Says the man who wanted to charge my parents more than a college education for his expert advice. I’m coping just ne, thankyouverymuch. If people like this will just leave me alone …
Porter scoffs. “Seeing how this is your rst day on the job, and may very well be your last, considering the turnover rate for this position? And seeing how I have seniority over you? I’d say, yeah, it’s pretty much my business.”
“Are you threatening me?” I ask.
He clicks off his phone and raises a brow. “Huh?”
“?at sounded like a threat,” I say.
“Whoa, you need to chill. ?at was not …” He can’t even say it. He’s ustered now, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Grace …”
Grace holds up a hand. “Leave me out of this mess. I have no idea what I’m even witnessing here. Both of you have lost the plot.”
He makes a soft growling noise and turns back to me. “Look, I was just giving you a hard time—lighten up. But the fact is, I’ve been working here forever. You’ve been working here a few hours.”
“But don’t you already have me pegged? You know all about me, Mr. Famous Surfer Boy?”
He mockingly strokes his chin in thought. “Hmm … well, Little Miss Vogue,” he says in that low, gravelly voice of his. ?e one I thought was all sexy and charming when he was giving us the tour. “Let me hazard a guess. You’re some stuck-up East Coast sophisticate whose daddy got her this job where she’s forced to have normal conversations with surf trash like me.” He crosses his arms and smiles de antly at me. “How’d I do?”
My mouth falls open. I’m so stunned, I feel as though I’ve had the wind knocked out of my chest. I try to untangle his words, but there’s just so much there. If he’s really just giving me a hard time, then why do I sense … so much bitterness?
How did he know my dad helped get me this job? Did someone in the office tell him? I mean, it’s not like I’m some spoiled, incompetent rich kid with zero work experience and mega connections. My dad’s just a CPA! But I’m not going to bother explaining that or anything else. Because right now, I’m halfway convinced a hole in my skull has blown right off and my brains are owing out like molten lava. I think I might well and truly hate Porter Roth.
“You know nothing about me or my family. And you’re a goddamn dickbag, you know that?” I say, so enraged that I don’t even care that a family of four is walking up to my window. I should have. And I should have noticed that I left the green switch turned on from the last pair of tickets I sold. But the family’s wide-eyed faces clue me in now.
?ey’ve heard every nasty word.
For one terrible moment, the booth spins around me. I apologize profusely, but the parents aren’t happy. At all. Why should they be? Oh God, is the wife wearing a cruci x pendant? What if these people are fundamentalists? Are these kids homeschooled? Did I just ruin them for life? Jesus fu—I mean,
ddlesticks. Are they going to ask to speak to Mr. Cavadini? Am
I going to be red? On my rst day? What is my dad going to say?
If I was hot before, I’m not now. Icy dread sends an army of goose bumps over my skin. I point the scarred family to Grace’s window and bolt out of my stool, shoving past Porter as I race out of the booth.
I don’t even know where I’m going. I end up in the break room and then outside in the employee parking lot. For a second, I consider driving away on Baby, until I remember that I don’t even have my purse; it’s back in my locker.
I sit on the sidewalk. Cool down, get myself together. I have a thirty-minute break, after all, don’t I? ?irty whole minutes to wallow in embarrassment over saying what I said in front of that family … thirty minutes to wonder how in the world I allowed Porter to provoke me into yet another argument. ?irty minutes to freak out over being red on my rst day. Me! ?e Artful Dodger. How did this happen?
?is is all Porter’s fault. He provoked me. Something about him just brings out the worst in me and makes me want to … lock horns. He thinks I’m a snob? He’s not the rst. Just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I’m aloof. Maybe I just want to be alone. Maybe I’m not good at conversation. We all can’t be cool and gregarious and Hey, bro, what up? like he apparently is. Some of us aren’t wired for that. ?at doesn’t make me snotty. And why does he keep talking about the way I dress, for the love of God? I’m more casual today than I was on orientation. So sue me if I have style. I’m not changing myself to please him.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but I eventually head back into the break room. A few employees are milling about. I wait a few minutes, but no one comes to get me. I expect to be called into Mr. Cavadini’s office, or at least for the shift supervisor to want to speak to me. When no one comes, I don’t know what to do. I’ve still got several hours left on my shift, so I head back to the lobby, scanning for signs of an inquisition on the march. I bump into someone. I look up and see Mr. Cavadini, clipboard smashed against his chest, and my pulse triples.
“So sorry,” I say, apologizing for what must be a record-breaking number of times in the last half hour. ?is is it. I’m done for. He’s come to ax me.
“Please watch where you’re going, Miss …” He pauses while his eyes dart toward my name tag. “Bailey.”
“I …” Can’t apologize again. I just can’t. “Yes, sir.”
“How’s ticketing working out for you? Are you on a break?” His nose wrinkles. “You aren’t quitting, are you?”
“No, sir.”
He relaxes. Straightens his Cavern Palace tie. “Terri c. Back to your post,” he says absently, focus returned to the clipboard as he shuffles away. “Don’t forget to smile.”
Like I could do that right now. I head to the ticketing booth in a daze, still unsure what I’ll nd there. I take a deep breath and knock on the door. It swings open. Porter is gone. A small line is forming on the other side of the glass, and Grace is handling it alone. Her shoulders relax when she sees me. She quickly switches off her mic.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Are you okay?”
