Chapter 2
FRIDAYS ARE OUR BUSIEST day at Monte’s. There are three birthday parties booked, and it’s a zoo of screaming kids running around, fighting over the arcade games, leaving a trail of tickets all over the floor, and eating too much pizza before throwing it all up. I pose for a photo with Anita, my coworker, who rocks a very adorable squirrel costume, and the birthday girl, who just turned six and wears a bubble-gum pink dress with puffy sleeves and a hemline covered in ruffles.
“Can we get one with just the frog?” the mother asks, her face half hidden behind a very expensive camera.
Anita whispers, “Clearly she finds you ribbit ing,” and giggles as she walks away.
I snap a couple more photos before I’m finally released. I spot Anita hovering near the air hockey machine, watching two young boys locked in a very intense battle.
“Don’t go into the break room,” she immediately says without tearing her eyes away from the match.
“Why?”
“Justin and Margaret are making out.”
It’s not the first time Monte’s prince and princess have been caught in a compromising situation.
“That’s not very royal of them,” I say. One of the boys scores and lets out a scream.
“If I have to see that girl’s boob one more time, I’m calling HR.”
“We don’t have an HR team,” I remind her.
She turns to me and says, dead serious, “Then I’m calling the police.” Anita tucks a few pink hair strands beneath her costume.
“Maybe our new boss will have less of a tolerance for rule breaking.” A bit ironic, coming from the girl who sneaks away every thirty minutes to smoke.
“Speaking of...” I say. “Who do you think it will be?”
“No idea,” Anita says. “Before Monte Jr. stepped in, his brother ran this place. Before him, it was their dad. I wonder if they’ll try to keep it in the family.”
I’ve heard the story too many times to count. Seven years ago, Monte Sr. passed away unexpectedly of a heart attack. He had built this business from the ground up, named it after himself and everything. After he passed away, his eldest son took over. Then it got passed on to Monte Jr., who’s been running it ever since. It’s practically been a Ridgewood staple for decades. As much fun as it is to poke fun at it, there isn’t a child who hasn’t celebrated at least one of their birthdays at Monte’s Magic Castle.
“I wonder if our new boss will give me my old job back,” I grumble.
Long story short, I started working here as a waitress last summer. The tips were decent and the job was fairly easy, since our menu consists of maybe ten items that are all deep-fried. Then six months ago, the world collapsed around me as I was demoted to frog duty.
Those waitress tips would really help with this car dilemma. And solving the car dilemma would really help get me out of this town.
“How long are you stuck in frog purgatory?” Anita asks. “It feels like forever ago when that whole situation went down.”
Just the brief mention of my villain origin story conjures up memories of him . Shaggy brown hair and a stupid, perfectly ironed button-up shirt. The storage room in the back of the building, where I was perched on a stool, hiding away on my phone instead of working. And him , barging through the door, catching me red-handed, and ratting me out to Monte Jr. That day, I lost my job and gained an enemy.
Anita lets out a low whistle, giving me a look. “My bad,” she says, her hands up in surrender. “I should know better than to mention Wil—”
“Please don’t say his name,” I beg.
“Fine. Let’s change the subject— How’s your hot sister?”
This topic is somehow worse. “My what ?”
“Your hot sister,” Anita repeats casually. “I saw her drop you off at work today. What’s her name?”
“First of all, gross. Second, I have two sisters.”
“Well, which is the hot one?”
“You must understand why I can’t answer that.”
Anita just laughs. “She had a shaved head and was blasting old rock music.”
“Oh, that’s Jillian,” I say.
“Is she single?”
“Anita, you’re not dating my sister.”
“Who said anything about dating? Dating sucks,” she says. “After I broke up with my ex, I swore to myself there’d be no more commitment until I hit thirty-five. Maybe even fifty.”
Since I grew up with two older sisters who dished out their fair share of heartbreak, that sentiment comes as no surprise to me. I was nine years old, tucked into bed with Julie and Jillian, listening to the ins and outs of their relationships—and believe me, there was a new one every week. When it comes to dating, there really isn’t much that can surprise me now. What I lack in dating experience, I make up for in secondhand knowledge.
“Jillian’s the same,” I say. “She’s not the dating type.”
Anita grins, like that’s exactly what she wanted to hear. “Interesting.”
I’ll ignore that. For now.
When the air hockey match ends, Anita turns her large squirrel head to me. “I’m going for a smoke,” she declares, undoing the Velcro strap of her squirrel head and marching outside.
To my left, a child throws up.
If there is one thing this job has given me, it’s killer reflexes for moments like this. I jump back before the spray hits my costume. The boy who lost the air hockey match is wiping vomit off his mouth with his shirtsleeve.
