Sidekick Page 8

  “So?” Buck looks at me skeptically, as do Charlie and Old Man Parker.

  I’m not sure what they want me to say. Do they want to put this burger on the menu? If so, I should tell them the truth. But what if they get mad? I’m no pro, and I probably shouldn’t be critiquing their food.

  “Well?” Trent presses, this diabolical smile on his face.

  I swallow and take a deep breath. “There’s something missing.”

  The three of them let out low grunts in agreement. Trent laughs, patting me on the back. “You pass, so I’m out. See you later, man.”

  “All right.” Watching him leave is like taking my helmet off during a game.

  “What do you think’s wrong with it?” Old Man Parker asks.

  I gulp. “It’s…not grounded enough. Lots of acid and salt without something to balance it out.”

  He purses his lips. “Suggestions?”

  There’s no way I could feel stupider. It’s like in school when a teacher asks you a question you couldn’t possibly know the answer to, just so they can prove how dumb you are. “I don’t know, maybe a stronger punch of something smoky?”

  “Like?” Buck pushes.

  “Uh…” I search my limited knowledge. “Cumin?”

  Old Man Parker nods. “You’re on the right track. Cumin fits this profile perfectly…”

  “But it’s been done,” Charlie finishes. “We should make it stand out. Do it the Parker’s way.”

  “Oh!” Buck holds up a pudgy hand. “What if we go the other direction and try something sweet? People like sweet, tangy, hot stuff.”

  Old Man Parker’s nose crinkles and his lips swing to one side of his face. “Sounds like a Thai spin.”

  “Yeah! A Thai chili burger!” Buck slaps his hands together.

  I cringe. It’s too out there for Parker’s, not at all like their usual food. I don’t see why they have to improve or change their already perfect product. Whoever wants a Thai chili burger when they come to Parker’s is going to the wrong place.

  “Something wrong, boy?” Old Man Parker’s voice booms over whatever Buck was saying.

  I jump when I realize he’s talking to me. “I was just wondering why you’re making a new burger. The ones you have are already perfect.”

  He smiles, while Charlie mutters something about me being a kiss-ass. “It’s promotional. New burgers attract people that might not come here otherwise, or they get old customers excited to come back and try out a new thing.” He throws the burger in the trash. “We ain’t gonna serve it if it’s crap, though.”

  “Order up!” Fred Parker, the eldest, calls from the front.

  Charlie runs to the window to grab the ticket. “Two doubles and a large fry!”

  “We’ll work on it later.” Old Man Parker heads for the grill, while Buck tosses him four fresh patties from the fridge. “Buck, try the Thai thing, but it ain’t for sure. Charlie, give Russ the rundown. Get him on the register fast as you can.”

  “Sure thing.” Charlie takes me through all the kitchen procedures, most of which end in some threat like, “If you don’t do that, you’ll screw up the pace and customers will hate you for making them wait,” or, “If you forget that, you could kill someone from food poisoning,” or my personal favorite, “If you don’t, you’ll cut your damn finger off and you sure as hell better not blame us for your stupidity.”

  “Now, you gotta get a food handler’s permit down at the county health department to work in the kitchen,” he says as we head out to the registers. Fred goes back to take his brother’s place. “Until then, you have to work out here. Have you ever worked a cash register?”

  I shake my head, and his laugh makes me feel like an idiot. I’ve never had a job, but it seems like something you should know. People always make fun of this kind of work, like it’s demeaning. But as I stand in front of all those buttons, I have a new respect for all cashiers.

  Charlie takes me through the basics—which buttons are for which foods, how to double the order or add a bigger drink, what to do if someone uses cash, which button to press if they use a card. By the time he’s done I’m more confused than educated.

  “Next person is yours. I’ll take you through everything,” Charlie says.

  I wait, dreading whatever late-night customer has to witness this. Bright lights shine through the window, and when the guy gets out of his car my stomach sinks. The bell rings and Dallas stops when he recognizes me, a smile stretching across his face. I may as well dig my reputation’s grave.

