Free Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) by Melody Carlson

it was or how I could possibly get it.
    Shortly after my fifteenth birthday, I followed Joey’s example and got myself a work permit and—after several rejections at classier joints—a job at the Dairy Maid. It was smelly and hot and nasty in there, but at least I now had money in my pocket and a good excuse to stay out late at night. The rub was that kids from school often came in and naturally couldn’t resist poking fun of me and my silly little Dairy Maid uniform with its perky white hat and matching apron (a sharp contrast to my usual hippy getups of embroidered smock tops and beads and such). And unfortunately, I lost some of my usual hardness and confidence in this somewhat humiliating situation and ridiculous attire. I guess I felt sort of like a sitting duck—like suddenly it was open season on Cass Maxwell.
    After one particularly long and tiring day—it seemed that every Little League team in Brookdale had come in, and every single boy wanted some sort of specialty sundae, and they weren’t exactly being patient—I was getting ready to close out the till and call it a night when I looked up to see Sally Roberts and two of her girlfriends walk in. I could’ve kicked myself for not having flipped over that Closed sign just a minute earlier, but it was too late now. All three girls had flopped down at the counter. And to make matters worse, it looked as if they’d spent an enjoyable day out the lake (since they had on bikini tops and cutoffs and were sporting some pretty dark tans). My tan had faded considerably since joining the working ranks.
    “Sorry, you guys, we’re closing up now.” I smiled, trying to sound far more cheerful than I felt. I knew it did no good to put on my usual tough act while wearing that ruffled Dairy Maid hat. The two were just too incongruous to be believable.
    “Oh, come on, you’ve got time to make us a little old banana split,” said Sally. “It’s not quite ten yet.”
    I glanced up at the clock over the counter, silently watching as the second hand slowly made its way up to the twelve. “Well, it’s ten now,” I announced as I swiped a damp cloth over the plastic-laminate countertop.
    “Yeah, well, we got in here before it turned ten,” said Sally with a familiar glint in her eye. The other girls giggled. “And you better serve us our banana split.”
    I turned around and narrowed my eyes at her. “We’re closed, Sally.”
    “Where’s the owner?” she demanded hotly. “Where’s Clint? Does he know what kind of retarded girl he’s hired to work for him here? Come to think of it, you’re probably not even fit to serve food, Cass Maxwell. I’ll bet you don’t even know how to wash your hands properly.”
    I took in a deep breath, then pressed my lips together as I glared at her. Ironically, I had just discovered exactly whose blue Buick had been parking with such regularity at my Aunt Myrtle’s house, and I now felt sorely tempted to reveal my findings, which would be of particular interest to Miss Sally Roberts. But Clint was in the back cleaning up just then, and I didn’t really wish to create a problem that might threaten my job. So I bit my tongue. “Fine,” I snapped at her. “What do you want on your banana split?”
    Naturally, it took them at least five minutes to make up their minds, and then they just ended up choosing the traditional pineapple, strawberry, and chocolate combination. “Fine,” I snapped again as I went over to the big stainless steel ice cream machine, which I unfortunately had not cleaned out yet or I would’ve had a legitimate excuse not to serve them. Thinking murderous thoughts about Sally, I ripped my knife through a banana and slapped it into the dish, then quickly heaped in three sloppy mounds of ice cream, adding topping, nuts, and whipped cream with a vengeance. It might not have been the most beautiful banana split, but at least it was quick. I thumped it down on the counter before Sally and turned to go clean