Fifteenth Summer (12 page)

“Well, maybe you’d like some cinnamon streusel coffee cake?” she offered. “You would not
believe
what the secret ingredient is.”

“Actually,” I said, pointing back at the
HELP WANTED
sign, “I’m here because of the job?”

“Oh!” Mel said. She wiped her hands on her apron. “Did you just move to town?”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “For the summer, anyway.”

“I was kind of hoping for someone longer-term,” Mel said skeptically. “What’s your experience?”

“Um, I babysit for one family back in California that has four kids,” I said. “Those kids can
eat
. Sometimes I feel like a short-order cook.”

Melanie bit her lip. “Let me talk to my sister.”

She looked over her shoulder and called, “Melanie!”

Oh! This sister wasn’t Melanie; she was Melissa. That’s right. It was
Melissa
who liked calico cats.

Melissa likes cats,
I reminded myself.
Melanie like the Cubs. Melissa—cats. Melanie—Cubs.

Then my stomach swooped.

I’d just remembered the other tip Josh had given me:
Make sure you know the score of the Cubs game.

Okay, so I had no experience, I was here only for the summer, and I didn’t even know who the Cubs had played last night, much less the score. I had a dim awareness that the Cubs
always
lost. I think I’d heard Granly joke about it.

So I went out on a limb as Melanie—wearing cargo shorts, a sporty-looking T-shirt, and a royal blue baseball cap with a red
C
on it—came out of the kitchen.

“Hi, I’m Chelsea Silver,” I said, giving her a wave. “Shame about the Cubs last night, isn’t it?”

“What? That they broke their losing streak?” Melanie crowed. “Three to two, baby!”

She held out her hand to Melissa for a high five. Melissa ignored the hand.

“What?” Melanie said defensively. She crossed her arms over her chest, and I noticed how tan and sinewy they looked. Melanie looked like the kind of person who spent her free time hiking up mountains or biking fifty miles or some other ridiculously outdoorsy activity. “That’s a perfectly respectable score.”

I laughed a little. “You remind me of me and my sisters.”

“Sis
ters
?” Melanie said, shooting Melissa a teasing grin. “You have more than one? You must have a strong constitution.”

“That’s why you should give me a job,” I blurted.

The Mels raised their eyebrows at each other. I felt a wave of nervous heat wash over my face. That probably wasn’t what Abbie and Hannah had meant when they’d said I should be more confident.

“She’s interested in waitressing for the summer,” Melissa said to Melanie.

“Just for the summer?” Melanie said skeptically.

I glanced at the cash register at the end of the counter. It was covered with photos of calico cats, each photo sheathed in a yellowed plastic sleeve.

“Oh, are those your cats?” I said desperately. “So cute!”

Melanie ignored that and motioned Melissa over for a tête-à-tête.

I leaned against the counter in defeat. It had only taken about five minutes for me to reveal myself to be a total spaz. An
unqualified
spaz. A spaz posing as a cat-lover.

The front door opened, and a couple with two little kids walked in. Melissa waved at them.

“Just have a seat anywhere,” she called with a smile. “I’ll be right over.”

I eyed the bin of menus mounted on the side of the counter, and shrugged. I had nothing to lose. Why not try to steal a run, as a baseball fan would (maybe?) say.

I grabbed four menus.

Then I glanced at the family as they settled into their seats, and I put two of the menus back, replacing them with kids’ menus. I brought them all over to the table.

“Hi there!” I said, way too cheerily. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“I’ll have coffee,” the dad said. He pointed at his little girl, who looked about three. “And she’ll have—Tally! Leave the salt shakers alone! Sorry. She’ll have—Tally! What did I say?”

“Tally,” I said, bending down to meet her pretty, round blue eyes. “Would you like some milk?”

Tally’s face lit up in a shy smile.

“Juice,” she said.

I glanced at her mom. She was giving her daughter one of those sappy my-baby’s-growing-up smiles, which I guessed meant juice was allowed.

“Apple or orange?” I asked.

“Apple!” Tally cried, clapping her pudgy little hands together.

“Apple!” I said with a nod (and a silent prayer that the Mels had apple juice).

“Thank you!” the mom said. “And I’ll have unsweetened iced tea, and, Zeke, you want OJ, right?”

