Cinderella in the Surf (15 page)

Heat flushes through me and I glare at Piper, wishing I could fit all of my dislike for her into one neat look. "I don't need this."

I start swimming toward the shore, churning water as fast as I can, leaving a small wake behind me. Anything to put some space between me and Piper.

I drag myself onto the sand, a lot more tired from the swim than I remember being in the past, and drop down onto one of the towels Walker and I left on the beach earlier.
 

Walker.

I've completely forgotten about him! And I've left him with Piper. Ugh. I snap my head up and scan the ocean, and my stomach sinks when I see them.

They're still in the lineup, floating gently in the bobbing water, with their backs to the shore. Piper is staring at him, and I can tell by the way she's wiggling around that she's laughing at whatever he's just said, whether it's really funny or not. Walker's body is still angled toward the horizon instead of her, and I'm glad, but I don't like watching him happily chatting away, like he doesn't have a care in the world.

I get to my feet, roll up my towel and grab the bag I brought with me this morning. And as I'm about to turn and walk home, sure this whole damned day was nothing but a giant mistake, I'm positive I see Piper turn and look at me over her shoulder.

And suddenly I'm fighting the overwhelming urge to sob.

Nothing is going the way it's supposed to anymore.

And the worst part about it?

I have no idea how to break free from this fast-rising tidal wave.
 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I'm lost.

Sitting out on our balcony with a glass of orange juice two mornings later, staring at the surf as the tide changes from high to low, isn't the peaceful, calming experience it used to be.

Walker was more right than either of us knew when he asked me if I was lost the first day we met.
 

It's almost eleven in the morning already, and the beach is blanketed with people. Kids run up and down the sand, moms and dads lounging on towels. A handful of surfers already litter the dark blue water, floating in the gentle waves, waiting for the right one to catch and ride.
 

Most seem to be hanging in loosely assembled groups, but some are out there by themselves, and now that seems even more dangerous to me than it would have just two months ago. Just because I only used to surf with Alex back then doesn't mean I never went alone when he was busy.

But now I don't think I'll ever get back on my board by myself, if I ever go at all.

It just feels like every time I try, something bad happens.

Except I still can't figure out what I'm going to do about school. I spent all day yesterday looking for a job and left my name with a couple of different stores downtown. I'm not sure that anything I can earn there will do much, but it's something.

And it's not surfing.

Because I'm definitely not going to get the money from the Invitational, even if being back in the ocean yesterday felt -- well, it felt right.

Nothing good has come from me trying to surf since Alex died, and I'm pretty sure that's someone's way of telling me to give it up for good.

But I'm still straining to see who
is
out there on the water today. I haven't talked to Walker since I left him to get eaten by a shark -- I mean, talk to Piper -- the other day, even though I sent an apology text the same afternoon.

I'd just really needed to get out of there and clear my head.

But I've heard nothing.

And so now I'm nervously scanning the horizon, hoping I won't see him out there floating on a surfboard next to a pain-in-my-butt blonde.

My phone rests on the patio table in front of me, and I glance down at it when it starts buzzing impatiently.
 

A local number I don't recognize.
 

Not Walker.

My quickly-rising heart rate returns to normal pretty fast, and I sigh before answering the call.

"I'm-calling-from-Trippy-Tim's-Taco-Takeout-can-I-please-speak-to-ahhhh-Rachel-West?"

The woman on the other end of the line speaks quickly, like she's slurped down one too many cups of coffee this morning.

"Um, yeah. That's me."
 

"Great-great-great!" She takes a breath. "Missy left your application on my desk this morning and I have to tell you, honey, it's like you're an angel dropped from above! I can't remember the last time we had someone want to come work at Trippy Tim's Taco Takeout and oh, sugar, we could sure use you."

"I--"

"Oh! You're still interested, right? Tell me you're still interested," she says, her voice instantly full of worry. "We'll add an extra two dollars an hour if you take the job."

