Chapter 2 Then Fifteen Years Ago
Then
Fifteen Years Ago
I’d thought slinging hot dogs and slushies would be a pretty easy gig. Certainly better than sweating in the sun as a lifeguard or operating rickety rides at the boardwalk. But that first morning made me seriously doubt my own judgment.
But the bigger problem proved to be something—or should I say, someone—I couldn’t have anticipated: Kevin Herman, the rising senior and snack bar veteran who, to his dismay, was responsible for training me.
Kevin Herman took working at the snack bar quite seriously.
And it became clear, as that first day wore on, that my execution of each task he assigned me fell short of his expectations.
I was too chatty with customers while on the register, too slow restocking the condiment station with packets of ketchup or honey mustard, too clumsy transferring plastic white baskets of chicken tenders and crinkle-cut fries from the kitchen window to the pickup counter.
Around 1:00 p.m. I learned I’d committed a rookie mistake of the gravest order: Apparently, I’d failed to sufficiently clean the soft-serve maker ahead of the lunchtime rush.
When I flipped the switch on the big silver machine to dispense a twist, it began gurgling and shaking, then simply shut down.
I handed a sunburnt eight-year-old a sorry excuse for a boardwalk cone, more of a dollop than a proper swirl, as Kevin watched, shaking his head with resigned disappointment.
Kevin ordered me to take over monitoring the kitchen window for him while he marched to the back office, presumably to call a technician and list my shortcomings to Bubba, the eponymous owner. I groaned, pressing my palms to my face.
One of the cooks called, “Order up!” from the kitchen, then deposited a row of baskets along the counter. My arms loaded with as many of them as I could carry, I turned toward the customer pickup window just as the door that connected the snack bar to the main dining room swung open.
And then I was on the floor, covered in French fries and ketchup.
“Shit,” a boy’s voice said. “Are you okay?”
I opened my eyes and saw only the ceiling at first. Then the voice’s owner appeared in my field of vision, kneeling over me.
The first thing I noticed was that he was tall.
Sure, I was lying on the ground, but even from that vantage point I could tell.
The snack bar was tiny, and Kevin wasn’t much bigger than me.
This boy seemed like a giant in comparison.
Each detail rendered him more like an entirely different species from the boys in my eighth-grade class.
A defined jawline. The curve of a bicep peeking out from under his polo sleeve.
He wore the same shirt as me, with khaki pants and white (now ketchup-stained) Vans.
He raked a hand through his hair, which was the darkest shade of brown, overgrown and curly.
He had thick eyebrows and long, dark lashes to match that contrasted with his striking green eyes.
He extended a big, tanned hand to me. I grabbed it and let him pull me to my feet in one effortless motion. I immediately wiped my hand on my shorts, praying he didn’t notice how clammy it was.
“Did you hit your head or anything?” His dark brows knit with concern.
I smoothed my shirt, wincing at the glob of ketchup smack-dab in the middle of my chest. Then I tried to fix my hair a little. A fry fell to the ground. “Um, no. I think I’m fine? But this is my only uniform. …”
“We’ve got extra shirts in the back office. You can totally grab one.”
“Thanks.”
After a beat he asked, “Do you have a grilled cheese for table three?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out so I shut it again.
“Sorry,” he said, sensing my confusion. “It’s probably your first day and you have no idea what I’m talking about. I’m Sebastian. Bubba’s son.”
“Bubba’s your mom?” I asked, stupidly.
“To her disappointment.” He said it with a smirk, like it was definitely a good-natured joke. When I didn’t say anything, he asked, “You’re Angela, right? My mom said she had someone new starting today.”
“Angelina,” I said, clearing my throat. Did all high school boys besides Kevin Herman make this much eye contact? “I go by Lina, though.”
“Cool.” He smiled, and I remember thinking that it was maybe the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. It animated his whole face.
A voice from the kitchen announced another order was up. Sebastian maneuvered past me to grab it.
“Thanks, Omar,” he said, picking up the basket.
He turned back to me and hooked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the swinging door.
“I serve in the restaurant. Most of our menu comes from the main kitchen, but people can order off the snack bar menu, too—burgers, chicken fingers, that kind of stuff. The servers pick those orders up from here, so you’ll see us throughout the day. I just started the afternoon shift.”
“Copy,” I said, trying to make my voice sound relaxed. “I’ll be ready for you next time.” (I seriously doubted this.)
He smiled again, then nodded over my shoulder. I traced his gaze to a family of five waiting at my register. Two of the kids were running circles around each other, and the third was crying. The dad waved a wad of cash in the air at me, a look of desperation in his eyes.
“Good luck with that,” Sebastian said.
I laughed nervously. More of a cough, really.
“And Lina?” he called as he backed into the door to swing it open.
“Yeah?”
“Let me know if you need anything.” He smiled again, and then he was gone.
I turned back to the register, thinking with that distinctly teenage combination of desire and dread that maybe this summer would wind up being even more eventful than I’d expected.