, unsteady on his feet.
“Dude,” said Brad, elbowing Scottie. “Shut up.”
I thought of the note Corvis passed me in seventh grade, and I thought of how she helped me in the bathroom at homecoming, and I wanted to tell Scottie to shut up too.
But I didn’t.
Corvis shot me a disapproving look, like she felt sorry for me.
“Come on,” she said to Kristen. “Fuck them. Let’s go.”
“Wait!” I called after Corvis. I didn’t mean to say it out loud.
She spun around and looked at me impatiently.
“What, Taylor?” she demanded.
There was so much I wanted to say. I didn’t want to go with them, but I also did. I was about to ask Corvis to take me with her, but then I felt Heather’s eyes on me, and Scottie’s, and my heart started pounding.
“Nothing,” I said. “Never mind.”
I watched their backs as they left, and an elevator in my stomach dropped and kept going, all the way to hell.
“You’re an asshole,” Brad said to Scottie, who wasn’t listening.
Scottie went back to pestering Heather.
Brad shook his head. If I just went ahead and became his girlfriend already, I thought, at least I’d know I was with someone nice, someone way nicer than me.
I pictured our life together, if we had one. Maybe I could get him to switch from Cheerios to Froot Loops. Maybe I could get him to grow his hair out and chop mine off with the edge of his weed whacker. Maybe I could be a landscaper, too, but the kind who shaped bushes into lions and mermaids, and I would own one giant powerful tiller, and one pair of delicate clippers for tails and noses. Maybe Susan could live with us, and we could share her.
“Brad,” I said, leaning over the counter. I gestured for him to come close.
Brad leaned in.
“You can be my boyfriend,” I whispered into his ear.
* * *
—
Later on, just before we closed and the place was dead, Heather finished counting out the cash register and turned to me.
“Wanna go smoke a square?”
“Sure.”
We grabbed our peacoats and went out back by the dumpster and sat on the concrete steps. Heather handed me a Salem and lit one for herself. She was going to be a cosmetologist, and she already looked like one. Her makeup was flawless—somehow, her lipstick never rubbed off, and her black eyeliner complemented her eyes, which were bright blue flecked with green.
The next day was payday. I used my checks for gas and things, but the rest went into this empty Russell Stover box, bills laid flat, smelling like chocolate. There was already almost five grand in there—I was saving it in case I needed getaway money. If I stayed, I could spend it on landscaping tools, and on Susan.
Heather spent her checks on makeup and leather boots. She only took the job to solidify her hot-girl status. She didn’t need the money. She lived in Arrowhead, where the houses were expensive—way more expensive than the old houses—and you got to choose what went inside them before they were built for you. You could add dishwashers, home theater rooms, in-ground swimming pools, saunas. Heather had a pool and a sauna.
We used to play in the woods they chopped down to build the Arrowhead development, and the families who moved into the cheap mansions started to seem garish, like they had no respect for what had once been standing where they stood now, microwaving their vegetables and filling their giant bathtubs.
Heather didn’t miss the woods. She preferred her pool and sauna.
“Brad’s officially my boyfriend,” I said, trying to sound hopeful.
She looked at her feet and sighed, wiping her pumps with the sleeve of her peacoat even though they weren’t dirty.
“You really shouldn’t be fucking with Brad,” she said. “Susan is in love with him, and you aren’t.”
“What if I am?” I tried to pull down my top to cover more of my stomach, but that only made it show more of my boobs. I crossed my arms over my chest. Those uniforms were the worst.