A & L Do Summer (9 page)

In the two weeks since the party, I haven't heard from Clay. Not that he had any reason to call me. But at least there was hope before he discovered I tell lies to the police. In comparison, Wynter probably seems like a saint.

To make myself more miserable, I've been worming information about Clay from Manny one piece at time—without letting on that my interest is more than casual. I hope.

Through careful questioning, I've learned that Clay graduated two years ago from Waukee High. His parents retired from farming and moved to a condo in Altoona, leaving him to run the farm. He's taking agriculture classes at Iowa State in Ames, and he works part-time maintaining the golf course to help pay his tuition.

And he's not dating anyone. Which should make me feel better but doesn't. It's the second of June, the month of romance, and my only source of excitement is leaning against the vibrating smoothie machine.

“Hey, Parks, can you take another shift tonight?” Willie Johnson, the Sub Stop manager, barks in my ear.

Startled, I stumble against the cash register. “I guess.” Since the only engagement on my social calendar is my school physical in August, I might as well earn some money.

“Can't Christy make it?” I add. Christy Lawrence and I worked together all last summer. All that togetherness should have made us friends. Too bad she has the personality of a sour cherry.

“Christy bombed out on me.” Willie fiddles with the red suspenders holding up the navy-striped denim pants that are part of his railroad engineer's outfit. Willie's half a foot taller than me, with thick brown hair that he combs every ten minutes. I'd guess he's in his late thirties, if I cared enough to guess.

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying not to sound too excited.

“At the last minute her parents decided to rent a cabin at Lake Okoboji for the summer,” he growls. “Christy called me last night. Last night! How am I supposed to find someone to take her place at this short notice?”

A man pulls up to the menu board, and I take his order. “I might know someone,” I say as soon as I'm finished.

“Really?” Willie hitches his pants over his skinny rear. “It better not be your boyfriend. That never works out.”

As if I would have any way of knowing. “No, it's my friend Laurel Piedmont. She'll be a senior next year too, and she's really serious about wanting a summer job.”

“Your friend, huh?” He rocks back on his heels. “Is she reliable?”

“Very,” I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. All the fun Laurel and I will have working together overrides the history reports she's lost and the times she's been tardy to first period…and second period…and …

A mixture of hope and relief gleams in Willie's eyes. “Could she come in for an interview this afternoon?”

Even if I have to carry her piggyback. “Of course.”

“Tell her to be here at two o'clock.”

I call Laurel as soon as Willie wanders over to the bread ovens. The fourth time her cell goes over to voice mail, I switch to her landline.

“Whaaa?” She sounds like she's swimming in the bottom of a well.

“You're still asleep? It's after noon!”

“It's summer.” She slurs the words into one. “Besides, there's nothing to get up for.”

“There is now!” I tell Laurel the wonderful news. After I confirm—five times—that the interview is for real, I hold my cell at arm's length while she screams. When she's finished celebrating, I remind her that the job isn't a lock yet.

“Wear something casual but not too sexy,” I caution her, “just in case Willie's wife is here. For reasons beyond my comprehension, she thinks every female she sees is hot for him.”

“Casual but not sexy. Check.” Laurel sounds wide awake now. Ear-splitting screams will do that for a person. “Anything else I need to know?”

Hmm. What else can I tell her about Willie's personality? To begin with, there's not much of it. “Answer Willie's questions as briefly as possible. And don't joke around. His sense of humor is nonexistent.”

A pause. “Remind me again why I want to work there.”

“Because of me, of course.” Laurel better not back out on me. “Besides, once you pass the interview, Willie will be a non-issue. He spends most of his time in the storage room, browsing porn sites on the store's computer.”

“Are you serious?” she gasps.

I laugh to myself at having shocked Laurel for a change. “Yes, about Willie being on the computer. As for the rest—I'm ninety-eight percent sure he's been neutered. I refuse to think beyond that.”

“Good idea. I'm all about pure thoughts.”

This time I laugh out loud. “Right. And I'm all about double-D bras.”

