Keeping The Moon(7)

“Yeah.”

She took her time coming over, pulling out a ticket from the apron tied loosely around her waist. “Go ahead.”

“I’m not going to take this anymore,” the tall girl said as she started across the room. She had big, flat feet that smacked the

floor with each step.

“Grilled chicken salad,” I said, remembering Mira’s request, “and a cheeseburger with fries. And onion rings.”

The blonde nodded, writing this down. “Anything else?”

“No.”

The tall girl stopped right next to me and slammed the handful of change down on the counter, one dime bouncing off to hit the

floor with a ping. ”I can’t take it anymore,” she said dramatically. “I will remain silent no longer.”

“You need ketchup with that?” the blonde said to me, ignoring her.

“Uh, yeah,” I said.

The tall girl was taking off her apron, balling it up in her hands. “I don’t want to have to do it,” she said.

“Mayonnaise?” the blonde asked.

“No,” I said.

“I quit!” the tall girl announced, throwing her apron at the blonde, who reached up and caught it without even looking. “And

now, I will go out and give those rude, inconsiderate fascists a piece of my mind.” She took two strides to the door, kicked it

open with a bang, and was gone. The door swung shut, the screen rattling.

The blonde, still holding the apron, walked to the window and stuck my ticket on a spindle. “Order up.”

“All right,” a guy’s voice said, and then I saw Norman Norman poke his head out and grab the ticket. The blue sunglasses were

parked on top of his head. “Where’s Morgan?” he asked.

“Quit,” the blonde said in a bored voice. She’d pulled out a Vogue magazine from somewhere and was flipping the pages.

Norman smiled that sleepy smile, then glanced toward the door and saw me. “Hey, Colie,” he said. “This for you and Mira?”

“Yeah,” I said. The blonde looked at me again.

“Cool,” Norman said, and he waved before disappearing back behind the window.

I stood there, waiting for my food; in the kitchen, a radio was playing softly. About ten minutes passed before the door creaked

behind me and the tall girl—Morgan—came back in, mumbling under her breath.

“Already gone?” the blonde said in that same flat voice.

“Drove off just as I got out there,” Morgan grumbled. As she passed, the blonde gave her the apron, flipping another page of the

magazine.

“Too bad,” she said.

“This is the last summer I work here,” Morgan declared, pulling her apron strings into a perfect bow. “I mean it.”

“I know.” The blonde turned another page.

“I’m serious.” Morgan went over to the soda machine and filled a cup with ice, shaking some into her mouth and crunching it with

a determined look. Then she saw me. “You been helped?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“She’s Mira’s niece,” said the blonde.

Morgan looked at me with new interest, eyebrows raised. “Really?”

“You remember. Norman told us about her.” The blonde put down her magazine and turned her full attention back to me. “Kiki

Sparks’ kid. Can you imagine.”

“I can’t,” Morgan said, but she smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Colie,” I said warily. I’d had enough experience with girls in groups to be on my guard.

“What’s the deal with that thing in your lip?” the blonde said bluntly. “It’s creepy.”

“Isabel,” Morgan said, elbowing her. “How old are you, Colie?”

“Fifteen,” I said.

Morgan came closer to me, tucking her hair behind her ear. On her right hand, she wore a ring with a tiny diamond, just big enough

to flash in the light. “How long you down for?”

“Just the summer,” I said.

“Order up!” Norman yelled from the kitchen.

“That’s great,” Morgan said. “You’ll be right next door. Maybe we can go to the movies sometime or something.”

“Sure,” I said, but I kept my voice low. “That would be—”

“Here you go,” Isabel, the blonde, said, dropping my food right in front of me. “Ketchup’s inside the box. That’ll be

fifteen-eighteen with tax.”

“Right,” I said, handing her the twenty. She turned on her heel and went to the register.

“Well, tell Mira I said hi,” Morgan said, “and that I’ll be by for Triple Threat tomorrow, since I’m off.”

“Triple Threat,” I repeated. That had to have something to do with wrestling. “Okay. I will.”

“Here’s your change,” Isabel said, slapping it on top of one of the boxes.

“Thanks,” I said.

She stepped back, next to Morgan, and squinted at me. “Can I tell you something?” she said.

“No,” Morgan told her, her voice low.

I didn’t say anything. So she did.