Keeping The Moon(13)

The first thing I saw was a stunned Morgan standing behind the counter watching the line form.

“Help us!” she yelled at Norman, who waved her off and went back into the kitchen. Through the food window I could see another

cook, an older man with bushy red hair.

Isabel walked up, carrying a stack of menus. “There are at least seventy total,” she said to Morgan.

“Seventy?” Morgan shrieked. “Are they kidding?”

“We can seat fifty-five,” Isabel told her. “The rest can stand or wait. That’s it.”

“This is insane,” Morgan said, watching as the tables quickly filled up. Isabel was already darting from one to another, handing

out menus and silverware. “I can’t do this.”

“How many we got?” Norman yelled through the food window.

“Seventy,” Morgan told him. “There’s no way, it’s too many and we only have two cooks and this place is too—”

“Don’t break down on me,” Isabel said as she pushed her way behind the counter. “I need you now, Morgan, okay?”

“I can’t—” Morgan replied, wringing her hands.

“Yes, you can,” Isabel said calmly. “Now you take half and I’ll take half. There’s no other way.”

“Oh, my God,” Morgan moaned, tightening her apron.

“Do it,” Isabel said. She glanced toward the line, her lips moving as she counted those still standing. Then she saw me.

“You,” she said, pointing. Everyone in line looked at each other, then at me. “Yeah, you. Lip girl.”

So much for apologies. “What?” I said.

“Want to make yourself useful?”

I thought about it. I knew I didn’t owe her anything. But then again, I had a whole summer stretching ahead of me.

“Good,” she said, deciding for me before I even opened my mouth. And as I came closer she picked up the shovel for the ice,

slapped it in my hand, and pointed to the soda machine. “Get to work.”





Chapter Four


I never set out to be a waitress. But just like that, I had a job.

It was Morgan’s idea, of course.

“We do need some extra help,” she said to Isabel, who was sitting at the end of the counter after that frantic lunch, arranging

her money. Morgan was upending ketchup bottles, one on top of another, mixing and marrying their contents. “Ever since Hillary ran

off with that Cuban guy we’ve been shorthanded. Bick and Norman can handle things back in the kitchen. But since Ron’s in

Barbados all summer, he’s not around to run things, which leaves more for me and you to do.”

“We’re fine,” Isabel said

“Oh, yeah,” Morgan said, facing her. She had a smear of ketchup across one cheek. “You would have been just fine without Colie

getting you all those sodas and answering the phone.”

“You have ketchup on your face,” Isabel told her.

Morgan wiped her hand across both cheeks. “Gone?” she said.

“Yep.” Isabel stood and stretched her arms over her head, her ample bosom rising and falling as she did so.

“So?” Morgan said. “Come on, Isabel. Another day like today with no backup and we’d be screwed. You know it.”

Isabel picked up the stack of bills from the counter, folded it, and slid it in her back pocket. Then she looked at me. “We can’t

pay much,” she said. “Just minimum, plus tips. That’s it.”

“It’ll be fun, Colie,” Morgan said. “You should do it.”

“Waitressing sucks,” Isabel told me. “A lot of people can’t handle it.”

“Oh, it’s not so awful.” Morgan shook a ketchup bottle, knocking out the dregs. “Besides, we have a good time, right?”

“I mean, it’s up to you,” Isabel said, walking toward the door. “I, myself, would think long and hard about it.”

“Just say yes.” Morgan whispered to me as Isabel pushed open the door, putting on a pair of red-framed sunglasses.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

“Fine,” Isabel said. “You start tomorrow morning. Be here at nine-thirty.” The door slammed behind her, and I could hear gravel

crunching as she walked across the parking lot to a beat-up black VW Rabbit parked crookedly across two spaces. She opened the door

and climbed in, reaching up to pull a key from under the visor. The radio was already blasting as she sped out in reverse, spraying

gravel everywhere.

“Congratulations,” Morgan said, handing me a bottle of ketchup. “Welcome to the Last Chance.”

Later that afternoon when I was standing across the street from the restaurant, waiting for the traffic light to change, I saw

something in the distance. It began as a speck, hardly visible, and then grew larger and larger as it approached, until I could

make out a color—red—and a noise, too. A bell.

By the time I recognized Mira’s crazy red bike, there was a group of customers coming out of the Last Chance. They were college

girls, all in sunglasses and T-shirts with damp spots where their bathing suits had soaked through. Daytrippers, Isabel had said