  This was bound to happen—Parker’s is a town staple—but I hoped that working so late would delay or even prevent an encounter such as this. Why did it have to be Dallas? Almost anyone else would have been better. I’m getting my food handler’s permit tomorrow. That way I can at least attempt to hide out in back.

  “Russ, you got a job?” Dallas’s fancy watch gleams when he leans on the counter. He’s probably close to the richest kid at school, which only makes this worse.

  “It’s temporary,” I mumble, hoping Charlie doesn’t bring up the internship crap. It’s bad enough that I’m here. It’d be worse if he thought I wanted to be here. “You ready to order?”

  “One sec.” He stares at the menu for what feels like hours. Another customer even comes in, and Charlie takes the whole order before Dallas is done thinking. I swear he’s doing it just to piss me off. But you don’t yell at a customer, no matter how much of a dickhead he is. “I guess I’ll take the bacon double combo.”

  “All right.” I press the button, glad it was just the meal. Charlie didn’t even have to show me.

  “Wait,” Dallas says. “Maybe I’ll have the bacon king instead.”

  I pause, not sure how to cancel an order. Charlie points to a red button, and I press it. I force myself not to flip off Dallas when he laughs. “Anything else?”

  “That’s it.”

  It takes me too long to press the finish key, but at least he hands me a credit card to run. As Charlie takes the order to the pass, I hand Dallas his card, determined to play it cool. “Don’t tell anyone, okay, man? I just needed a little extra money to pay for a speeding ticket my parents wouldn’t cover.”

  “Harsh.”

  “Tell me about it.” I hand him a cup for his drink. “So you’ll keep it under wraps?”

  “’Course.” He takes his cup and heads for the soda fountain.

  I’m still uneasy. Sure, he’ll probably keep his mouth shut. But I’m in his debt, and that is not a good place to be. I don’t like the idea of having to kiss his ass, but that’s probably what I’ll have to do to keep him quiet. Charlie hands Dallas his food, and I watch him saunter over to a booth. I can’t see his face as he eats, but I imagine he’s happy. He’s always happy to see other people suffer, like it makes his life that much better.

  “That guy’s a douche,” Charlie whispers.

  I hold in a laugh. “You think?”

  “He’s got it written all over him. What teenager wears a watch like that?” He rolls his eyes. “Dude’s gotta be compensating for something.”

  “Seriously.” I laugh before I can hold back, and Dallas turns around, surprised. I don’t really know Charlie, but there’s something I like about him. He’s easygoing, cool, kind of like I imagine a big brother would be.

  Maybe working here won’t be so bad.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You look like shit,” Daphne says when I sink into Puke’s back seat with her. Izzy peels out so fast I have to grab the armrest to keep from slamming into Daphne. “Was there a party last night or something?”

  A grunt comes out. I didn’t get home until after four when Charlie let me off. I wouldn’t even be going to school if I didn’t need Puke for my trip to the health department.

  “Okay…” Daphne goes back to her textbook, mildly pissed off.

  I’m not awake enough to talk yet, so I lean my head on the window and try to grab a few more seconds of sleep. It doesn’t work, what with Izzy goi
ng on and on about her Halloween costume. She’s finally decided on Yuki from Vampire Knight. How she’ll put that together in a week is beyond me.

  “Wow,” Mercedes says as I take my seat in Life Skills. She sets her Starbuck’s cup on my desk. “You obviously need this more than I do.”

  “Thanks.” I take a sip, not caring that it’s already lukewarm. At least it’s half full and sweet, with chocolate and cinnamon.

  She leans over and puts her hand on my knee. Her cleavage does a better job of waking me up than the coffee. “You okay?”

  “Yeah…” This is an ideal situation to cover my food handler’s permit trip. I don’t have the energy to worry about how obvious it is that she’s flirting with me. Besides, it’s useful. I let out a long sigh. “Actually, not really.”