I should call for help. I should grab a mop. I should most definitely help this kid find his parents. But today’s vomit count is a mind-blowing four, and I still have three hours left in my shift.
So instead of helping, I run in the opposite direction and hide.
Monte Jr. finds me minutes later, crouched behind the ball pit.
“Sorry, Jackie.” He visibly winces as he hands me a mop. I take one glance at the stressful shade of red blooming on his cheeks and the permanent frown lines on his forehead. His hairline has receded so far it looks like it too is running away from this place.
Tomorrow, he’ll finally have a taste of freedom.
The mop hangs between us.
“I’ve cleaned it three times today,” I whine.
A baby’s scream pierces my ear. Monte Jr. cringes. There is a flash of something in his eyes. Regret? Terror? The sudden desire to sell this place to the highest bidder? He blinks, and the usual exhaustion is back. He holds the mop higher.
“Please,” he begs. “No one cleans vomit quite like you do.”
The worst part is that he’s right. No one does clean vomit like I do. I wear my vomit-cleaning talent as a badge of honor.
Then I remember what Anita said about my frog purgatory. This could be my last chance to leverage my skills for a promotion. To reclaim what was once rightfully mine and get my old job back before Monte Jr. is no longer in charge.
I grab the mop. “I’ll clean it—”
“Oh, thank God. ”
“On one condition. I want to talk about this,” I say, gesturing at my frog costume. “I’ve been stuck in this costume for two months now. I want to be a waitress again.”
“Oh,” Monte Jr. says. He scratches the top of his head. “I thought you were enjoying this new role.”
“Uhm, what on earth made you think that?” Does the permanent scowl on my face radiate joy?
“Look, Jackie.” He looks behind both shoulders, scanning the area before lowering his voice. “You’re aware there is going to be some... restructuring happening within the company. New management is being announced during that private event we are hosting tomorrow. I won’t say too much for now, but I’m sure we can discuss altering your job title.”
Like the sky after a storm, the clouds over Monte’s Magic Castle part and sun bursts in through the windows. I hear birds chirping, angels singing. I envision a future where the color green ceases to exist and I never have to wear this horrific costume again, a future where I’m making enough money to give Suzy the send-off she deserves, road trip style.
Altering your job title .
And just like that, the chaos quiets for a moment and life feels exciting again.
“Sounds good,” I tell Monte Jr., flashing him a rare smile.
“Vomit’s in the dining area. You got this!”
I locate the mess and begin cleaning the floor with a new vigor. Wait... Am I actually excited for work tomorrow? That has never—
“Why are you smiling?”
Ughhhhhhhhhh. I’d rather clean vomit indefinitely than deal with him.
I focus intensely on the floor, hoping that, if unacknowledged, Wilson will go away, kind of like a bumblebee.
“I know you can hear me,” he says.
If there is one thing Mr. Bossy Know It All hates, it’s being ignored.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I say. Prepared to tear through this entire interaction as quickly as possible, I meet Wilson’s gaze. He is seated at an empty table, spawning there like the devil himself and flipping through an enormous book.
“ Employment for Dummies ?” I ask.
As usual, he doesn’t crack a smile. Instead, he watches me with that intense, steely glare, his pristine white shirt buttoned all the way up to his neck. Today he wears his green Monte’s Magic Castle vest over it. My attention snags on his name tag: Wilson, Assistant Manager.
There has never been a title so wrongfully given.
Wilson slams the book shut and shows me the cover. Understanding the Ins and Outs of Corporate America . So just some light reading. Lovely.
“Hate to break it to you, but this job is the furthest thing from corporate America,” I say. “Plus, don’t you learn about that at your fancy business school?” When he isn’t spending his summers haunting these four walls like a poltergeist, Wilson goes to a business school in New York City. I’m not sure which, but I suspect it has a very high acceptance rate.
He straightens up in his seat. Going to business school is practically Wilson’s entire personality. “I do,” he says proudly.
“It’s summer break,” I point out.
“I’m aware,” he says.
Understanding that this conversation’s pulse has flatlined, I continue scrubbing the vomit off the floor. Actually, I sort of forgot that’s what I was doing to begin with. Now, the water in the bucket has turned a murky brown, and it’s beginning to smell. At this point I’m basically making a bigger mess.
“Why are you studying in the summer?” I ask. Just then I remember the half-eaten Twix I shoved into my pocket earlier today.
Wilson watches me eat with nothing but sheer disgust on his face. “How can you possibly eat that while you’re cleaning up vomit?”
