All the Rage(6)

“Got it.”

“Hey,” Leon says. “Break? Later?”

“Sure.”

I step into the heart of the diner and Leon is right. It’s busy as hell, and it’s okay at first but then it starts to wear, like it always does. Three hours into my shift, I reek of grease and my ponytail is loose, strands of hair plastered to my face. I duck into the bathroom across from Tracey’s office and clumsily retie my ponytail, my fingers tired from taking orders. I’ll have to shower when I get home, get all this off me. If I don’t, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night convinced I’m still here and I’ve got tables waiting. When I go to the kitchen, Leon is taking off his hairnet. He scrubs his hand over his short black hair and nods toward the back exit.

“That time already?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Hey, wait for me,” Holly says, untying her apron. Her long black hair is falling out of its bun, haphazardly framing her exhausted face. “If I don’t have a smoke, I’ll lose it.”

I’m glad for her company, but a quick glance at Leon tells me he’s only just tolerating it. I reach around to take my apron off, but think better of it. I like that extra layer.

The three of us head outside and shuffle into casual poses. I lean against the building and stare at the ground while Leon stands next to me and stares at the sky. The gritty flick of Holly’s lighter fills the quiet, drawing my eyes up. She inhales deeply and studies the cherry, says what she always says when she smokes: “These things killed my father. Awful way to die.”

“Yeah, that is,” Leon agrees.

“I don’t want to do that to my kids.” And yet. Holly told me it’s either cancer sticks or pills, that’s how stressed out she is all the time. Used to be smoking was vogue. Take the edge off and look sophisticated doing it. People see you smoking in public now, she says, and they just give you this look, like you’re not entitled. Raising four kids alone while her husband is deployed and her mother-in-law with Alzheimer’s just moved in because they can’t afford assisted living so all her care is getting pinned on her eighteen-year-old son when Holly’s not home but sure, look at me like I’m a piece of shit for sucking on one of these.

She turns to Leon. “Speaking of my kids, you going to be at Melissa Wade’s party this weekend?”

“Nope,” he tells her. “My sister’s having a get-together with all her coworkers and friends before she pops and I’ve got to be there.”

“Damn. Annie’s going to a sleepover at Bethany Slate’s house and I have a feeling they’re going to end up at the Wade’s. You know anyone who could text me if they see her there?”

“You going to make a scene if she is?” he asks.

“Goddamn right I am. That’s college kids. She’s fifteen years old.” She takes a drag off her cigarette. “I told her not to even think about going, so of course she will.”

“I’ll get Melissa to text you if she sees her.”

“Thank you.” She tosses the half-smoked cigarette on the ground. “Quittin’ by degrees. Not even my break, but I covered Lauren’s shift so I earned it.”

“You’ve been here all day?” I ask.

“Money, money, money. Better get back to it.”

She goes in and then it’s me and Leon. The silence stretches between us. Words aren’t so easy to come by, after his admission. It takes him a while to dig some up.

“Told you it was busy,” he finally says.

“Yeah, you did.”

“You know, I was joking earlier, when you came in.”

“Were you?” I stare out at the back lot. The headlights of Tracey’s old Sprint reflect the flickering light over the door beside us.

“You don’t look like hell. In fact, you look really far from it.”

His eyes are so on me. The blush travels up to my face from the tips of my toes. He slips inside before I can reply, and the compliment lingers and fades. I remind myself it’s nothing I have to hold or be held to. He only said it to remind me that he’s here, he likes me. That he’s nice. Leon is nice. That doesn’t mean he’s safe.





the sun rises.

I press my palms against my eyes and listen to the sounds drifting upstairs from down. I piece together this morning’s scene in my mother’s laughter, in chairs scraping across the floor to be closer to each other, in coffee bubbling as it brews on the stove.

I untangle myself from my sheet, and stare at the fresh red stains next to the faded-out pink ones on my pillowcase. They come straight from my mouth, forever exasperating my mother because I picked the lipstick that doesn’t wash out. I get dressed. In the bathroom across the hall, I brush my teeth and tie my hair back. I do my lips. Nail polish is still holding.

I’m ready.

In the kitchen, everything is how I pictured it. Mom smiles at me from her spot at the table. Her black curls rest limply against her shoulders, worse for the weather. She sips coffee with one hand and the other is reached across the table, her fingers twined through Todd’s.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks.

“Fine.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I can make you breakfast,” Mom offers.