  She’s taken aback, but she doesn’t let go of my knee. “What’s up?”

  “Didn’t sleep at all. You mind covering for me this period?”

  “No problem. Coach needed you for something?”

  I smile. “Good one. Thanks, Mercedes.”

  She bites her lip. “Anytime.”

  Heading back to the parking lot, I take the scenic route around the football field to avoid hall monitors. Even in the light fog, Puke’s vomit color stands out against the white and gray cars nearby, but it’s not until I pull my keys out that I realize there’s a body in the back seat.

  I step back. I do not want to see Izzy making out with someone. Just the thought makes me want to hurl. But I need the car, so I knock on the window without looking directly at whatever is happening in Puke. A face appears through the glass. A face I didn’t expect.

  Daphne, with dark streaks of mascara running down her cheeks.

  She looked perfectly fine on the way here. School hasn’t even been going for ten minutes. By the time I open the back door, she’s huddled on the opposite side of the car. She wipes her face, sniffling. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.” I get in, picturing the worst. I’ve never seen Daphne cry. Never. Something really bad must have happened. “Are your mom and dad okay? Did someone die?”

  She rolls her eyes. “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing you’d understand.” Her face cracks, like she’s about to break down again. She pulls up her hood to hide her face. “What are you even doing here?”

  “It’s my car. What do you mean I wouldn’t understand?”

  She makes this awful sound, like a pig with a cold. “No one makes fun of Russ Pearson, über popular high school royalty.”

  “Someone made fun of you? That’s why you’re crying?” I can’t believe it. Not soon-to-be black belt, screw pop culture, independent Daphne.

  She shoots me a death glare.

  That was obviously the wrong thing to say. Better try again before she kills me. “What happened? Who said what?”

  She purses her lips, and for a second I think she won’t tell me. “Dallas.”

  “Dallas?”

  “He’s in my English class, since he’s so stupid. What senior is in sophomore English? Ugh.” She takes the hood off, running her hands through her wild, black hair. “He calls me Clown Bitch, you know, because of my lipstick.”

  My brow furrows. “But you’re not wearing any.”

  “I’m not done with the story. I don’t care if he calls me that. He’s a total asshole, and I’m so used to names. Whatever. I can handle names.” She stares at her fingers, which keep twisting the cords on her hoodie. “Dallas took one look at me today and I knew I was in for it. He noticed I wasn’t wearing lipstick. He…”

  As she hiccups a sob, this pit forms in my gut. I was the one who told her to lose the freaky lipstick. This is my fault.

  “He got right in my face, smiling like he’d just won the lottery or something. Then he’s all, ‘You think that makes you look normal? You’re still dog ugly. Quit trying, Clown Bitch.’” She looks angry, though her eyes water. “I can’t win, you know? I could dress like a cheerleader and I’d still get shit.”

  “You don’t actually believe him, do you?”

  She shrugs.

  I scoot closer to her. “Daph, c’mon. Dallas is a jackass, even the team knows that. And he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Maybe he does. I’ve never been on a date. No guy even gives me a second glance. It’s always Izzy and her doe eyes that gets the boys following us around.”

  I try not to laugh. This sounds way too familiar. “Trust me, it’s not because you look bad. You are way prettier than Izzy.”

  One of her eyebrows creeps up. “Then what is it?”

  “You’re scary.”

  “What?”

  “Dude, you can beat me up. Me. You could probably take anyone on the football team with your freaky Judo powers. And you don’t take shit. You’re opinionated.” I sigh, hating to admit it. “That’s kind of intimidating, and guys have fragile egos. They’d rather go for the easier target than take a chance and get shot down.”

  She glances at me, trying to stop her smile. “You’re just trying to make me feel better. You think it’s your fault.”

  “Do you feel better?”

  She punches me. Yeah, she’s just fine.

  “Good, because I need Puke. So get out.”

  She shakes her head. “Hell, no. I’m not going back in there. He’ll know he made me cry.”

