8. Queenie
CHAPTER EIGHT
QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘OH NO’ BY BIIG PIIG
The same morning 11 am
Dear Amma,
Are the patients of West Africa superheroes already because you and Appa are building hospitals and treating them? I am sure they are. They’re so lucky to have you.
I’m sorry I couldn’t answer your call yesterday. I’m busy studying for the special course I’m taking for extra credits after my semester break. The classes are tough but I’m excited…
Tears blur my eyes as I finish typing the falsely detailed email and whoosh it off to my parents. I am yet to talk to them – on call and video chat – because I don’t know how to lie to their face. If they know their best and brightest elder daughter is working for minimum wage they’d be back here in a heartbeat and trying to get to the bottom of why I’m not finishing out my senior year.
They worked so hard and sacrificed so much, to get me into Thorndon. My hardworking parents commuted for hours to get to Manhattan so my sister and I could have a safe life, a stellar education. I cannot break their hearts by telling them the reason my semester break turned into two was because the whole campus painted me as a Scarlett Woman and the girl who cried wolf. That the thought of going back makes me want to scratch my eyes out.
I stash my bag in the employee locker room of Ma’s Pantry. My head pounds even after I downed all the Advil I had in my dorm room. It is definitely a cluster migraine.
I sniff again and will the headache to recede.
How could I have been so stupid last night? How ? Did I not learn my lesson from before?
The pocket doors bang. I look up, wincing.
“Can you please…?” I make shushing motions. “My migraine is killing me.”
“I’m going to kill you,” my best friend and fellow waitress, Mischa Bhargav, announces dangerously. “You did not answer your phone the whole night!”
“Yeah, I?—”
“Do not give me any excuses, Q.” Mischa glares at me, her doe-shaped baby browns shooting literal fire. “I am not in the mood for them.”
“I wasn’t going to.” I hug her waist from behind.
She stiffens for a moment before relenting.
“I’m sorry,” I say mournfully. “It was a…weird night.”
“Tell me everything,” she commands.
As she wipe down the surfaces and I refill the sugar, salt, and ketchup bottles, I fill her in on my night. In short.
Mischa and I bonded in middle school when both of us grew not just boobs but also extraneous fat around our middles. Suddenly, we weren’t like the rest of the leggy girls in school who took extreme delight in reminding us of how different we were during PE class.
But, truthfully, we became friends because we both loved watching corny movies like Sleepless in Seattle and 10 Things I Hate About You and being co-presidents of the I 3 SRK club (we both dressed up as Anjali for the eighth grade Halloween party – she was the demure saree-wearing, straight-haired hottie, I was the chirpy, sweatshirt-wearing tomboy).
Our outfit choices reflect who we are too. She is the eternal romantic who longs for a preppy Prince Charming. I am the knowing cynic who X-rays for the douche beneath the prep.
Together, we are besties to this day. In fact, Mischa’s studying to be a doctor too, at NYU. Although she wants to go into sports medicine in some capacity and not cardiology like my parents hope for me.
“….And I shot out of the beach like a bat out of hell, this morning,” I finish as the patrons start streaming in through the doors.
Mischa’s eyebrows almost touch her forehead as I wind down my sordid tale of drinking, kissing, and hooking up with a random stranger.
“I have so many questions,” she begins urgently.
“They’re going to have to wait.” I paste a smile on my face as I stash the last ketchup refills.
The line cooks and the main chef, Pestroni, are already back in the kitchen waiting for breakfast orders as I walk to the middle of the diner.
“Hi, would you like to hear today’s breakfast specials?” I ask the customer in my section, politely, hiding my burp behind my pad.
The customer, in a Boston Red Sox baseball cap and a flannel shirt, grins at me. “Are you on it, sweetness?”
I slide the pad down and peer at him. His blond hair is thinning in the front. His blue eyes are wrinkly on the sides, making him a late thirties specimen of dubious charm.
I remember the customer service training I’d received the first week of working here, back in January, from Ma’s son, Joseph Junior.
You’re a pretty girl and you’ll get a lot of attention because of it. As long as they don’t grab you with their hands, please show some restraint. Any broken flatware will come out of your paycheck. And medical emergencies will not be compensated, if they can be diffused with a sweet smile.
“No, sir, I am not,” I say politely. “We are a diner with a name for pie. Not people.” I tack on a smile at the end of my snark.
“That’s a shame.” He leans back and reads the board behind me. But his eyes linger on my chest.
I fight the instinct to hunch and cover up my boobs or thrust them in his face like I’m about to give him a lap dance. Neither is appropriate customer service.
“Let’s hear the day’s specials, then.” He slides his hand on the front of the table and fingers the edge of my apron.
I wonder if this constitutes grabbing.
