It’ll only take a few more minutes for him to finish the patty no-melt and get a fresh batch of cheese sticks cooked up in the fryer, so I grab the milk and ice cream and rush to get the milkshake machine going.
As it whirs, Ruben says, “You had anything to eat today, girly?”
Glancing over, I catch him giving me a caring side-eye. I haven’t told anyone about my pregnancy, but judging by the amount of care that the older Cuban man has been giving me since I started working here, I get the feeling that he knew before I did.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, removing the metal cups and pouring the shakes into glasses.
I’m putting the glasses on my tray when Charles saunters over. Which, of course he does. My boss is almost always watching me.
“What’s this?” he asks.
His belly hangs well over his belt, and I quietly hope that he doesn’t get too close to me and knock my tray out of my hands. It wouldn’t be the first time his girth has gotten in the way. His downturned mustache matches his perpetual frown. He’s just an unpleasant person, all around. But this diner pays higher than anywhere else in town, so for now I’m trying to keep him happy.
“Shakes for table four,” I say casually, trying to sneak around him.
He waves a small stack of tickets in his hand. “There are no milkshakes on any of your orders. Why did you make them?”
Classic Charles. I swear the man gets some kind of thrill out of double-checking every ticket against every food item that goes out of the kitchen.
There’s no use trying to lie to him, so I try to just smile my way through it. “It’s all good, Charles. My treat for the family. I’ll pay for them with tips before the end of my shift.”
“Yourtreat?” His expression says he’s not buying it. In fact, I’m sure he knows exactly what happened—he just can’t pass up a chance to berate and humiliate me. “Had another screwup, Frankie?”
It’s obvious he’s getting some perverse joy out of this. His voice is loud enough to be clearly heard over the noise in the kitchen, and I’m sure the customers sitting out at the counter can hear every word.
“Something like that,” I say, my fake smile starting to strain my cheeks.
“I don’t know why I don’t just fire you,” he goes on. “You’re definitely not the hard worker you said you’d be when I interviewed you.”
There’s so much I’d like to say in response, but I bite my tongue. He walks away and I finish loading my tray, swearing to myself that I’ll start looking for a new job tomorrow. One that will let me go on maternity leave after a few months on the payroll. Nothing is worth getting treated like this.
But until then, I’m stuck here. I have to save enough money to get my own place. My mother and I circle each other like prickly hedgehogs, and Miggy won’t stop eating my shoes. If only I could sell the Jaguar…but I don’t have the title. I guess I could sell it to someone shady online, but I’m too worried about getting ripped off or robbed at the handoff—or worse. Not only that, but I have to admit that the few sweet minutes of freedom I get cruising to and from work with the top down are basically the only bright spots in my life right now.
Ruben rings the bell, indicating my corrected orders are ready.
“Thanks, Ruben,” I say. “You’re too good to me.”
“Don’t mention it. And don’t worry about the boss. This place is just a pitstop for you. You got better things ahead.”
“Thanks.” If only I could believe that.
I just need to keep on scouring the Internet and the local papers for a better opportunity. Unfortunately, there isn’t much need for a sommelier around here. It’s not like I can just walk into a winery and get a job. The market here is nothing compared to what it is in Napa. At best, I might be able to work in the alcohol department of a grocery store.
Not that it would pay nearly what I’d need to get an apartment on my own—even a crappy studio runs just under a thousand dollars a month, and minimum wage here is only ten an hour. There’s no way in hell I’m raising my baby in a shabby place, either. I need money. I need a better job. Dammit, I just need a break.
I deliver the corrected meals and the milkshakes to table four, check on my other customers, warm up a few coffees, and settle a few tabs. As I drop off receipts and change, a wave of dizziness goes through me. Putting my hand on the counter to steady myself, I take a few deep, slow breaths. I really need to eat. Carla, one of the other waitresses, gives me a curious look.
“You okay, Frankie?”
I nod, glancing around at my tables. My customers are mostly taken care of. “You mind if I take a few minutes in the break room? My tables are set for now.”
She shrugs like it’s no skin off her back. Nothing phases her, ever.
The ties of my apron suddenly feel too tight, so I loosen them as I make my way back to the break room. True to his word, Ruben hid my burger in the fridge. I don’t even bother to heat it up as I sink down in a folding chair and wolf it down.
The first bite is incredibly delicious, but it’s hard not to dream about Alain’s food. God, how I miss his cooking. I like to think I never took having a personal chef for granted, but considering that neither my mother nor I can cook—and we can’t afford takeout every night—I’d do literally anything for one of Alain’s meals right now. I’ve been living off of diner leftovers and scrambled eggs and ramen noodles, but I know I have to do better for my baby’s sake.
Before I know it, the burger is almost gone. My eyes dart around the break room to see if there’s anything else laying out that I can eat. Sometimes Carla brings in those massive, family size multipacks of trail mix, cheese- or peanut butter-filled sandwich crackers, or dried fruit from the big-box store, and she’s always generous with them.