My teeth sink into the chocolate-caramel goodness. “Look where I work, Wilson. If I struggled to eat near gross smells, I would have died from starvation months ago.” I peel off the wrapper and attempt to fling it at Wilson’s head. It lands about eight feet to his right.
He sighs.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say to distract from my terrible aim.
His fingers skim through the textbook pages. “I’m not studying. I’m reading this for fun.”
“ That’s what you read for fun?”
“Yes, Jackie. Not all of us are illiterate.” Wilson stands, tucking in his chair by lifting it off the ground so it doesn’t make a scratchy noise. With his book in hand, he takes a few steps toward me.
Accepting that the floor is not getting any cleaner, I stop mopping. “I’m not illiterate. I can read your name tag easily.” I tap the cool metal pinned to his shirt. “‘Wilson Monroe, Assistant Dickhead.’”
He makes a big show of examining my costume head to toe. “Right. And you don’t wear a name tag, because you’re a frog.”
“Actually, it’s because it clashes with my look.”
“And what look is that?” he prods.
“Amphibian chic,” I say, squaring my shoulders like one dignified lady.
“Not the word I had in mind.”
I have to actually force myself to breathe out through my nose so I don’t combust from anger. And he knows it, too. From the way that stupid grin splits across his ridiculous face, Wilson knows exactly how to get under my skin. The easiest way? Mentioning the costume. Why? Because I am staring at the man who did this to me.
You see, two months ago Wilson walked through the doors of Monte’s Magic Castle with a briefcase in hand and a mission to ruin my life. And actually, what nineteen-year-old carries a briefcase? Like, just say you’ve never been kissed, and—
Anyway. Wilson is Monte Jr.’s nephew, hence he was able to strut in here with a cozy little job title and an ego the size of a freaking blimp. On day one, he was bossing people around. It was “clean the bathroom” and “try to look a little happier when talking with guests . ” How about you try to remove my foot when I shove it up your—
What was I saying? Oh yes. That first day. Wilson was not a fan favorite around here with the other employees. He just didn’t fit in. Like, everyone who works here is bonded by two things: a deep hatred for this business and the fact that we are broke teens struggling for a minimum wage paycheck. So for Wilson to not share any of those qualities? Yeah, he stuck out like a sore thumb.
But whatever . That’s cool. Hey, it’s not your fault you were born into generational wealth. I would have been all fine and dandy to coexist with him, sharing the occasional glare and “good morning” grunt.
Wilson, on the other hand, had something much different in mind.
Treachery.
He was a treacherous little traitor.
Only a month after he started working here, he caught me doing what he refers to as “time theft.” It was the day that Julie and her fiancé, Massimo, got engaged. My phone was blowing up—missed call after missed call. I was in the middle of serving four tables, but I couldn’t focus. In an anxiety-ridden rush, I hid in one of our storage closets, perched myself on a stool, and finally checked my messages. I quickly realized the good news and sent appropriate—and slightly unhinged—memes to the family group chat and a long text to Julie about how happy I was for her, adding that I absolutely refused to wear a pink bridesmaid dress.
Then the storage room door burst open. There stood Wilson, looking ten different shades of angry. And there I sat, tucked away in the corner of this darkened room on my phone, having completely lost track of time.
Long story short, Wilson ratted me out to Monte Jr., saying that I wasn’t fit to be a waitress.
Apparently, my four tables all complained and threatened to never return.
Apparently, I was the worst waitress in the great state of New York.
In an extremely hasty decision, Monte Jr. stripped me of my apron and sentenced me to amphibian jail. The next day I was given my new costume and job title: entertainer. Every day since, Wilson has had the satisfaction of seeing me like this—parading around kids’ parties in this green outfit, carrying my shame day after day.
I’ve contemplated quitting, but we are too far into the summer season now for me to find a new job. New positions won’t open until the holidays, and I can’t possibly go that long without a paycheck, not with Suzy and our road trip on the line.
“What are you doing?” Wilson asks.
Snapping back to reality, I realize I’ve been glaring at him while leaning against the mop. “Thinking,” I say.
“Huh, didn’t know you could do that.”
I clench my jaw, breathing out through my nose like a furious dragon ready to blow flames. “And I didn’t know you could read,” I grit out. “When’d you learn that?”
“Shortly after I became assistant manager and you turned green,” he says.
And then he does the most insane, humiliating thing possible. Wilson pats the top of my froggy head with his hand, all while his face is home to the most bloodcurdling smile I’ve ever seen.
As he walks away, there is one thing I’m certain of: in a world with infinite timelines, I hate Wilson Monroe in every single one of them.