I barely remember filling out an application there; heck, I can barely point out Trippy Tim's on a map. I don't think I've ever eaten there, and I have no idea what possessed me to go inside yesterday.

Apparently utter desperation does funny things to a girl.

"What, um, what's the job again?" I ask, figuring the silly question I should already know the answer to if I filled out an application isn't going to count against me with this woman.
 

"Ohhh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that," she replies vaguely, and the crease in my forehead deepens. "Really, you'll just kind of do it all! Missy's just drowning out front all by herself. Cookin' and cleanin' and servin'! Oh, we're so thrilled you want to come on board."

I press my lips together. Every bone in my body wants me to say no and hang up the phone before she starts begging.
 

There's gotta be a better way to come up with money for school than taking a job at a place called Trippy Tim's Taco Takeout.
 

But then my eyes drift back out to the ocean and I watch a surfer catch a wave, ride it for a few feet, and fall off his board, crashing to the water, and I let out a little sigh of defeat.

"When do I start?"

***

The woman on the phone -- I guess I can call her my boss now -- told me her name is Lydia Crane, and she asked me to show up at the restaurant around two this afternoon.

I have to look up the address online. Turns out, the place isn't that far from me, and it's a small building smushed in between Johnny's Pizzeria and a cute boutique I check out every now and then.
 

At least I've solved the mystery of how I managed to apply for this gig.

Part of me is praying I'll get another call from a different job I actually
want
while I'm walking down the boardwalk toward Trippy Tim's, but my phone stays silent.

Which also means there's still nothing from Walker.

I walk past the restaurant twice -- hard to do, considering the front of it is brick painted bright pink -- before I realize that's the place I'm looking for.

I guess the two sets of white plastic backyard dining sets out front don't scream that it's much of a restaurant to me.

Bells jingle over the chipping green wooden door when I push it open. It's even smaller inside than you'd think just by looking at it out front.
 

The kitchen is about ten or fifteen feet away from the worn blue woven welcome mat placed just inside the door. There's a small aisle that leads to and splits the kitchen. Each side of the restaurant in front of the kitchen has four white plastic tables and red chairs with the vinyl peeling off, revealing yellow cushion trying to squeeze free in several different places.

I take a step inside and the bottom of my sneaker gets stuck to the floor.

Awesome.

"It's you!"

A brown-haired woman dressed in pink scrubs appears in the aisle between the two sides of the kitchen, and I wonder where she came from. Her thick hair could use a good brushing and it looks like the last time she got a good night's sleep was sometime in 1996.

I fight the worsening sense of dread building up in me.

It's all about earning the money I need right now.

Even though it's kinda scary she knows I'm her new employee and not a paying customer.

"Lydia?" I ask, even though there's no doubt this is the woman from the phone.

She smiles. "Yes, yes! That's me." She glances around and sighs. "Missy," she mutters under her breath. I look too, but don't see anyone else. "Sorry. That girl is so hard to track down sometimes. It's why we need you."

Great.
 

Apparently the only other employee is MIA, and it's not that hard to guess why.

"Well, here I am," I say as cheerfully as I can manage. As desperate as Lydia is, she's somehow been getting by without me for all this time. I can't afford to have her realize she's better off leaving things the way they are.

How depressing.

"Yes, and thank God for that. Come on back here." Lydia turns and marches into the back.

I try not to look too closely at the kitchen as we pass it. Not that I ever plan on eating here, but it's probably best not to know too many details.

 
There's one small room with a peeling man/woman restroom sticker slapped on the door, and we walk into a tiny office with a folding chair and TV stand and not much else.

Lydia chuckles once. "My throne," she jokes, and I can't help but smile. She pulls a gray one-size-fits-all T-shirt out of a cardboard box sitting on the floor and hands it to me. "And your uniform."

We stand here together for a second or two, just looking at each other before she speaks again.

"Well, go on then. It's not going to wear itself."

