“What are you doing down there?” Derick asks. He’s a paragon of temerity in the red leather driver’s seat. His hair is held in place by mousse, and he sports another classic white T-shirt. It must be easy to organize his closet. “Hope you’re not hiding from me.” His half joke lands with a resounding thud.
My smile snaps back into a straight line. “You don’t need to stop since you don’t need to pay. And, for the future, if you hook the second left instead of the first, you can come through to the staff spots.” I pause for effect. “You just need to show up on time.”
I know he doesn’t deserve the third degree, but I can’t help it. He’s partially to blame for the storage closet incident. If he hadn’t insisted on hashing out our past in the middle of my workday, right there in the busy snack shack, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten in so much trouble with Earl. Later that day, he marked down one strike on my employee index card, the dated, impartial way he keeps his staff in check.
Earl has a hard and fast three-strike rule. If I get two more infractions, I can kiss my new name tag and position goodbye. Shoving some of the blame off onto Derick is easier than admitting that maybe Iwantedto talk it through with him.
“Noted. Just lost track of time,” Derick says.
“Here’s a program with a snack-shack menu, if you’re interested.” I throw the folded piece of paper through his open window with nervous force.
He catches it but flinches. “Dammit. Paper cut.” A droplet of blood forms on his index finger, glistening in the dashboard light.
Wincing in apology—I didn’t actually mean tohurthim—I dig under the counter for the first aid kit. When I pop it open, I notice it’s filled with single-dose packets of ibuprofen and antibacterial ointment, but detrimentally devoid of Band-Aids. “We’re… Uh, I don’t have any bandages. There are some in the office. I can run and grab one if Mateo can cover for me.”
Mateo’s false certainty has transformed into straightforward terror. His quivering hands can’t even sort the change into its proper slots. This must be why his parents never let him have any major responsibility at their restaurant. Is offstage stage fright a thing? He seems to be breaking under pressure without a proscenium to protect him.
I’m trying to be patient, but I realize his performance is a direct reflection of mine.
I do my best to reassure him with my eyes, but he lets out a whimper that reminds me of those “In the Arms of an Angel” animal ads, so leaving is not an option.
Pivoting back, I spot Derick sucking his finger the way he did when he pricked himself on thorny foliage during our woodsy peer-leadership retreat at a campground back in the day.
“All good.” He holds up his finger like I need proof. He’s always been adaptable. “We should probably digitize these though. Not only are they a waste of paper, but they’re dangerous.”
His casual assessment sits wrong with me. Digitizing? Building a brand? Wiley’s isn’t some trendy fad company. It’s a homegrown institution with eighty-six years of experience. It’s one of the oldest operating drive-ins in the country.
I scoff. “People love the paper programs.”
“I think people would love them just as much if they didn’t have to have these littering their floor mats for the next two weeks.” He flashes me a smile, as if I hadn’t been avoiding his texts all week. Does he not care? Did he even notice? Or (benefit of the doubt) is this still him offering an olive branch? “We could make a link on the website through our socials. They could be printable. Best of both worlds.” He pauses, hesitating over his words as if trying to choose them carefully. I brace for impact.
“You’ve been ignoring my texts,” Derick finally says, a cloud of disappointment hanging around his words.
The lie’s already on my tongue. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy listening to our old collaborative Spotify playlist,” he counters. “You know we’re still friends on there, right? You may have shut me out of all your other social media, but I can still see what you’re listening to in the updating activity feed.”
My face goes blotchy. I always forget to set myself to private. Now he knows that after he brought it up, I’ve been reacquainting myself with all the old me’s that live between the notes of those songs—the good, the bad, and the late-puberty ugly.
That’s when I hear it. The playlist is cranking out from his state-of-the-art car speakers, turned down low but still audible if I strain. It’s Barbra Streisand. One of my picks.Her cover of the pivotal jazz song from Casablanca.
“I didn’t unfriend you. I deleted the apps. I don’t really do social media anymore.”
A lone crease of contemplation appears on his forehead. “Hmm. You went dark? How did I miss this?”
“Not like you were paying very close attention over the last few years.” I hate how pert I sound, but he brings out my defensive side. “Or any attention at all, for that matter.”
“Wrenji,” he says with damnable earnestness, “I’ve been trying to—”
Honk!The man in the car behind Derick’s is leaning on his horn, waiting impatiently for the line to move.
“God, it’s like the universe is hell-bent on interrupting us.”
“Can you move it along? I have guests to serve,” I plead.
His jaw tightens. “Not until you agree to talk to me. To finish our conversation from last weekend.”
“Now is not the right—”
