Page 23 of Songbird: Black Kite
I cringed as Jimmy slammed his meaty hand down on the bell, as though I hadn’t heard him hollering across the entire diner and also needed the delightfully shrill ringing to remind me that the last table I had for the night was finally ready to eat.
“Thanks, Jimmy,” I said with a disingenuous smile, which he returned.
Jimmy and I had an understanding. We did our jobs and didn’t require the same false niceties that our other coworkers and customers seemed to thrive on. There were no check-ins, no asking if the other had had a good weekend.
No bullshit.
Just an efficient and capable exchange of duties to get us both out of the diner as close to on time as humanly possible.
It worked for both of us just fine.
Sliding behind the lunch counter, I scooped up the plates from the window, snagging the little container of napkins and ketchup and made my way to the table.
“Here you go,” I said, putting my customer service smile back in place. I may have been a surly bitch most days, but tips were tips, and a smile was the best way to earn them. “One Classic Rapids burger with fries and one BLT with a green salad, dressing on the side. Anything else I can grab for you folks?”
“No, thank you, Wren,” said Mrs. Tollman, my high school English teacher. She and her husband came to the Grand Rapids Diner every Friday evening and ordered the exact same thing.
Every time.
It would have been cute if it wasn’t so fucking depressing. “Everything looks great.”
“Well, you just flag me down if you change your mind.”
I spun from the table, letting the smile drop from my face as I headed for the counter. I only had twenty minutes left in my shift, and I was dead on my feet. I’d opened the diner, dealing with the early bird breakfast crowd and the lunch rush. Now it was pushing dinnertime and I was beat. I just needed Julia to arrive and relieve me and then I was gone.
Sabrina and I had a date with a brand-new Quinton Tarantino double feature at the drive in.
I tried to kill time by filling all the sugar containers and napkin dispensers, then I swung by the Tollman’s table and filled their water glasses. Again.
When Julia was five minutes late, I started to worry.
When she was twenty minutes late, I started to panic.
But when the diner phone rang and Jimmy grabbed it, scowling at whatever the person on the other end was saying to him, that was when I knew my night was well and truly over.
There would be no double-feature horror flick for me tonight.
“Wren!” Jimmy called, slamming the receiver down with more force than was probably necessary.
“Yeah, Jim?” I asked, already knowing what my fate would be.
“I need you to stay. Julia’s not gonna make it. Said her car won’t start.”
That was bullshit. Julia drove a brand-new car, a graduation gift from her father. I remembered the day she’d gotten it, all of us forced to watch her squeal with over-the-top pleasure as we left school for the day and it was waiting for her in the parking lot, a giant red bow perched comically on top. That car cost at least five times what our family car had cost when we bought it twelve years ago, so the likelihood of it having any kind of engine trouble was extremely low.
The likelihood of Julia having a date that she didn’t want to miss so she could slave away at the summer job her rich father insisted she get to ‘teach her the value of a dollar’ was exponentially higher.
“Sure, Jim,” I sighed, resigned. “No problem.”
But it was a problem. It was a big fucking problem.
I was still chewing on my anger when Sabrina showed up about five minutes later, looking hot in a pair of cut-off jeans and a strappy black tank top.
“Wren, let’s go. We’re gonna be late. Why are you not dressed?”
Blowing my hair out of my face, I let out a feral sounding growl as I furiously wiped down a stack of menus, tossing them haphazardly into a pile that I’d only have to organize myself later, but I was too fucking mad to care.
“Because Julia is having car trouble and won’t be making it for her shift tonight,” I said, not bothering to hide my anger.
