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One

Clarissa

Clarissa stuck the order slip onto the turntable, then rang the bell in the kitchen window. Heat wafted out, bringing with it the stench of cooking oil. Catching her in the face, it made her flush as her flyaway hairs danced then clung to the sweat on her skin. She tried not to shudder at the grease settling onto her skin and took inventory of the dining room.

The couple with the three kids were wrapping up, shoveling leftovers into their Styrofoam boxes. Jeff and Eugene had ordered their usual, and the first members of the old ladies’ book club settled in with a blueberry pie and a pot of coffee. She would be able to take a break soon.

“Hey, you see where Donna went?” Sylvia asked, coming in from the parking lot, tucking her phone into her uniform pocket.

“She went to do books.” Clarissa nudged her chin to the back office, grabbing a cloth. She eyed the family vacating their table. Three kids under ten, plus syrup and chocolate milk; it was bound to be a sticky war zone. “Everything alright?”

“One of the boys decided to do a Superman impression, fell and broke his arm at recess.” Sylvia frowned. “Teacher said the damn kid was trying to see how high his swing could go when he lost hold and went flying.”

“Oh no!”

“He’s alright, just a bit banged up from what they said. But hubby is at a construction site over an hour out, so I gotta go get him from the hospital.”

“I don’t think Donna will mind. She’ll probably send you home with a pie to make him feel better.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re right. I just need to tell her before I go.”

The front door jingled as the family filed outside, waving their thanks. Clarissa waved back then rushed forward, rag in hand. Sylvia stacked the dishes while she tackled the spills.

“Thanks,” she said, tossing the sodden rag in the bin. “Hey, before you go, could you watch the front for me? I need to nip into the washroom, I’ll be out in a sec.”

“Sure thing.”

Grabbing her purse, Clarissa ran into the staff bathroom and locked the door. After washing her hands three times, she undid the zipper on her uniform. Pulling the pale blue dress down to her hips, she tugged her gray turtleneck off.

It was an athletic knit, so it was breathable. It hardly felt like she was wearing anything which was nice, as she kept it on under her uniform year-round. It wasn’t that the Donna’s Diner uniform was revealing, nothing like the skeezy dive bar, Spangles, across town. During her interview there, she discovered everyone wore bikinis—even the three-hundred-pound burly bartender, who sported an American flag Speedo with his Crocs. Quite the opposite.

Her pale blue dress had off-white accents and a little apron. It was very modest and old-fashioned, yet also practical, with multiple pockets and made from good material. No, she didn’t wear the turtleneck for modesty, she did it to avoid the stares.

Retrieving her cosmetic bag from her purse, she grabbed the vial of thick oil, pouring some onto her hands then massaging it into the angry and uneven skin covering her left arm, chest, abdomen, and neck.

She wasn’t ashamed of her burns, not anymore, at least. Guilt for that night left her years ago, her aunt made sure of that.

The events of the past were out of her control. Clarissa accepted what happened. Although she knew the oil would never heal the wounds left behind, it felt nice to care for them, to tend to her abused and scarred skin. Her little way of telling herself she was going to be okay. A reminder that she was resilient and able to take care of herself.

The turtleneck was just there to avoid the annoying stares and inappropriate conversations from nosey strangers. People had no manners or sense of privacy. She was sick and tired of telling people it wasn’t a birthmark or having someone try to pray over her. She didn’t need that hassle in her life. Putting the oil away, she righted her clothing then pulled out a bottle of face wash.

With her face cleansed and dried, she washed her hands three times again and sprayed herself with perfume. The scent of peonies chased away the undertone of grease in the air, if only for a moment.

Returning to the dining room, she scanned for new customers. There weren’t any. The diner was typically a hot spot in town, but they had lulls like every other business.

Donna’s Diner, the only diner in Fairville, sat on the edge of the small Kansas town. It was decorated in an over-the-top fifties style, with black-and-white checkered tile floors, a big counter with metal stools, and a revolving glass tower of pie. The walls were painted a pale pink, with a stripe of neon pink, and blue lights lining the ceiling. The vinyl covering the booths and chairs was blue, matching the bright countertops, free standing tables, and waitress uniforms. Posters of old Coke ads, Elvis, and Marilyn Monroe were hung on every wall.

Donna herself came out from the back room with Sylvia. Slightly stooped, her white-gray hair was piled high atop her head beehive style, and she dabbed tears from her wrinkled eyes.

“You tell that poor little thing to be brave, and be a good boy.” She sniffled. “I know it hurts right now, but it will get better. Pain is a part of life, no matter how much we’d like to avoid it.”

“Sure, sure, Donna, I’ll let him know. Thanks again for letting me go early, you really didn’t need to see me to the door.”

“Oh no! I insist. Here, take this with you, you said blueberry was his favorite, yes?” She pulled a pie from the revolving glass tower and shoved it into Sylvia’s hands.

“I did say that, yes. Are you sure, Donna? I can pay—”

“Absolutely not! If I can’t afford one little pie for my employee when her family is in need, I don’t have any right to be in business. Now you run along. Call me if you need any more time off.”