Chapter Three

Becca

"Order up for Becca," Max sings from the kitchen.

That's right. He sings it. All completed orders are announced with a song, and since the kitchen is open to the dining area, the customers are treated to the sound of Max's voice. It's just one of the many odd and quirky things about The Chicken Shack.

When I first moved here, I stopped at the bright red shack thinking I'd just get dinner. But then I heard Max belting out orders like he was auditioning for a singing contest and customers ringing bells at their table when they liked their food and realized this place is more than a restaurant. It's an experience. And I liked it.

In fact, the wacky atmosphere is what kept me coming back. I found the place to be fun, vibrant. A welcome distraction from my otherwise stressful life. A life that seems to have more downs than ups. But despite the downs, I'm doing my best to stay positive, finding those little pockets of happiness that keep me going.

The Chicken Shack is one of those little pockets. So when I saw the Help Wanted sign a few months ago, I applied right away. I got the job and started the next day and have been working here ever since.

It's a great job, other than the fact that I leave here smelling like fried chicken. Even if you love fried chicken like I do, that smell gets old fast.

"Becca, Becca, you light my day," Max sings as I pick up two platters from the counter. "You make my chicken go away."

He's being dramatic, holding his hands over his heart, and I laugh to the point that I almost drop my platters.

Max has had a crush on me since I started working here. He's asked me out at least five times, and each time I've politely turned him down. He's not my type. He's short and round with a chubby, boyish face and cheeks that always have a reddish hue that matches his curly, red hair.

He's 25 and has lived here all his life. He's super nice and is always offering to help with whatever I need, but I can't accept his help. Doing so might lead him on and I don't want him getting the wrong idea. As nice as he is, I'll never be interested in him that way. Even if I was, I'm not looking for a boyfriend. Guys will have to wait until later, when my life isn't so complicated.

Just as I drop off the food at table six, my phone buzzes in my apron. I hurry back to the kitchen to answer it.

"What do you need?" I ask, a slight panic in my voice because he usually doesn't call during my shift.

"Is there any way you could stop at the drugstore after work? The doc called in a new prescription and I forgot to get it earlier."

"Yeah. Of course. I'm off in an hour. I'll stop by and pick it up. Anything else you need?"

"No, that was it." He pauses. "Unless you want to bring me some leftover chicken." I hear the smile in his voice.

I glance at Max and the pile of breaded chicken he has sitting next to the fryer. "I think I could manage that. I'll see you soon."

"Thanks, sis. Love ya."

"Love you too."

That was my brother, Mike. He's the reason I'm here in this town. The reason I quit my nursing program back in Cincinnati. The reason I work two jobs.

Mike is 26 and used to be a sergeant in the Army. He was stationed overseas when a blast went off in his camp and killed five of his fellow soldiers, all close friends. Mike was lucky to have survived but was left battered, burned, and without a leg. It happened last fall so it's been awhile but he still has days when he's in a lot of pain which is why he hasn't been able to get a job. He applied for military disability but it's taking forever for the paperwork to get approved. That's why he's broke, and why I'm working two jobs. One would be enough if I just had to pay for rent and food but I'm also paying for Mike to go to a pain clinic in town. The military won't cover the cost because it's not an approved facility. It's really expensive but it's been helping Mike more than anything else he's tried so I'm willing to work another job to pay for it.

Mike's always been there for me and now it's time for me to be there for him, even if it means putting my own life on hold. He's my hero and I look up to him. Whenever I'm feeling down or sorry for myself, I look at Mike's prosthetic leg and the scars that cover his body and realize I have nothing to complain about. He watched his friends die. He lost his leg. And yet he still remains positive. He's an inspiration to me. He always will be.

The only time I've seen Mike feeling down was when Tricia, his fiancé, left him. It happened six months ago. Mike and Tricia were high school sweethearts. After graduation, she went to college and he joined the Army, but they stayed in contact via email and the occasional phone call. During their time apart, they dated other people but it was never anything serious because despite the distance between them, they still loved each other. When he was on leave, attending Tricia's college graduation, he asked her to marry him. She said yes and they spent a few days together before he left again.