As their son nodded, I said, “Okay. Coffee, iced tea, apple, and orange. Right?”

“Yup!” Zeke said.

The parents beamed some more.

“Check out the menu,” I said. “You might want to try the cinnamon streusel coffee cake. You’ll never guess what the secret ingredient is.”

“Cake!” Tally cried.

“Thanks,” the dad said to me before turning to his daughter. “Now, Tally, first eggies,
then
cake . . .”

I felt a surge of pride as I turned to walk briskly away. The surge, of course, was quickly squelched when I remembered that I had just done a bit of guerilla waitressing—and I had no idea what to do next.

The Mels were staring at me. I couldn’t tell if they were mad or amused. I think it was a little of both.

“Um . . . they want a coffee, iced tea, apple juice, and OJ,” I said. “Do you . . . have apple juice?”

“Lucky for you we do,” Melanie said. She glanced at Melissa.

“How about we do a trial for the day,” Melissa said. “And we’ll see how it goes.”

“Okay!” I said. “So do you want me to start now?”

“Well, you already did, didn’t you?” Melanie said.

“I guess I did,” I said, giving Tally a little wave. She flapped her fingers back at me.

“Melissa usually works the counter, but she can finish up with that table while I get you set up,” Melanie said, hustling back toward the kitchen and beckoning me to follow her. “You do know, don’t you, that taking that drink order was the easiest thing you’re going to do all day?”

“Of course,” I said, even though that had never crossed my mind. This was pretty much the most impulsive thing I’d ever done. I was elated and terrified all at once.

A
n hour later the breakfast rush started to feel more like a breakfast onslaught. And the other two waitresses—Ginny and Andrea—seemed ready to stab me with their Paper Mate pens.
That’s when I started wondering which failure the Mels would reference when they told me never to come back to their coffee shop again, even to buy coffee.

Would they mention the slippery streak of ice water I trailed across the linoleum floor at least three times?

Or the moment I served four sides of bacon to the wrong table—a table that happened to be filled with vegetarians?

What about the time I jammed up the cash register, even after Ginny had taken a full five minutes (which apparently was an eternity in waitressland) to show me how to use it?

Or when I filled three pages of my waitress pad with the order of one finicky family because I didn’t know any of the shorthand that the other waitresses used to communicate with Melanie in the kitchen?

If none of those gaffes sealed my doom, I was sure it was going to be the plate I dropped—the plate that had been swimming in maple syrup. It almost exploded, spraying syrup in every possible direction.

By the time the rush began to ease up, I could feel big tufts of frizz popping out of my ponytail. My armpits were so damp, I worried I might have dark circles on my dress.

The remaining customers were all in Ginny’s and Andrea’s sections (I’m sure that was no accident), so I slumped into one of the stools at the counter and gave Melissa a guilty look.

“Turns out,” I said, “serving a restaurant full of people is more challenging than babysitting four little kids. Who knew?”

I gave a lame laugh.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, I placed my order pad on the counter
and started to untie my apron. Even though the morning had been
so
hard, it had also been kind of fun. A sticky, egg-yolky, spazzy kind of fun. Plus, I’d made almost forty dollars in tips! In three and a half hours! That was way better than babysitting money.

Melissa, who had a stack of receipts piled at her elbow, glanced up from the numbers she was pounding into the cash register.

“What are you doing, sweetie pie?” she said. “Your shift isn’t over for two and a half hours.”

“But, but . . . I was a disaster!” I said.

“I hate to agree with her, Melissa,” Andrea said as she popped a new filter full of grounds into the coffeemaker. “But she kind of was.”

She sat next to me at the counter, smiling sympathetically through dark red lipstick. Andrea looked like she was in her early twenties. She had a ton of tattoos and wore Adidas sneakers with tube socks pulled up to the knee. I loved her style, and I marveled at how non-sweaty and pretty she still looked after that brutal shift.

“No offense, Chelsea,” she said.

“None taken,” I said sadly.

“Oh, Andie,” Melissa scolded. “You on your first day, now
that
was a disaster. Remember the way you cried! ‘I can’t do it, Mel! I can’t
do it
! Just let me wash dishes!’ ”

“You started me on Sunday brunch!” Andrea protested. “Talk about trial by fire! Today’s only Monday! A slow Monday, at that.”