I list them really fast. “Hash browns with a stack of buttermilk pancakes and a side of bacon. Rashers with waffles and cream, fried tomatoes with bacon on the side. Eggs are poached, sunny side, scrambled, fried, no frittatas, two buttered toasts on the side. Extra toast’s charged separately. We are also running a special on the pies, but you’ll have to get the whole thing, they’re just a little old.” They are two days old but I’m not telling this jerk.
Red Sox winks. “How old? Are they of legal age?” This time he is staring directly at my tits without any pretense.
I grab the ketchup bottle on the next table and dump it on his table. On the back of his palm. He howls in misery and takes his hand back immediately.
“Oops, sorry, sir. I didn’t see your hand there.” I delicately arrange all of the flatware and bottles neatly at the table. And smile even more delicately at him. I hope he can see the wrath of fire in my kohl-lined eyes. “Just thought you’d love some extra ketchup to go with your order. Which I’m still waiting on.” I even lean close to the edge of the table so he can see my boobs better.
But he is nursing his wounded hand, his thin lips pursed.
He doesn’t give me anymore shit and places his order.
I carry it through to the kitchen and stick it to the board, where the orders are given. When mine is done, one of the cooks will call the number on our tablet and I’ll take it out. I have perfected this system over six months of working here.
My day continues smoothly from there.
I enjoy working at Ma’s Pantry, the occasional pervy customer notwithstanding. The crowd is usually fun and friendly. And serving food feels like a real service to the people. And, no, there’s no spitting in the food at Ma’s Pantry. That shit only happens in the movies.
We might serve stale food sometimes to a particularly problematic customer or burn the edges of their meat or even drop it on the floor, but no bodily fluids are present in the food.
The ambience is what you’d expect from a small-town diner. Even ones frequented by the filthy Manhattan rich, half the year. Cozy booths done in vinyl, a red-and-white striped awning for those wanting to enjoy the Main Street thoroughfare. There’s a large breakfast bar with worn leather stools where the regulars congregate. So much so they carved their names on the oakwood frame.
The windows are large and roomy, showing the interiors of the diner. And the interiors are mostly full-length posters of 50s and 60s pinup idols. I’d looked them up one day out of sheer boredom and found some fascinating stuff. Especially Rita Hayworth, who looked just like me. With her boobs and hourglass waist and big thighs. I also love that she’s dark-haired, unlike Marilyn Monroe.
I wish I’d known about Rita Hayworth back in school. I’d have taunted the skinny beanpole girls with her when they called me Rounds (for my rounded chest). So original.
But I didn’t have the mouth on me back then that I do now.
I love the diner once the lunch crowd disperses and it’s just a few old regulars, playing chess in a booth. Sipping their sun-iced teas to beat the sun. Mischa and I finally take a real break while the sun dips down the horizon, bathing the whole town in golden hour.
She grabs a turkey burger, and I settle for fresh apple pie.
Every bone in my body protests as I sink into a booth, guzzling a gallon liter bottle of water.
Mischa gives me the stink eye. “I still haven’t forgotten our conversation, Q. I need details.”
“I told you what happened last night. I lied to the mean girl who started all the rumors that I sleep with college faculty for better grades, making it impossible for me to attend said college.” I stretch the kinks out of my neck and shove apple pie down my throat. “Which led to sucking face with a hot stranger.” And maybe other things because I was too damn drunk. “Then I bolted in the morning because I realized it was a big mistake. Huge.”
Last night was a mistake. A gigantic one in six-feet neon letters. Shame courses through me as I remember the abandon with which I’d kissed Noah. Allowing him to touch me and make me feel things I’d never felt before because I?—
“Did you have to go down to the party last night for your revenge plot?” Mischa mutters as she munches on her burger.
“If you’re not the heroine of your own story, who are you?” I shoot back philosophically.
“This sucks balls,” Mischa mutters.
“What sucks balls, Q Bee?”
I roll my eyes as two of my favorite idiots grab nearby chairs and join Mischa and me. Mischa immediately shoves her untouched plate of fries toward the center of the table.
“Hmmmm. Yummy,” Simon Archer moans as he gulps down the pie, his one weakness.
“Manners, brother. Manners make a man,” Jace Archer, his younger brother, admonishes as he grabs a handful of Mischa’s fries and stuffs them in his open mouth.
“Says the clown with a mouthful of fries.” Simon talks around his food.
The Archer brothers work at Nate’s Automative Works, a custom car shop on Main Street, now that school’s out. Although Simon’s worked there through his senior year while Jace went to school full-time. They come here during breaks for free pie, which somehow turned into hanging out with my bestie and me.
The Archer family began as old money but lost their fortune and reputation, becoming town pariahs, just like me. And, in a community like Barrons Bay, the only thing worse than having no money (like Mischa and me) is to have had money and lose it all in scandal and ruin.
