Chapter Three

“If I can tell you one thing,” my aunt Helen says, one of the few times she decides to talk to me, “it’s don’t think that anyone’s ever going to give you anything in this life. If you want it, you have to fight for it, even if that means drawing blood.”

“Mom?” I call out as I shut the door and drop my messenger bag to the floor.

There’s only silence in return.

“Mom?” I say softly, peeking into her room. I’m struck by the potent fragrance of the incense. My eyes water in protest as it burns my nostrils. There’s no getting used to that smell.

I quietly enter her room when she still doesn’t respond. I find her curled up on her side under the blankets, asleep. Her face is drained of color, except for the ruddy patches on her cheeks. Without touching her, I know she still has a fever. Placing my hand on her forehead only confirms it. She doesn’t stir with my touch, which concerns me more.

“Mom?” I say gently, but she doesn’t move.

I pick up the water glass and carry it into the kitchen, filling it with cold water from a pitcher in the fridge. Before I bring it back to her room, I glance at her work schedule posted on the side.

Tori’s going to kill me.

“I have to work tonight.” I close my eyes, braced for her reaction.

“What the fuck?” She doesn’t filter the anger in her voice. “You’re covering for her, aren’t you?”

I ignore the spite in her tone. I don’t know what Tori’s issue is with my mother, but this isn’t the time to get into it.

“I get off at ten. What time did you tell Lincoln we’d meet him?”

“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.

“Touch my ass, and I’ll make sure there’s shards of glass in your beer,” I warn him.

His hand lowers under the table.

I drop their ticket. “If you’re just staying for drinks, you can walk the three feet to the bar to get them yourselves.”

“Lana, can you take that table of guys who just sat down?” Marisa asks as I walk by her, dumping plates on the metal counter for the dishwasher.

“That’s not my table,” I tell her, not about to be nice at nine forty-five. “I’m off soon anyway. Sorry.”

I don’t stick around to hear her complain. I pick up the plates waiting for me on the raised stainless counter, hiding the shit show that is the kitchen. If people saw what happened back there, they’d never eat here again. I shuffle around the bodies hanging out at the counter … or bar. Whatever it is, it’s the worst setup ever.

I drop the plates on the table, not caring if the correct order is in front of the right person. They’re my last table. I need them to eat and settle up, so I can get the hell out of here. Tony should be here soon, and I know Tori won’t let me hear the end of it if we don’t leave her house by ten thirty.

“Anything else?” I ask, leaving the check without waiting for an answer. “If you need another drink, you can get it at the bar.”

Technically, I’m not supposed to serve alcohol. I’m only fifteen. But Jim and Margo ignore the law. And the police are too preoccupied with what happens in the parking lot to notice what happens inside this metal Twinkie.

It’s a job. I can’t afford not to be here. And, believe me, I constantly remind myself of this too.

I clear my other tables and make sure they’ve all paid before returning to the table I just fed. “Ready to pay?” I ask.

They’re interfering with my night. If they don’t like the not-so-friendly service, they came to the wrong place. Besides, I’m not counting on the crappy tip they never planned to leave me.

A guy with tattoos covering his thick arms pulls out two twenties and drops them on top of the bill without looking at it.

“Need change?”

He shakes his head. I try to hide the surprise that flashes across my face with a blink. Maybe he can’t count. I’m not about to offer a math lesson. I hand the cash to Margo at the register and wait for the change. All she does is handle the money. She doesn’t trust anyone. Not even Georgia or Mal, who’ve worked the bar since before I was born. No one touches the cash other than Margo, who remains perched on her wooden stool, watching everyone with her beady blue eyes.

She reminds me of a bird, frail and thin, with wrinkled skin hanging off her, scowling at everyone like she’s tempted to peck their eyes out. She sees everything. I try not to talk to her. I try not to even look at her if I can help it. She creeps me out.

I duck into the back, past the counter where plates of food are waiting to be picked up. “Jim, I’m clocking out.”

“No you’re not,” he bellows. “You have five minutes left in your shift. Go check the bathrooms.”

I stop, wishing I had kept my mouth shut and just clocked out. He would never have known.

