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"I didn't. Lana, this is bullshit, and you know it."
"She's sick, Tori. There's nothing I can do about it. You know that."
And she does, which is why she doesn't tell me to get someone else to cover for her. We can't afford to miss a shift.
"I'm picking your ass up right at ten o'clock. Be ready."
"I'll need to shower before we go out."
There's silence.
"Tori, I can't smell like the diner. It's disgusting."
After another dramatic moment of silence, she finally says, "Fine. I'll ask Tony to pick you up. But we have to leave my house by ten thirty. Tony's going out, and he's our ride to the party."
"I'll be so quick, I promise," I assure her. It's not like she's giving me any other choice. "I've gotta go. But I'll see you tonight."
I sort through the bag of clean clothes, pulling out my hideous hunter-green polyester uniform. I swear the dress was made out of a leisure suit. It might even be flame retardant. The only good thing about it is that grease, ketchup and beer wash right out of it, and it never needs to be ironed.
Unlike my favorite jeans that got ruined last weekend when Nina threw up on me. If she'd eaten, she might've been able to hold down whatever that bright pink drink was. So gross. Now they will have to become my favorite cutoffs. But I don't have time to mess with cutting them right now.
I opt to pack a pair of fitted white lace-trimmed shorts, a low-cut bright sea-blue halter top and wedge sandals that wrap around my ankles. I drape my cropped black leather jacket over the tote and proceed to dress in the hideousness that is my uniform.
Luckily, my mother has the dinner shift, so I don't have to deal with the totally obnoxious drunks. Stella's technically a diner. But, really, it's a bar ... that serves horrible food. The people who frequent Stella's aren't here for the menu. They're here for the cheap beer and strong well drinks. They'll eat anything to sop up the puddle of liquor in their stomachs. The greasier, the better.
I have no idea who Stella is. Margo owns the place. Jim runs it. No one ever mentions Stella or why the place is named after her. All that's left of her is a black-and-white photo of a blonde sitting on the back of an old convertible, blowing a kiss at the camera with Stella scrawled in smeared blue ink on the white border. She's surrounded by pictures of motorcycles and muscle cars along with a framed dollar bill. Whoever she was, the sentiment is now lost in the chaos.
I've been working here since before it was legal for me to have a job. I started two years ago when my mother was sick for a week and we couldn't afford the lost wages. It's not like this place offers sick days or vacation. One day, I came in and clocked in under her name. No one cared as long as I could balance plates and not spill beers.
"Lana, hook us up with a pitcher?"
I take a moment to actually look at the acne-faced guy who thinks he knows me. I sure as hell don't know him, although I have a feeling we go to the same high school.
"Why should I?" I ask him. "What do you got that I want? And think before you answer that because I definitely don't want you." I eye his scrawny frame critically.
The acne victim's mouth drops as his friends start laughing.
"Uh, how about this?" He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small sealed plastic bag filled with pills of various colors, another smaller bag of white powder and a joint.
"What are you doing, man?" the guy across from him questions sternly.
With a quick warning glance, he continues, "We call it 'party in a bag.'" He smiles like he's clever.
I don't change my bored expression, although I like the sound of it.
I take the bag from his hand before he can react and slip it into my apron pocket. I turn and walk away without a word, returning with a pitcher of beer and a stack of glasses.
I drop their check.
"You charged us for the pitcher?" he asks incredulously. "I thought--"
"Don't," I threaten. "If this is any good, I can hook you up with partiers."
He shuts his mouth, knowing I could easily triple his business just by dropping a few words to the right people.
"Hey, sweetness, can we get another round?" a guy calls, his face hidden behind a shrubbery of facial hair.
He raises his hand to swat my ass. I can feel the gesture before I see it. Since I started working here, I've adapted a sixth sense for sexual advances. And these scumbags have tried just about everything.