Tricia ended up getting a job in public relations at Laytham College. It's a small private school here in town that's known for its football team. When Mike got out of the Army hospital he moved in with Tricia, but with his body still healing, he needed help with even the most basic things, like getting dressed or shaving. At first, everything seemed to be going fine, but then, after only a few weeks, Tricia decided it was too much for her and she took off.

She broke Mike's heart, and it was the only time I saw him depressed. But it didn't last. Instead of sulking and feeling sorry for himself, he focused his energy on creating a podcast for other military men and women who lost limbs. He doesn't make any money but he's making a difference in people's lives. Doing the podcast is good for Mike too. It's helped him deal with all that's happened to him.

"Tina, Tina, you're sweet as honey," Max croons as Tina picks up an order. "You take that cornbread, bring back some money."

I can't help but laugh. I don't know where Max comes up with this stuff but his lyrics are always hilarious.

Tina blows him a kiss. She's not interested in dating him but the two of them flirt just for fun. Tina is 21, same age as me, and has worked here since high school. She works nights. By day, she's a beautician. That's how I met her. She cut my hair and still does. She's a single mom with a two-year-old little girl named Missy who is completely adorable, with shiny black curls and a smile that melts your heart. She's another one of those pockets of happiness. Whenever I see her, she gives me a hug and her sweet smile and it makes even the darkest day seem brighter.

As I refill waters at table nine, the two old men sitting there ignore me as they debate the future of Laytham's football team.

"The kid's not going to play," the skinny bald man says to the man across from him, who looks like a professor with his white hair and beard. "After that kind of injury, he's looking at months of physical therapy. Maybe a year."

They're talking about Ethan Baxter, the star quarterback from L.A. who led the Laytham football team to three winning seasons. But their winning streak will likely end if Ethan can't play this year. Last May he was in a car accident that killed three Laytham students and left Ethan with a broken leg that some people in town say will end his football career.

As I refill waters at the next table, I can still hear the old men talking.

"He might be able to play for half the season," the white-haired man says. "Nobody really knows the extent of his injuries. Maybe they're not as bad as we think. I've heard the coach has been over to see him. That could be a sign he's planning to play again."

"Or it could just be a concerned coach going to visit his player. Coach Maverick treats those boys like his sons. Even if Ethan never plays again, Maverick will still go see him."

"I suppose you're right."

As a waitress in a small town obsessed with Laytham football, I overhear these conversations about Ethan all the time, but they're becoming less frequent as time goes by. Since the accident, nobody's seen or heard from Ethan. Rumor has it he hides out in a house he rents on the other side of town.

My shift continues and by the end of the night, my feet are killing me. I take a seat at one of the tables as Tina locks the front door.

"You should get insoles," she says, coming over to me and pointing at my feet. "You can get them at the drugstore but I get mine at the medical supply store over by the mall. They have really good ones."

In addition to my job at The Chicken Shack, I also clean houses, so by the end of the day my feet are aching.

"Are they expensive?" I ask.

"Yeah, they're fifty bucks, but they're worth it for people like us who spend all day on our feet."

"I'll check them out but right now I don't have the money."

"I could loan you some," she says, sitting beside me.

"Tina, you know I'd never take your money. You have a little girl to take care of."

"And you have a brother to take care of." She catches my eye. "It's not easy, you know?"

"What's not easy?"

"Being the one responsible for someone else's care."

"Mike mostly takes care of himself. It's not like taking care of a toddler, like you have to do."

"Yeah, but it's still hard, especially when you have to do it alone. Sometimes we have to help each other out." She gives me that warm, caring smile that made me like her the minute we met. It's why we became friends.

I also like her because, like my brother, Tina doesn't let her situation get her down. Her ex, Missy's dad, took off the second he found out Tina was pregnant. Before he left, he stole all the tip money she'd stashed away in her dresser. Five hundred dollars. She was going to use it to buy a crib and other baby supplies, but he took all of it, even the loose change.

"I'll be okay," I tell her. "I'll soak my feet when I get home."

She shrugs. "Okay, but if you change your mind, let me know. I got a $60 tip the other day from this lady who came in to get her nails done. It was like unexpected money so it's yours if you want it."

"Some woman gave you a $60 tip? Your manicures are only $20."

She laughs. "I know. I must've looked at her funny because she explained that the manicures she gets in L.A. cost $80 so she didn't feel right paying me any less than that. She didn't even get anything fancy done. Just a basic clean-up of her nails and a clear polish."

