Free Read Between the Lines by Jo Knowles Page A

make everyone on this side of the counter feel.
    Sometimes I imagine myself saying something to the old man who clearly has a thing for Alice, though sometimes I see him checking out Kristen. The dirty bastard. He’s always telling Alice how hard it is to see her working. I want to tell him how sad it is to see him eating lunch at a freakin’ Little Cindy’s every goddamned day. Doesn’t he get how sad
that
is?
    No.
    Probably not.
    At least he’s still on the right side of the counter.
    12:05.
    Things are in full swing. I bark orders at everyone and march around behind the counter, helping the cashiers put the right food on the right trays. Every seven minutes I swivel around and go back to the kitchen to yell at Simon, the burger guy, to keep the burgers flipping. He’s friends with Jeff. He dances in place as he stares at the grill. God. What is it with stoners? They’re always so goddamned happy.
    “Simon!” I yell, just to harsh his mellow.
    Sometimes, I admit, I can be a bastard, too.
    He looks up and shakes his head, then goes back to flipping. I would fire him, but I haven’t had any applications in two weeks. At least not any that are worth considering.
    Every so often I go out to the dining area to make sure there aren’t any spills I missed or trash on the floor. I use this as an excuse to check on my car through the window. It’s an electric-blue 1988 Ford Mustang convertible that my dad helped me buy. When it came in at the dealership, he knew it was the perfect car for us to fix up together. A classic. I spend about as many hours working on that car as I do at this place. I know that sounds pathetic. It is. But that’s what happens when you barely graduate from a crap school and have zero interest in college and are destined to amount to nothing.
    When my dad and I get home from work, we buff the car. We rake or mow the lawn, depending on what the yard needs. We clean the house. We both like order. Unlike our goddamned next-door neighbors, the slobs. I bet they don’t even own a lawn mower. I offered to mow their place for them, cheap, but they said no. Or, I should say, the freaky mom said no. I wanted to tell her that maybe her two kids should get off their asses and do some work around the house like I do. But I just smiled in an obnoxious way to make her feel bad.
    I really can be a bastard sometimes.
    But that damn house drives me crazy.
    They
drive me crazy.
    If it weren’t for the girl giving me the occasional strut, I’d be tempted to set the place on fire.
    She’s a cheerleader. Did I mention that? She has long dark hair. An amazing body. She knows it, too. Just like Marcie. She shakes her ass extra hard when she sees me outside. She likes it when I watch. Marcie did, too. I could see it made her feel powerful. But I wasn’t allowed to get too close. I wasn’t good enough for anything more than watching from a safe distance.
    I hate teases.
    But I still watch.
    Whenever her brother catches me, I can tell he’s going nuts, which I love. Skinny little turd wouldn’t dream of coming after me except in his fantasies. He knows this. I know it. She knows it. It’s a game we play.
    12:20.
    I am back to pacing behind the counter. Bored. But then a nice surprise. The little turd from next door comes in with all his turd friends. Most people from the high school use the drive-thru. They don’t have time to eat inside during lunch period. I wait for him and gesture for Kristen to step aside. I got this.
    He looks at me. I look at him. I can tell he’s nervous. He took a paver from our driveway just to be an asshole, and I’ve been waiting for a chance to scare the crap out of him ever since. Why take a brick from someone’s driveway? Don’t they have enough crap in that house? Is that what they do? Go around taking things from everyone in the neighborhood? Or is it just us?
    My dad already replaced it. But I know what this little punk tried to do. Trying to piss me off like our neat yard