The People We Keep(28)

I nod.

“It’s two seventy-five,” she says. “Ring him up.”

I don’t understand how that cup of coffee could possibly cost two dollars more than a regular cup of coffee, but no one else seems to think it’s a problem. The customer hands me a five, and I thank the gods of new jobs or coffee or whatever, that this register is the same as Margo’s.

“Do me a favor,” Carly says. She’s already on the next order. “Take those mugs to the kitchen, and while you’re there, stick your head outside to tell Bodie his break is over. Tell him I said to stop smoking up and get his ass in here.”

I duck under the plank and grab as many spent coffee cups as I can. There are piles of dirty dishes by the sink, so I put them wherever I find space.

Outside, the blond guy who was behind the counter yesterday is leaning against the wall, balanced on one foot, smoking a small squat cigarette. He’s not wearing a jacket and he doesn’t look cold. He’s sunshine. His blond stubble catches the light and makes it look like his face is glowing.

“You’re that girl who wants to help,” he says, taking a deep drag, holding his breath before he lets it out. The smoke smells like a dead skunk and reminds me of Lion Boy. My face flushes.

“Bodie?” I say.

“Yeah.” He sighs. “Let me guess. Carly wants me to get my ass in there.”

“Pretty much.”

“April,” he says, smiling so wide that his eyes turn to slits like a cat. “That’s your name, right?”

“Yeah.”

He takes another drag. “April showers bring May flowers, but what do Mayflowers bring?”

“Huh?”

“Pilgrims, man.” His top lip all but disappears when he smiles. “Pilgrims.” He stubs his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, pats me on the back, and says, “Let’s go before Carly’s head like totally explodes.”



* * *



I take my first break at one. Carly sends me to the kitchen to tell Bodie what I want for lunch and says I can eat up front if I promise to be chatty with the customers, because that’s what they’re going for. Everybody knows your name and whatnot.

Bodie makes me a turkey sandwich, snacking on potato chips as he piles them on my plate.

“Onward, Pilgrim,” he says, handing me the sandwich. He leads with his chin when he smiles and even though he’s got this perfectly chiseled face, he still manages to look dopey.

I carry my plate and a plain cup of coffee to a table in the corner. The sandwich has green mushy stuff on it, and Bodie made it, so I’m skeptical, but it’s actually really good. Maybe it’s just because I’m so hungry for real food, or maybe it’s that guys make better sandwiches because they aren’t dainty about it.

I’m so focused on chewing, on the taste of food, I don’t even look out the window. I’m just eating.

“This seat taken?”

I jump. My knees hit the table and I spill my coffee. It’s the guy with the newsboy cap from this morning. He has a bowl of soup in one hand and his coffee mug in the other.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He puts his bowl down, pulls a napkin from the table stand and wipes up my coffee. “I’ll get you a refill.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m too wired anyway.”

“Okay if I sit?”

I want to tell him that I’d rather he didn’t because I’m having an intimate moment with my sandwich, but I remember what Carly said about being chatty, so I say, “Fine by me,” in as friendly a voice as I can muster.

“Adam Jergens,” he says, offering his hand.

I wipe my fingers on my skirt and shake. “April.” There’s no need to get into last names.

“First day, huh?” Adam says, plunging a spoon into his soup. He holds it to his mouth, making tiny waves as he blows.

“Yep.” I’m not trying to be rude, I just can’t think of anything to say to him. He’s not a student. He’s old. Like maybe thirty. I feel like I’m in over my head talking to Bodie and Carly, so this is just too much. He’s not old like Margo, where it’s easier to talk to her because she’s old. He’s like that in-between old, where I’m sure he thinks he was just my age not long ago.

“Are you a townie or a student? I haven’t seen you around before.” He eats another spoonful of soup without blowing on it. No slurping whatsoever.

“Neither. Just got here,” I say, wishing I could figure out how to speak full sentences again.

“It’s a hard place to leave,” Adam says. “I came for school. Tried moving back to Boston after I finished undergrad, but the world doesn’t seem as right anyplace else.”

“It’s nice here.” I take a huge bite of my sandwich.

“Where you staying?”

I hold my finger up while I chew, but the bread is dense and crusty and the wait for words gets ridiculous. “Here and there,” I say finally, even though I still have food in my mouth. Margo would totally yell at me.

He laughs. “You’re into specifics.”

“Campground,” I blurt out, despite the fact that I meant to keep that information classified.