"She's from L.A.?"

"Yeah. A lawyer. She spent the whole time on her phone. You should have seen her diamond ring. It was at least four carats. And she had big diamond earrings."

"What was she doing here?"

"She said she was visiting someone. She didn't say who." Tina pauses. "Actually, now that I think about it, I wonder if she's the mom of that guy. The football player. She kind of looked like him. Isn't he from L.A.?"

"Ethan Baxter?"

"Yeah. That had to be his mom. They have the same eyes. I've never met the guy but I saw a picture of him in the paper after the accident."

I remember that picture. He looked like he'd been in a fight. His face was swollen and bruised and he had stitches along his forehead.

"I've never met him either," I say. "But I've heard he never leaves his house."

"He probably can't. Isn't he still in a wheelchair?"

"I'm not sure. I don't know anything about him other than his sport stats, and that's only because Mike insists on telling me about the Laytham football team. And the basketball team. And the baseball team."

She laughs. "He loves his sports."

"Yeah." I smile. "He used to be such a great athlete."

"He could still do those things. A lot of guys with prosthetics play sports."

"I guess, but right now it's not a priority for him. He's working on his blog and trying to get more viewers for his podcast."

"You think he'll get a job someday? Like a paying job?"

"Yeah, but I'm not going to pressure him to find one anytime soon. What he's doing now is part of his healing process and it's what he loves doing."

"I know but, Becca, but you can't support him forever. You've put your life on hold, which is admirable and shows how much you love him, but there'll be a point where you have to move on and do what's best for you. Like finish nursing school."

I nod. "I'll go back and finish, just not yet. Not until Mike's fully recovered. He needs me and I'm not going to abandon him."

"Then at least get some damn insoles for your feet." She smiles as she stands up, holding her hands out to me. "C'mon. Let's get this place cleaned up and get out of here."

We get to work cleaning up the dining room. Max is in the kitchen, singing along to the radio and occasionally shouting out directions to his staff, all of whom are high school kids working here for the summer.

Just before midnight, he sends them home, leaving just the three of us. As Tina and I finish mopping the floors, we hear the radio turn off and Max crooning another made-up song. "Becca and Tina, my two sweetest gals. We met at The Chicken Shack, quickly became pals."

Max meets us in the dining room, grease stains covering his white t-shirt, his baggy jeans belted below his large stomach. "You serve my chicken with a smile." He takes the mop from me and sings into it like it's a microphone. "For you, my sweet, I'd run a mile."

Tina laughs and says to me, "That's a huge compliment. Max hates running."

"Or any activity that involves moving off the couch," he adds. "You guys ready to leave?"

Max always walks us to our cars. He feels the need to look out for us, although he's too out of shape to protect us if we needed it. If a guy ever attacked us in the parking lot, Tina and I would be better able to take him down than Max would. But it's still sweet that he cares enough to walk us out.

"Chicken's on the counter," he says as we're walking through the kitchen.

"That's right. I almost forgot." I grab the large paper sack. "Thanks for remembering," I tell Max.

"No problem. Gotta keep that brother of yours fed. He's too skinny."

Mike's not skinny. He's built like a military guy. Strong and lean. He works out all the time, trying to get his strength back to where it was before he lost his leg. But to a guy like Max, Mike is skinny. Max is always trying to fatten him up.

When I get home, Mike is in the living room watching a movie. He always waits up for me. I tell him he doesn't have to but he still does. He thinks it's his job as my big brother.

"How was work?" he asks.

"It was okay." I set the sack down on the kitchen counter. "I got your chicken. Should I put it in the fridge?"

"No, I'll eat it now." He gets up and comes into the kitchen and gives me a hug. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Oh, and I got your pills. They're on the counter."

He goes over and takes them from the bag, then pops one in his mouth and swallows it.

"Are you having pain?" I ask to see if he'll admit it. He always denies it and tells me he's fine so I won't worry.

"It's because of my workout yesterday. I pushed myself too hard."

"Maybe you shouldn't—"

"Becca, I'm fine." He sits down at the kitchen table and unpacks his food from the sack.

He wouldn't need those strong pain pills if his pain was from a workout, but pushing him to tell me the truth will just cause us to argue so I let it go.