“That was slow?” I squeaked.

“Moderately,” Melissa admitted. Then she looked at me. “Listen, if you’d had any experience, I’d say, yes, this day was a disaster. But for someone on her first day, I’d call you, oh, a mild calamity.”

“Is that good?”

Ginny breezed by on her way to a table, with a parade of oval plates stacked along the full length of her arm. She was probably in her fifties, had short salt-and-pepper ringlets, and her eyes looked tired even when she was smiling, as she was now.

“Calamity’s not bad,” she said encouragingly. “You’ll get there. If Andie did,
anybody
can.”

“Hey!” Andrea said poutily.

“So . . . do you want me to stay?” I asked Melissa cautiously.

“Well, I’ll have to talk about it with Melanie,” Melissa said, “but I think you might be a good fit. You are good with the little ones, and we get a lot of those in here.”

“I know,” I said with a grin. “I was one of those! I’ve been coming here for forever.”

“Oh, now you’re making me feel old,” Melissa complained with a good-natured smile. “So, what, do your parents have a summer cottage here?”

“My grandma,” I said automatically, before catching myself. “I mean, she did. I mean, the cottage is still here but my grandma . . . isn’t. She passed away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Melissa said. “What was her name?”

“Delia Roth,” I said, looking down at the white Formica counter. It blurred a little bit.

“Oh, right, I did know that,” Melissa said softly. “I remember Delia coming in here with all those granddaughters. That must have been you and your sisters. I should have recognized you from your—”

“Hair,” I said, and sighed, smoothing back the frizzy corkscrews that had pulled out of my ponytail. “I know.”

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss, sweetie pie,” Melissa said.

I nodded and swallowed hard. “Thanks. It’s okay.”

I was glad for the distraction when Melanie called through the order window.

“All righty!” she said. “Just got my first lunch order. Turn on the specials board!”

Melissa hopped promptly off the stool behind the cash register and walked over to a glossy black screen propped on an easel next to the pie carousel. Ceremoniously she plugged it in. The specials—written in different colors of neon marker—lit up, glowing brightly.

“Wow, that’s fancy!” I said.

“I know!” Melissa said, giving the light board an affectionate pat. “We just got it last season. I think it really sells the specials, don’t you?”

“Melissa,” said Andrea, propping her chin on her fist, “are they really specials when they’re
always
the same?”

“Well,” Melissa said, giving Andrea a scolding glance, “only since, you know, the
order
.”

I wondered what they were talking about as I scanned the specials on the light board.

SPINACH ARTICHOKE DIP WITH TOAST POINTS . . . $4.99

EGG SALAD–CHICKEN SALAD–TUNA SALAD COMBO ON BED OF LETTUCE . . . $8.50

PIMENTO CHEESE SANDWICH ON PUMPERNICKEL . . . $6.50

GRILLED ASPARAGUS WITH LEMON AIOLI . . . $3.99

I was starting to see a theme here. A certain ingredient that
all
the specials contained.

Then I remembered something I’d noticed that morning as I’d rushed from the dining room to the kitchen and back again. In my frantic state it had barely registered, but now that I had a moment to think, it finally clicked.

Just inside the swinging doors that led to the kitchen was a tall, chrome shelving unit. The top and bottom shelves were filled with various dinery items—spare salt and pepper shakers, red and yellow squirt bottles, a big glass jar of pickle relish, and several stacks of napkins.

But by far the predominant feature on the shelves, placed square at eye level, was the mayonnaise—jar after mammoth plastic jar of it. The industrial-size mayo containers were stacked three deep and covered two entire shelves.

Suddenly I realized why Josh had thought I had mayo-on-the-face paranoia the first day I met him.

And why he’d asked about my celery-chopping abilities.

“Melissa,” I said, “what
is
the secret ingredient in the cinnamon streusel coffee cake?”

Melissa hung her head.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Mayonnaise?”

Melissa nodded.

“I had a little ordering snafu,” she admitted, looking a little weary. “There was . . . an extra zero.”

Andrea shook her head and gave a little snort of laughter.

“The supplier wouldn’t take them back,” Melissa went on, “and even though the jars are sealed, there
is
an expiration date on them. So . . .”