I shrug the giant shirt on over my head and glance down at myself. It's so big it hides my shorts and makes it look like I'm pretty much naked from the waist down.

"Hm," Lydia grunts as she sizes me up in the uniform. "Maybe wear pants tomorrow."

I take a deep breath. The idea of coming back here again so soon doesn't exactly make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but I'm gonna have to suck it up if I'm not getting back on my board.

I nod. "You got it."
 

The back door right next to the office opens, then slams shut, the window rattling around against the wooden frame.

"Missy!" Lydia barks, and not half a second later, a black-haired girl I suddenly vaguely remember handing an employment application to appears in the cramped doorway.

"Sup?" Missy cracks her gum and leans against the frame. The first thing I notice is how she's changed her uniform: it's cropped so every time she makes the slightest movement, a small sliver of belly peeks out between the hemline and the top of her shorts.

I guess that's one way to avoid looking like you're not wearing any bottoms to work.

"I can't have you running off like that." Lydia shakes her head. "I have nobody in the front of the restaurant! Who is going to make the salsa for the customers?"

"What customers?" Missy mutters, and I fight the urge to smile.
 

"And don't," Lydia growls, "tell me it was for one of those damned smoke breaks."

Missy glances at the floor, and now that Lydia's mentioned it, the unmistakable scent of cigarette slowly starts filling up the small space, and I can see the outline of a pack in her back pocket.

"I told you, I need to take -- "

"No." Lydia's voice is fierce, and it's kinda making me think I underestimated what she'll be like as a boss. "You see her?" Lydia points to me. "This is Rachel. You keep stepping out on me and you won't have this job anymore."
 

My eyes widen and I open my mouth to protest, but Lydia marches on, not letting up about Missy's smoke break for the next five minutes.

By the time she's done, I've reaffirmed my vow to never pick up a cigarette about sixty more times.
 

Missy scuttles off to the main part of the restaurant once Lydia gets sick of complaining about how unreliable she is because of the "death sticks," leaving me alone with her once again.

"I am so sorry," Lydia says, blowing out a puff of breath that ruffles her brown bangs. "That girl. I just don't know what I'm going to do around here. Thank God you found us just in the nick of time."
 

I swallow hard. I have a feeling holding onto my job with Lydia will be a piece of cake (I mean, if she hasn't fired Missy by now, I think I'm good), but suddenly I'm not so sure that's a great thing.

"Let's see now," she says, looking as if she has no idea what to say to me next. "I'm sure it's on the application, but what's your experience? Have you worked as a waitress before?"

"Never."

"No matter. You'll learn quick here. It gets packed for happy hour."

I have my doubts.

Lydia checks the gold watch on her left wrist. "It's why I had you come in now. Only an hour left until it picks up."
 

I raise my eyebrows. "Wait, you want me to work -- "

"Happy Hour today? You betcha," Lydia interrupts cheerfully. "Best way to learn, I always said. Throw ya right into the fire."

"I don't know if that's a great idea."
 

"You look like a smart girl," she says, turning around and looking me up and down. I have the overwhelming urge to hide behind something. "You think you can't handle it?"

"No, no, I just...I'll figure it out."
 

Right.

Of course I will.

It's not like waitressing at a taco stand can be all that complicated, right?

***

I'm wrong.

Naturally.
 

We're only about twenty minutes into the first rush of Happy Hour customers, and so far, it's obvious Lydia wasn't lying. All eight tables inside are packed, and there's just one empty space left on the patio out front.

Missy's manning the kitchen, which means waiting all the tables falls on me.

"Chick-win-ka-dilla," says the little kid smushed into a white Adirondack chair at one of the outdoor tables. I pause, pen hovering above the tiny white notebook Lydia gave me before tossing me into the snake pit, and glance up at the child.
 

He can't be older than five, isn't looking at me, and is too busy weaving two trains in and out of the water glasses on the table to clarify.