“So, did either of you attend the party last night?” Jace asks, making hopeful eyes at Mischa. I don’t know if he has a crush on her or it’s something more, but their connection is special.
Just like Simon calling me Q Bee, short for Queen Bee.
“Of course, she did, boys,” Veronica Washington’s breathy, nasal voice interrupts our little table. “And I have proof of it too.”
I resist clenching my fist at my side as I slowly stand up to face my nemesis. She’s in summer attire. A flirty dress floats around her tanned legs and golden locks arranged to show off her tits. She actually has pore-less skin.
I hate her for it.
Simon’s hackles rise at the dig at me, but I give him a subtle shake of my head. I don’t need Simon to fight this battle.
“What are you doing here, Mor—Veronica?” I ask her, civilly. “Don’t tell me you suddenly have a fondness for pie.”
“I’ll probably get salmonella if I eat here.” Veronica shudders delicately. “But I actually came here for you, Queenie.” Her smile is nasty.
“Didn’t know you cared so much about me, Veronica.” But I make to walk past her, ready to end this stupid feud right now.
I’m done with my break and take my place at the bar. The pre-dinner crowd will show up any minute.
“Oh, I care about you, Queenie.” She follows me to my station. “You’re the only thing I think about. But, in the interest of full disclosure, I thought I’d come and show you this in person.”
“Show me what?”
Veronica’s nasty smile grows wider. She taps her phone. “This.”
It begins as a pixelated video of a couple on the beach, the sun’s just rising. It’s all very pretty and photogenic. Then, the camera zooms in, and I hear Veronica’s grating laugh.
“Looks like we caught ourselves a live one, ladies.” Veronica talks in her shrill voice.
I freeze as the video plays on. My fingers go numb one by one. I know what I’m about to see. I don’t even breathe. Ice slithers through me, making my palms clammy.
I’m petrified as I watch Noah touch me. How I look over his shoulder at my car, then fall against it.
And the same feelings – panic, anxiety, dread – run through me. I cannot afford another scandal.
The finale is Veronica’s smugly vicious grin as she says more nasty things about me. Then the camera points back at Noah and the scene of my hasty, undignified getaway.
My blood runs cold as I hand the phone back to her, keeping my face expressionless. I am brown so I don’t easily lose color, but I feel myself losing everything as I process what I just saw.
My identity. My self-worth. What little dignity I have left. If this video becomes public, I’ll lose my job, my future. And no one in town will hire me. No one with a working internet connection will hire me
“What…” I lick my dry lips. “What are you going to do with it?”
My nemesis smiles. “What I vowed I’d do to you, Queenie, at the beginning of the year. Use it to destroy your life.” Her mouth twists at the end like she’s holding back tears. “Just like you destroyed mine.”
But I didn’t, I want to scream. I didn’t destroy anyone. I just tried to help someone only to have it backfire on me and destroy me. But I don’t say it out loud. No one listens. No one ever did.
My mind races, trying to think of a way to mitigate this disaster.
I come up blank.
I just keep remembering Noah’s hands on my waist in my dream. Warm and possessive. And the wild look in his eyes when I became unhinged after I realized it was real. He was real.
And now, everyone will see me naked with a strange man on the beach. Everyone will assume the worst. Everyone will assume every bad rumor about me is true. And I will be destroyed.
Destroyed.
A breath escapes past my throat, gets trapped in my lips. “Can I beg you not to do it?” I ask in a low voice. “On my knees?”
She shrugs. “You can try, Queenie.”
A flood of despair threatens to take me under. I don’t know what to do. I have no plan. No clever comeback or retort. I’m finished. Over.
I’ll forever be Queenie Madhavan, the girl caught in a porno video.
“This is harassment,” I whisper one last time. “I could go to the cops and report this.”
“You could,” Veronica checks a notification on her phone. “But who’s going to believe you, Rumor Girl?” She smiles coldly.
Tears prick my eyes, wanting to spill over and drown me in sorrow.
I didn’t ask for this. For any of this. I was a loving daughter and good friend. A grade-A student. Ambitious. Studious. I wasn’t supposed to end up like this. Almost crying on the sticky floor of the dinner where I worked.
I open my mouth to scream, wail, do something when I feel a familiar pair of arms around my shoulders. A slight mouth presses a kiss to my sweaty temple. I wasn’t aware I was sweating.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Noah Calvin Dumaine drawls. “I’m so sorry, I’m late. Practice was heaps exhausting.”
Then he spins me around and pulls me into a tight, sweaty hug. A very possessive, public embrace.
And he whispers, “I know about the video. And I have a plan to save us both. Just, trust me, okay?”