The beeper on my headset goes off, and I look at the fuzzy computer screen to see who's waiting to order. Willie had a camera installed last summer after some smart-ass stuck a dozen adhesive-backed maxi pads on the menu board, and several customers complained. I would have helped myself, except they weren't the kind with wings.

Now there's just a frazzled-looking woman with a carload of hyperactive children. “Gotta go, Laurel. See you at two.”

“Absolutely,” she chirps. “I'll be there as soon as I find my bikini top and matching thong.”

“Very funny!” I say as I close my phone. Laurel had better be kidding.

“Welcome to the Sub Stop. How may I please your taste buds today?” Laurel punches in the order and shuts off her headset. “Does Willie Wonka actually expect us to say that with a straight face?”

“Shut up! He's going to hear you.” I set a cardboard tray of drinks on the ledge beside her and pray that Willie isn't behind us. He's standing about three strides away stacking bags of cucumber slices in the cooler. If it weren't for a rowdy bunch of middle school boys at the front counter, Laurel would be trying to pull her foot out of her mouth in front of our boss.

She's only been working here for three days—she started the morning after her interview—and she's already grousing. “You know you have to say that,” I say for the tenth time. “It's on the first page of the employee manual.”

Laurel hands the drinks out the window, and in the process flashes two inches of butt cleavage at the indoor population. A middle school boy waiting for his order tries to vault over the counter. I block his view of Laurel's rear and yank down her red conductor's vest.

She looks over her shoulder at me and shrugs. “Haven't read it. Don't plan to. If I need to know, you'll tell me.”

“It's time to switch jobs anyway. I'll take the orders; you deliver.” I press my fingers into my temples. “And watch where your butt's facing when you bend over.” The guy working the counter hands the middle school kids their food. After one last, lustful gawk at Laurel's rear, they elbow and snicker their way out the door.

I've barely settled the headphones over my ears when a familiar male voice comes through. “I've heard the Sub Stop has the best food and the prettiest girls in town. Any truth to that?” When I look at the screen I see a grinning middle-aged man with his sunglasses pushed up on his forehead.

“Hi, Mr. Piedmont. How's it going?” Laurel's dad dresses up more than most men in Cottonwood Creek—probably because of his bank job—but he's super-nice. “I mean, how may I please your taste buds today?”

After Mr. Piedmont orders an Iron Horse special, he says, “I'm doing great, Aspen. Thank you again for helping Laurel land this job. Is she staying in line?”

“You know Laurel.” Although I'm not so sure he really does. I wouldn't say Laurel puts on an act around her dad, but she definitely tones down her wild side. “She likes to keep things interesting.”

Before her dad's car pulls up to the window, Laurel straightens her vest and hikes her shorts up to her waist. “Hi, Daddy. What are you doing here?”

Mr. Piedmont hands her a ten-dollar bill. “I'm heading to a meeting in Dallas Center, so I thought I'd grab a bite to eat on the road.” He's a couple of inches taller than I am, probably five-ten, with brown hair, a roundish nose, and a ruddy face. His eyes are the same green as Laurel's, and he's smiling whenever I see him. “This is my only meeting today, so I should be home on time for a change. How about having popcorn-and-movie night?”

“That sounds good,” Laurel says as she passes her dad his order. “I chose the movie last time, so it's your turn.”

“At last! We've seen every Broadway musical at least three times.” Mr. Piedmont rubs imaginary sweat off his forehead. “Tonight it's nothing but blood, guts, and glory.”

Laurel makes a face. “Just so no animals get killed. You know I hate that.”

“How could I forget?” Laurel's dad glances at his watch. “I'd better get going. Can't keep the clients waiting.” He settles his sunglasses on his nose. “See you tonight, sweets. Nice to see you again, Aspen. You'll have to come over for dinner sometime soon.”

Laurel and I watch as Mr. Piedmont's car pulls out of the Sub Stop driveway and merges into traffic. “You have such a great dad,” I tell her.

She tugs the top of her shorts below her navel again. “He's getting there. It won't be long before I have him completely trained.”

For the next hour or so we can relax during the afternoon lull between the late lunchers and the early dinner crowd. Willie disappears into the storage room, and all the workers make themselves triple-decker subs and steal drinks from the soda fountain.