  I heave a sigh. I don’t have time for this. If I skip all my classes, the school will call my parents, and I won’t be able to fake sick. Mom may be busy, but she’ll notice that I wasn’t home in bed. “Don’t ask questions.”

  “Fine.” Daphne smiles victoriously. I must have made her day by letting her win. I don’t mind.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The health department is all the way in downtown Fresno, not the nicest or safest of places, honestly. Daphne follows me into the building. As she looks around, I can tell she’s dying to ask why we’re here. She probably thought I was going somewhere fun or cool. I have no idea where I’m supposed to go, and the place is huge. There’s no choice but to ask the lady at the information desk. “Um, where do I go for a food handler’s permit?”

  “Right over there, dear. Copies cost five cents a page.”

  She’s pointing at two glass doors, behind which is a computer lab. I restrain myself from cursing in front of her. “It’s online?”

  She nods.

  “Thanks.” I head to the lab, feeling like an idiot. I just followed Charlie’s directions, but obviously he didn’t know it was online. He probably got his permit when he was ten. Either that or he was messing with me.

  I sit in front of a computer and Daphne takes a seat next to me. “Food handler’s permit?”

  “What did I say about questions?” I click the link for the permit and it asks me to register. Then it looks like I have to read some crap and pass a test.

  “I know, but…what the hell, Russ? Why are you acting like this is some kind of scandal? It’s just a food handler’s permit.” She flicks the pencil on the desk and it rolls back to her electric blue fingernails. “Are you getting a job?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re terrified about what people think of you. Who cares if you get a job? So what if you want to work with food? There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “It’s nothing you’d understand.” It does matter what people think of me. She has no idea what I stand to lose because she’s never had it. I pull up the reading, wishing I could have been more heartless and kicked her out of the car.

  “Then explain.”

  “Shh.” I point to the screen. “I’m reading.”

  “Fine. I was just trying to help.” She stalks off, finally giving me the space I need.

  The food handler’s reading is full of ridiculously obvious stuff. Wash your hands before touching food. Wash your hands after touching meat. Wash your hands after going to the bathroom. Lots of hand washing. Keep stuff clean, don’t serve contam
inated food, follow machinery instructions, don’t burn yourself, how to put out kitchen fires. It’s all pretty straightforward, though longer than necessary.

  The test is cake.

  I print out my certificate and get it signed by the official. Maybe coming in person was good thing after all, since I would have had to wait for this to come in the mail. I head to the lobby, where Daphne sits with a magazine. She must be bored stiff because it’s People. When she sees me, she tosses the magazine aside and heads for the door.

  She’s leaning on Puke by the time I get there. We get in without talking. We drive five minutes in silence. I get twitchy. Not that we’re best friends or anything, but Daphne and I have always been able to carry on a conversation. I take a deep breath. “I don’t get why you’re so mad at me.”

  “I’m not,” she says. “I’m mad at myself.”

  “Okay…”

  She pounds the seat. “Ugh, I need a punching bag. Some days Judo can’t come fast enough.”

  She might claim she’s not mad at me, but she’s probably lying. She wanted me to get all touchy-feely with her in there and I didn’t. I can’t take the silence, so I plug in my iPod and flip on some Credence Clearwater Revival. She scrunches her face, trying not to smile. But old music? Yup, you have to smile.

  “You’re such a dork,” she says.

  “Yeah, yeah.” She’s known about my oldies obsession for a while, thanks to her practically living at my house. She and Izzy once caught me singing “Fire and Rain” with my dad while mopping the kitchen floor. For the next month, every time I’d enter the room they’d do an impression of me. “You know it makes me cool and eccentric.”

  She shakes her head. “Wanna know a secret?”

  “What?”

  “When I’m at home by myself, this is what I listen to.” She leans forward and switches the music to radio. After turning the dial for a second, the twangy sound of country music fills the air.

  My mouth hangs open. “No way.”

  “And I love Taylor Swift, even her pop stuff. I have all her albums memorized.”