As soon as I push open the red metal door, I’m forced to cover my mouth and nose. The stench is overwhelming. One of the toilets isn’t working. Jim knew and didn’t want to deal with it himself. Bastard. Well, I’m definitely not going to unclog it. Women are disgusting. I’m convinced we’re grosser than men—throwing who knows what into the toilets, pissing all over the seats, littering the floor with shreds of toilet paper that are destined to stick to the bottom of someone’s shoe. There’s no way I can get away with leaving it like this. I’ll get reamed the next time I work.

I pull on latex gloves and pick up the fragments of paper towels and toilet paper scattered on the floor, shoving them into the overflowing trash. I wipe down the chipped porcelain sinks and step down on the trash to compact it.

Taking the trash bag with me, I walk out the back door to toss it in the dumpster. When I try to go back in, the door’s locked. I groan. Of course it is. I’m never getting out of here. I’m forced to walk all the way around to the front where there’s a line to get in.

A car honks. I turn my head just as Tori pulls herself out the passenger window, sitting on the edge of the door.

“Why are you here? I thought I was coming to your house?” I question, recognizing she’s dressed to go out.

“Change of plans. Tony’s meeting friends, so we have to go now or else we won’t have a ride.”

Tony nods with a subtle grin in the driver’s seat. I smile back, biting my lip to keep it from being too big.

I look down at my hideous, stained uniform that smells like grease and beer, knowing the rest of me pretty much smells the same. “But I’m repulsive.”

“Put on extra perfume. Besides, guys love the smell of this place. You may even get licked tonight,” Tori teases wickedly.

I shoot her a disgusted look.

My skin feels like I have a layer of oil clinging to it, and I don’t even want to know what my hair is doing.

“Seriously, Tori?” I gripe. With a frustrated sigh, I turn toward the line blocking the front door.

“Hurry up!” Tori hollers in return.

I push my way through the bodies, not bothering to excuse myself. It wouldn’t help. This crowd responds better to brute force. And I desperately need to get out of here.

And now there’s suddenly a line to get into the bathroom. The clogged toilet’s probably not helping.

I grit my teeth in frustration. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” This night just keeps getting better and better. Hell, this entire day has been shit. Might as well keep it coming.

I slip into the kitchen without being seen by Jim and past the grill where Carlos is flipping hockey pucks. Some of them, I know, are supposed to be pancakes. I glance at him, and he winks at me.

“Going out tonight, beautiful?”

“Trying,” I respond.

Carlos is a flirt but harmless. A guy who feels compelled to compliment Margo’s bug eyes is pathetic, not threatening. I seriously doubt he’s ever had a girlfriend in his life. I kinda feel sorry for him. Until I catch him staring at my ass and have to fight the urge to punch him.

I clock out at five past ten, grab my bag and try Jim’s office door so I can change. It’s locked. Why is it impossible to get out of here tonight? I hide myself in the corner the best I can and slip my shorts on under my dress. I unzip the green monster and let it fall to the floor, quickly pulling the halter top over my head and removing my bra beneath it. When I turn around, Carlos is staring with his brows raised and a spatula hanging limp in his hand.

“What?!” I question accusingly, trying not to think about what he might’ve seen.

He just stares at me dumbly.

I ignore him and pick up my crumpled uniform, shoving it into my bag. I exchange my black sneakers for the strappy wedge sandals. I don’t have a mirror, so I use the camera on my phone to check my makeup. Running a finger under my eyes to capture the smears only makes it worse, so I add dark liner and smudge it for a smoky effect and finish with shiny pink gloss on my lips. I gather my hair into a knot on top of my head and slide on a sparkly crystal headband to hold back my bangs. Despite the effort, I still feel like a mess. I’m just hoping hard I don’t look it.

I exit the back door without saying anything to Jim. I clocked out. I’m done.

I spritz perfume on my neck and wrists then spray it in the air to walk through it, desperate to conceal the eau de Stella’s. As long as I don’t act like a mess, no one will know. Right? That’s what Tori always tells me.

“Act the way you want everyone to see you, no matter how you’re really feeling.”

I haven’t quite mastered it. I tend to be way too expressive. My feelings are always evident all over my face, even when I try to hide them.

“Fake it ’til you make it.” Great. Now I’m quoting posters from Mr. Garner’s office.

I open the back door of Tony’s car and throw my bag across the seat before sliding in. “Okay, bitch, let’s go to this fucking party.”