I settle onto the wooden stool inside the order window and take a brain-freezing slurp of my chocolate shake, or Massive Mudslide in Sub Stop terminology. Laurel drags a stool from the back and sits beside me. She's on her third refill of diet soda, even though the last thing she needs is a caffeine high. “Okay, so we've accomplished our first step, which is getting summer jobs. When our paychecks roll in, we move to step two: shopping for super-hot clothes. That gets us ready for step three: hitting the party circuit.”

“I hate to burst your fantasy bubble, but Cottonwood Creek doesn't have a party circuit.”

“It's summer, and there's nothing to do in this town except drink and make out. I guarantee there's a party circuit.” She takes another pull on her straw. “Once you and I hook up with the right people, we'll be set for the rest of the summer.”

“Laurel, I don't—”

“Hey, loser, get off your lazy ass!” a male voice yells through the speaker. “We want to order some food.”

I dive for the headset, knocking my stool over in the process, and Laurel chokes on her soda. “Sorry about that,” I gasp into the speaker. “How may I please your taste buds today?”

“Cut the crap,” the jackass in the car snarls. “We want three Cokes—the biggest size you got. And three large orders of fries.”

There's something obnoxiously familiar about the voice on the other end of the intercom, but I'm too flustered to check the screen. “That's three jumbo Coke Washouts and three jumbo Flatcars.” After I tell him the price and ask him to pull forward, I pour the drinks while Laurel gets the fries.

By then the rusty car has pulled up to the window. The milkshake I just drank comes halfway up my throat at the sight of Kong's bulging eyes and sloped forehead behind the wheel. I croak, “That'll be twelve dollars and seventy-three cents,” and wait for the trash talk to start flying.

I grit my teeth as I take the twenty-dollar bill and hand him his change. When nothing happens, I realize he doesn't recognize me with my hair tucked under the Sub Stop cap. Whew! Now I just have to hand off the food and drinks.

“Aspen, here are the fries,” Laurel announces from behind me. I whirl around, frantically motioning her to be quiet. “Er…I mean Flatcars.”

But it's too late. Ferret hangs his pointy muzzle out the rear window. “Hey, Kong, don't you recognize those bitches, Leaf Mold and Bark Rot?”

Kong takes a break from digging his finger into his ear. “Hey, yeah, it is them. Those stupid hats make them look even uglier than usual.”

Without a word, I hand Kong the order. Buster, who's in the passenger seat, hasn't spoken, which makes me more uncomfortable. Before he can come up with a scintillating remark to top Ferret's and Kong's, I move away from the window. For much too long the car sits in the drive-through, and I wonder what their microscopic minds are plotting.

When Kong finally pulls away, Laurel slams her hands on the counter. “Crap on toast! Now those losers know we work here!”

“So?” I ask while she's running cold water over her red palms. “They're the ones who have to worry.”

Laurel turns off the water and pats her hands dry. “How do you figure?”

“Because if they piss us off, we can spit in their food—or worse.”

“You wouldn't!” Laurel gapes at me with a mixture of horror and respect.

“Maybe, maybe not, but they're dense enough to believe we would.”

She wraps me in a rib-crushing hug. “Aspen Parks, I've never been prouder to be your friend!”

“Okay, that's enough.” My headset beeps and I pry her off me. “Somebody's at the menu board.” I say my usual spiel into the microphone.

“One jumbo root beer Washout with no ice.” The voice is oddly high-pitched, like a guy trying to sound female.

I squint at the static-filled screen, trying to make out the person slouched behind the wheel. Only one person I know has a face that doughy. I cover the microphone with my hand. “They're back, but Buster's driving now,” I whisper to Laurel. “What's going on?”

“Fire in the hole.” Laurel shakes her head grimly.

Now is not the time to be cryptic. “Huh?”

“Just do what I tell you,” she says. “I'll explain later.”

Laurel hands me a cup. “Fill it as full as you can, and jam the lid on tight. Make sure you give Buster his change before you hand him the drink.” She's talking so fast I can barely understand her. “And this is the most important part: the very second the drink is in his hand you have to dive away from the window. The very second. Got it?”