Chapter 5 Disco Penn #2
Penn and I sit opposite each other at the small table in the center of the room. I set out my glittery notebook and a pink feather-topped pen. He watches, silent, as I pet the feathers, trying to tame them. Like that’s going to make him take me more seriously.
Clearing my throat, I say, “First things first: They need to reduce expenses.”
“They?” His lips twitch. “Wow. Are you so stubborn about hearing my advice that you plan to refer to yourself in the third person?”
“I need to reduce expenses.”
He leans back and nods. “Mm-hmm.”
Penn watching me is unnerving. And talking finance is my comfort zone, but usually I’m not discussing the business of my MASH alter ego. “The goal is to reduce operational overhead,” I tell him. “I plan to go over the org chart, and I’ll gather the financial statements, tax returns—”
Penn tugs at his sleeve, the tendons in his arms flexing with the movement.
Wait. No. Since when do I notice Penn’s forearms?
He shifts forward, and whatever cotton is used in these shirts must be premium quality, because it’s working overtime. “You’re looking a little green there, Rubella. Are you okay? Did you eat?”
“I’m fine,” I chirp as a warm flush fills my cheeks. Bridget’s words must’ve gotten to me. Get him to fall in love with you. It’s her fault I’m noticing Penn’s forearms. She planted weird seeds, mixing up my brain waves. “Point is—”
“Point is, this place is no fun,” Penn cuts in. “Money aside, that’s your problem.”
I balk and gesture toward what may as well be the Oz of roller rinks. “Excuse me? Are three thousand neon lights not fun enough for you? Should I hire dancers? A few amateur magicians to perform some afternoon tricks? Maybe we can call it Ab-roll-cadabra.”
He legitimately ponders it. “Not a bad idea.”
I groan. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
“I know what I’m talking about,” he insists.
“Oh, really?”
“Really.” He lifts his chin. “I put Curly’s on the map. With a-plum.”
“It’s aplomb.”
He sighs. “Look, Wynne. You’ve got competition, okay? Not just Rollerworld, but everything else that steals people’s attention. You need to make this place worth their while.”
Rollerworld. That’s who left me a message today.
“Right. Rollerworld…” I let the word hang there, hoping Penn will fill in the blanks.
“They’ve got a different model, but considering they have two locations, it’s obviously working.
Rollerworld might have no personality, and certainly no glow-in-the-dark tables, but their locations are bigger,” he says.
“And they’ve got more food options, an events calendar, and a full bar.
Which is where I think you need to start. ”
“Where?”
“With a bar. A liquor license.”
I scoff. “Oh, so you want to add an expense?”
Penn shakes his head and laughs, and I hate how it feels like he’s laughing at me. I’m not the one who got the business into this mess.
“No. I want to add some fun-loving humans into the equation so that your staff doesn’t outnumber your customers,” he says. “I might not own Curly’s, but I know how to fill the room, and in case you haven’t noticed, that bar doesn’t need any fancy trimmings to attract a crowd.”
“The focus should be on profits, and—”
“And to gain profits, you need to get creative,” he tells me, interrupting again.
“Fine, you probably need new hours and fewer managers. Whatever. But you need to think outside the box, too. Revamp the menu. Try one that rotates with some local food items in the mix and see what sticks. Put some events on the calendar. Trivia nights. Theme parties. A magician for some kids—why not? And maybe now’s the time for that toga skate I suggested, too. ”
I let out a snap of a laugh. Penn doesn’t even smile. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“Togas? On skates? Do you realize how physically complicated that is?”
Penn sighs, crossing his arms over his chest, and dear God, the seams could not possibly pull more tightly across his biceps. “You don’t trust me,” he says. “Do you?”
I bite down, hard, grinding my molars. Penn might have some relevant work experience with Curly’s, but attempting to trust him, of all people—especially here, in this wonky timeline, with my entire fate, while considering such brilliant ideas as a “toga skate”—is like being dropped at the base of Mount Everest and instructed to climb it without any training whatsoever.
I must be silent for long enough that Penn gets his answer.
He nods, then lifts both hands. “You know what? You were right. Maybe this is a bad idea.” He stands, remembers he’s on skates, and grips the table for balance. Once he’s stable, he adds, “I’ll pick up my stuff from your house later. And I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”
“Wait.”
He tilts me an impatient look. “What?”
I take a deep breath, unsure what to do.
I didn’t think this through. I don’t want to spend any more time with Penn than I have to, and I don’t plan to linger here long enough to see all of his wild ideas through, but I can’t afford to push him away, either.
For one thing, I need his knowledge of MASHland.
And if Bridget’s right, I might need him to get out of the game.
“Sorry. It’s just—”
Penn sighs. “It’s fine, okay? I get it.”
No. He doesn’t get it. And I’m unable to explain. Telling Penn about the game might break some kind of rule. So instead I twirl the feathery gel pen in my hands, debating what to say, and how.
And then I get an idea. One that might fit the teenage-generated equation.
I flip open my notebook, and in all caps, I write: DEAR PENN, I’M SORRY. PLEASE HELP ME—YES / NO / MAYBE?
I still don’t know the rules around here, but hopefully “dear” sounds enough like “other half” that the MASH overlords will give me some credit.
I rip out the page and fold it into a triangle, tucking in the edges. Then I stand and try to slide the note into Penn’s chest pocket, his puzzled gaze tracking the movement. But his shirt is too tight, so, absent better options, I nestle it into his chest hair instead.
His eyes shift from the note back up to me, and we hold each other’s stares in a challenge, our faces closer than I realized.
I can hear his breath, and mine catches, sparking a mischievous glint in his eyes.
It’s the smug, obnoxious look of someone who knows he’s just won something. Although I’m not sure what.
“What was that?” Penn asks, his voice low and too close.
“I wrote you a note.”
He nods. “And folded it. Quite thoroughly.”
“Any job worth doing,” I say, and shrug.
His dimple pops, just barely, and something uncomfortable swoops in my stomach, like a warning.
I’m trying to control the situation, but I have no clue what I’m doing.
And, really, I don’t know who Bridget’s kidding with all that fairy-tale talk.
Penn and I can’t even agree on what this roller rink should look like.
True love? Between me and Disco Ken here?
Or should I say Disco Penn? Yeah, no. Absolutely not.
I inch away, half-tripping over the chair at my feet as I grab my purse and tuck the notebook inside. “I—I better go help Theo.”
“He needs a lot of that,” Penn says. “He told me he ‘alphabetized’ the skates.”
I manage to avoid eye contact until I stop in the doorframe. Then, scanning Penn up and down, I tell him, “Careful when you wash that uniform, by the way. You’ll probably want to avoid any shrinkage.”
His jaw ticks. The indignation in his eyes will fuel me for days.
“Don’t worry,” Penn says. “That won’t be a problem.”
The Wynne-rs
Dad: hi from Alaska like my new hat
Mom: We’ve been here for two days, and your father wants to move.
Dad: can’t a man appreciate fall foliage
Ryan: I thought living in snow during retirement violated Dad’s moral code.
Mom: He’s in denial.
Mom: More important, do you two feel older?! The big 3-5!!
Ryan: Ruby did call me 14 times today, so she might be verging on senile.
Mom: What’s going on? Ruby, are you okay, honey??
Ruby: All good!
Ruby: And Dad, that hat’s a vibe. But not sure you need fur in September.