No time for handshakes.
“Codi,” she nearly whispers.
I try to catch her eyes, but I can’t even see what color they are. She wears baggy jeans, rolled up at the ankle, and her nails are painted with chipped pink polish. Her heart-shaped face makes her seem so young, but the trim waist visible just above her loose jeans makes me wonder if she hides herself on purpose to not get attention. In any case, she looks old enough to work legally.
I point toward the store. “The shelves out there all have labels,” I instruct, gesturing to the storeroom behind me next. “Would you be able to grab whatever you need from here to restock them for me?”
She nods about four times in quick jerks.
“When you’re done, please clear and clean whatever tables inside and outside need it.” I grab the jar the customer asked for and call out behind me. “Sixteen an hour, plus you get to split tips,” I tell her.
I don’t know if I can afford the help, but I can’tnotpay her. And it’s only a couple of days.
It takes another hour before I can free myself from the morning rush to get Mace’s brownies in the oven. While those bake, I get the soups going for lunch and start prepping the pizza pans with dough. I typically prefer to stay inthe kitchen as much as possible because the summer crowd always brings in old classmates who want to talk when I’m busy. Or my dad, who always winks at me when he insists on paying for his coffee like this is my lemonade stand.
He’s just trying to be supportive. My whole family makes me nervous, though.
My brothers only stop in to check that everything is running smoothly, to make sure no one is fucking with me, and whether or not I have a ride home. And their wives are too afraid to order birthday cakes, thinking they’re taking advantage of their relationship with me to get a last-minute order in. Don’t they understand? I want them all to rely on me. To bum a coffee, a cake, or a donut. It feels good to be needed and treated like an adult with something to offer.
The only family members I might like to see paying for their treats are my niece and nephews. They take stuff because they think I’m too gutless to stop them. It’s different.
However, today, I keep fighting an urge to leave the kitchen and go back out front. Every once in a while, I’ll hear a male voice and my pulse will quicken, or I can’t help myself from glancing out the windows on the off-chance Lucas wanders by.
It’s been hard to stay focused.
Where is he right now? What’s he doing?
He doesn’t show up, though. At least to my knowledge.
It was bizarre, being alone with him this morning. I was afraid he could see me blushing, or how I could barely breathe every time he looked at me. What did I seem like to him? I keep replaying everything I said in my head, thinking about what Ishould’vesaid instead.
The girl, Codi, works quietly as she lugs in tub after tub of dirty dishes, straightens shelves, and walks around with a broom and dustpan. She even restocks napkins, findingmore by herself in the storage room, and tucks in vacant chairs whenever she finds one. I don’t hear her speak more than one word, but I know she can. A fellow teenage girl was leaning her chair back into the wall mirror, and I don’t know what Codi said to her, but she stopped and planted all four legs back on the floor. They must have the same superstition in Weston. We don’t lean back into mirrors here.
I don’t know why. Something about them being doorways or some other such supernatural nonsense. Hawke knows. He studies all the urban legends. There’s another one Weston and Shelburne Falls share, as well.Pay to pass.Throwing a coin—an offering—over the bridge between our two towns. I don’t know where that tradition came from, either.
There are others, none of them ever concerning me. I’ve leaned into mirrors and crossed bridges without paying, and maybe been followed by a car with its headlights off here or there… It’s just fun to think it’s real.
Well, not fun, maybe.
Comforting. We need our traditions. It adds hope that the world still has mystery.
But it doesn’t. That’s why we have books. And movies and theater and video games to escape into. Many people between our two towns love distractions like that.
Like racing. Around and around and they’re never going anywhere. What’s the point? I just want to go forward.
The scent of pizza fills the shop, and I prop open the front door to let fresh air in. Grabbing two more empty platters from the case, I throw a glance at the mirror again, smiling at the idea of tempting fate some night and seeing how long I can lean before I scare myself and run. Maybe I believe a little.
Pushing through the kitchen door, I hear dishes clank and look over, seeing my mom at the sink with one of my aprons on.
“Mom, what are you doing?” I drop the empty trays on the worktable.
My mother stands with her hands in dishwater because she thinks it’s faster than using the machine and wastes less water. Which it doesn’t. I know what I’m doing.
“How else am I going to see you?” She looks over at me, taking the faucet hose and spraying one plate after another clean. “You get home after dinner—sometimes not even until I’m in bed—and then you’re gone before I wake up.”
I come to her side and shut off the faucet. I tuck a piece of her dark brown hair back up into the clip she used to pin up the rest.
“I’ll get into a groove.” I hand her a dry towel for her hands. “Things will slow down.”
