All the Rage(58)

when todd drives me to work Tuesday, I ask him if he heard anything about Alek.

“Like what?” he asks.

Like if he was in a wreck because he was drunk driving. If he spent the night in the drunk tank. If they took his license away. But I just shrug and say, “Anything.”

“Nope.”

We pull up to Swan’s, which is some kind of dingy picture, the rain bringing the outside of the building down a few shades in color. I climb out of the car and thank Todd for the ride.

“See you in a few hours,” he says. I cross the parking lot as quick as I can and when I step in through the back, to the kitchen, I’m only half-soaked.

“Hi,” Leon says as I shake myself off.

“Hi.”

He smiles, a very tentative smile. A smile that is still not sure it’s what I deserve. A small gift. Tracey steps out of her office and smiles at me too. “I hope you’re ready to work. The rain’s been driving people in like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Hey there, stranger,” Holly calls. I turn. She holds up a newspaper. “You’ve been gone so long, I almost forgot what you looked like ’til I saw this.”

“What?”

I take the paper from her and my stomach sinks. The Ibis Daily, a week old, and there I am in black-and-white. It must have been before Leon arrived at the search because I don’t see him—just me with my arms crossed, staring at a sea of people, all wearing the same shirt, all looking for one girl. But the girl that I’m looking at is undeniably, unmistakably me.

On the front page.

I tighten my grip so the paper doesn’t shake and give me away because all I can think about is who might’ve seen this, about how they know what I look like now. No—just how I look in black-and-white. I live in color. There’s no red in this photo, it’s still mine. I could—I could cut my hair, if I wanted. I might have a scar now. I touch my forehead. If I don’t, I could make one.

“Sorry the search didn’t turn out,” Holly says.

I crumple the paper and toss it in the recycling bin. I grab my apron and tie it and try to get my head back in the game. When I step into the diner, the fluorescent lights flicker and I hear someone from the kitchen groan before the door swings shut. Just be Tracey’s luck to trade the AC trouble for power outages.

I scan my station and there’s a man in a corner booth waiting on me and he looks familiar in a way I can’t totally place. I don’t like faces I can’t place almost as much as I don’t like the ones I can. I pull the pencil and pad from my pocket and walk over.

He nods at me, his brow furrowing.

“I know you?” he asks.

“No,” I say but I take a closer look at him. There’s something about him, something frustrating about him because I think I do know him. He’s in a plaid shirt. One of his legs is half-stretched into the aisle. There’s a hole in his jeans. He’s young, early thirties, maybe. The kind of young that … that’s been in the sun too long. The man in the parking lot, the one in the truck.

Not safe to be out this late around here. A girl’s missing.

He seems to remember it the same time I do, snaps his fingers. “Well, damn. Didn’t know you worked here. You’re awfully young to be working here.”

“Can I take your order?”

“How young are you?”

“I—” I shake my head a little. “The special today is the club sandwich and it comes with soup. The soup of the day is tomato.”

“I’m just making friendly conversation,” he says.

“I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Well, what if I tip better when you talk?”

I press my lips together. He grins and leans back in his seat, turns to the window. The rain has eased up a little. “I’ll have that special, with a cup of coffee. Black.”

“Okay.”

“Ain’t you going to write it down?”

“I’ll remember.” But I write it down as I go, narrowly missing Claire on my way by. Watch it, Romy, she tells me. By the time I’ve put the order in, I feel wrong. He just makes me feel wrong. Holly notices. She’s getting ready to go out for a smoke.

“What’s up?”

I take her over to the door and point him out. The guy is staring at the ceiling now, tapping his fingers along the table. “That guy there.”

“What’d he do?” Holly asks sharply, because she’s like that. Been here long enough to look out for us girls better than we look out for ourselves. I don’t know what to say to her, though. That he makes me feel wrong isn’t a good enough answer.

But I think it should be sometimes.

“I just don’t like him.”

“You want me to take the booth for you?”

Yes. “No.”

She pats my shoulder and heads outside. I watch Leon work.

“Order’s ready,” he tells me.

I take it out. The man rubs his hands together eagerly while I set the food in front of him.

“Thanks a lot,” he says. I wait for something gross to come out of his mouth, because that’s what my gut tells me should happen—but it doesn’t. I take another booth’s order and head back to the kitchen feeling like I should have lightened up because he didn’t meet the worst of my expectations, like somehow I’m the villain in his story.