"So anything interesting happen today?" I ask, sitting across from him.

He was just about to bite into a drumstick but he sets it down and looks at me with a serious expression that's making me nervous.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I wasn't sure if I should tell you this."

"Tell me what?"

He sighs, his eyes on mine. "Mom called."

I burst up from the table, anger filling my veins. "And you talked to her?"

"I didn't know it was her. I didn't recognize the number. She must have a new phone."

"Why didn't you just hang up on her?"

"Because she's our mom. And I wanted to hear what she had to say."

"And?" I put my hands on my hips. "What did she say?"

"She wanted to know how we're doing."

I huff. "Yeah, right. What did she really want?"

"That's it. That's all she wanted. She asked how my leg was and she asked how you were doing."

"She asked how your leg was? Did she forget you don't have a leg?"

"Becca, you know what she meant," he says in a conciliatory tone. He's always giving Mom the benefit of the doubt. Trying to make me forgive her. And I tell him I have, but I really haven't. Why would I? She left us high and dry. Divorced our dad when I was 13 and Mike was 18 so that she could go be with the guy she'd been having an affair with for years. She ended up running away with him and moving to Texas and forgetting all about us.

Dad was never the same after she left. He became depressed and withdrawn. Mom broke his heart, literally. He died of a heart attack when I was 18, the summer after I graduated. Mike was serving overseas so I was left to fend for myself. Mike sent money but it wasn't enough so I got three jobs and lived with two roommates in a shitty apartment. Meanwhile, Mom was living in Dallas with her rich boyfriend, who owns a popular restaurant chain. She could've offered to help me out but she didn't. She called to offer her condolences but nothing else.

The next time I heard from her was when Mike got hurt. She got the news before I did and told me what happened. She didn't seem that upset about it. She kept saying he'd be fine and not to worry, but of course I worried. He could've been killed. And he was left without a freaking leg!

When Mike moved back here, Mom never offered to help us. She likes to pretend we don't exist. We're a piece of her past she only thinks about when guilt creeps into her conscious. Whenever that happens, she gives us a quick call to relieve her guilt, which is why I never answer her calls. I don't want to relieve her guilt. I think she should have to live with it.

"What else did she say?" I ask.

"Not much. She's going on an Alaskan cruise in August."

I shake my head. "She seriously had the nerve to tell you that, knowing we're struggling to make ends meet?"

"That's just the way she is. We can't change her. She's always put herself before others."

"Which is why I don't understand why you keep trying to have a relationship with her."

"I'm not trying to have a relationship with her. But I'm not going to be rude to her or hang up on her. What good would that do? It wouldn't make me feel any better. She's still our mom, and if she wants to check in now and then, what's the harm?"

Maybe he's right. Maybe there's no harm in talking to her, but I still don't want to. I've had it with her, and don't feel I owe her anything just because I'm her daughter.

"Hey." Mike nudges my foot under the table. "What do I always say?"

"Eat your vegetables." I half smile.

He chuckles. "What else?"

"I don't know. You say a lot so it could be anything."

He looks me in the eye. "Be the better person. Don't let other people's shit bring you down. They have their own issues, and if they choose to express themselves in a negative way, then let them. But don't take part in it. Be the better person."

I roll my eyes. "Sometimes your inspirational speeches are really annoying, especially this late at night when my feet are killing me and I smell like chicken and cleaning supplies."

Today I had to clean three houses then go straight to The Chicken Shack. There was no time to go home and shower, like I usually do.

Mike picks up the chicken leg he was eating. "Go to bed. I can eat alone."

"You could." I pick up a chicken wing. "But what fun would that be?"

"You're right." He shoves the plate of chicken toward me. "Have another and tell me one of your work stories."

I love chicken wings so Mike always lets me have them.

"Max had some new songs but I can't remember the lyrics. And he thinks you're too skinny so eat up."

Mike takes another piece of chicken and we sit and talk in our dimly lit kitchen. In our tiny, cheap apartment. With the sound of the faucet dripping because the landlord refuses to fix it.

It's not what I dreamed of when I was a little girl. Living in a run-down apartment. Working two jobs. Barely making ends meet. My brother left without a leg. 

And yet this moment, eating fried chicken with Mike in the wee hours of the morning, makes me happy.