He sure as hell didn’t want to wait tables for the rest of his life, so college. And maybe before he donned another cap and gown he would figure out just what the hell he did want to do for the rest of his life.
But summers, he waited tables, and tried to look on the bright side. The restaurant’s mall location worked okay, and the tips didn’t suck. Maybe waiting tables at Mangia five nights a week with a double shift on Saturdays killed his social life, but he ate well.
Bowls of pasta, loaded pizzas, hunks of Mangia’s renowned tiramisu hadn’t put much meat on his long, bony frame, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.
His father once had hope his middle child would follow in his football-star cleat-prints, as his oldest son had—resoundingly. But Reed’s complete lack of skill on the field and skinny frame dashed those hopes. Still, standing on a yard of leg by the time he’d hit sixteen, with a willingness to run all damn day, had made him a minor sort of star on varsity track, so that balanced it out some.
Then his sister took the heat off with her fierce talent on the soccer field.
He served a table of four their starters—insalata mista for the mother, gnocchi for the dad, mozzarella sticks for the boy, and fried ravioli for the girl. He flirted harmlessly with the girl, who gave him long, shy smiles. Harmless because he figured she was maybe fourteen and off the radar for a college man heading into his sophomore year.
Reed knew how to flirt harmlessly with young girls, older women, and pretty much all in between. Tips mattered, and he’d honed the charm for customers after four summers of waiting tables.
He covered his section—families, some old couples, a scatter of date-night thirty-whatevers. Probably dinner and a movie, which made him think he’d see if Chaz—assistant manager at GameStop—wanted to catch the late showing of The Island after their shifts.
He ran credit cards—chatting up table three had bagged him a solid twenty percent—turned tables, swung in and out of the insane kitchen, and finally hit break time.
“Dory, taking my ten.”
The head waitress gave his section a quick scan, gave him the nod.
He stepped out of the double glass doors and into the Friday night mayhem. He had considered texting Chaz and taking his ten in the kitchen, but he wanted out. Plus he knew Angie worked the Fun In The Sun kiosk on Friday nights, and he could take four or five of his ten for some not-so-harmless flirting.
She had an off-and-on boyfriend, but the last word he heard said off. He could try his luck there and maybe score a date with somebody whose miserable schedule matched his own.
He moved fast on long legs through shoppers, through cliques of teenage girls and the teenage boys who scouted them, around moms pushing strollers or herding toddlers, through the incessant brain-numbing music he no longer heard.
He had a mop of black hair—his mother’s Italian half. Dory didn’t bug him about getting a trim, and his dad had finally given up. His eyes, deep set, pale green against olive-toned skin, brightened when he saw Angie at the kiosk. He slowed his pace, slipped his hands into his trouser pockets—casual—and sauntered over.
“Hey. How’s it going?”
She flashed him a smile, rolled her pretty brown eyes. “Busy. Everybody’s going to the beach but me.”
“And me.” He leaned on the counter with its display of sunglasses, hoping he looked smooth in his uniform of white shirt, black vest and pants. “I’m thinking of catching The Island, it’s got a ten-forty-five last show. It’s almost like a trip to the beach, am I right? Want in?”
“Oh … I don’t know.” She fussed with her hair, a beachy blond that went with the golden tan he suspected she got from the self-tanner in another display. “I do kind of want to see it.”
Hope sprang, and Chaz was bumped off his list.
“Gotta make some fun, right?”
“Yeah, but … I sort of told Misty we’d hang after closing.”
Chaz jumped back on the list. “That’s cool. I was heading down to see if Chaz wanted to catch it. We could all go.”
“Maybe.” She flashed that smile again. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll ask her.”
“Great. I’m heading down to see Chaz.” He shifted to give more room to the woman waiting patiently while her kid—another who hit about fourteen—tried on half a zillion pairs of sunglasses. “You can text me either way.”
“If I could have two pairs,” the girl began, checking herself out in a pair with metallic blue lenses, “I’d have a spare.”
“One, Natalie. This is your spare.”
“I’ll text you,” Angie murmured, then shifted to work mode. “Those look awesome on you.”
“Really?”
“Totally,” Reed heard Angie say as he headed off. He quickened his pace—he had to make up time.
GameStop buzzed with its usual crowd of geeks and nerds and, for the younger geeks and nerds, the glazed-eyed parents trying to move them along.
Monitors previewed a variety of games—the PG variety on the wall screens. The less friendly ones were on individual laptops—for use with over-eighteen ID or with parental supervision.
He spotted Chaz—king of the nerds—explaining some game to a confused-looking woman.
“If he’s into military-style game play, strategy and arc building, he’d go for it.” Chaz shoved his coke-bottle glasses up on his nose. “It’s only been out a couple weeks.”
“It seems so … violent. Is it appropriate?”
“Sixteenth birthday, you said.” He gave Reed a quick nod. “And he’s into the Splinter Cell series. If he’s good with those, he’d be good with this.”
She sighed. “I guess boys are always going to play war. I’ll take it, thanks.”
“They’ll ring you up at the register. Thanks for shopping at GameStop. Can’t hang, man,” he told Reed as the customer walked away. “Slammed.”
“Thirty seconds. Late show, The Island.”
“I’m all about it. Clones, baby.”
“Solid. I’ve got Angie on the hook for it, but she wants to bring Misty on.”
“Oh, well, I—”
“Don’t let me down, man. It’s the closest I’ve got to a date out of her.”
“Yeah, but Misty’s a little scary. And … Do I have to pay for her?”
“It’s not a date. I’m working on turning it into a date. For me, not for you. You’re my wingman, and Misty’s Angie’s. Clones,” he reminded Chaz.
“Okay. I guess. Jeez. I wasn’t figuring on—”
“Great,” Reed said before Chaz changed his mind. “Gotta book. Meet you there.”
He rushed out. It was happening! Group nondate could clear the way for a one-on-one let’s-hang-out and that opened the door to the possibility of a little touch.
He could use a little touch. But right now he had three minutes to make it back to Mangia or Dory would scorch his ass.
He started to lope when he heard what sounded like firecrackers or a series of backfires. It made him think of GameStop’s shooting games. More puzzled than alarmed, he glanced back.
Then the screaming started. And the thunder.
Not from behind, he realized, from up ahead. The thunder was dozens of people running. He jumped out of the way as a woman careened toward him racing behind a stroller where the kid inside wailed.
Was that blood on her face?
“What—”
She kept running, her mouth wide in a silent scream.
An avalanche rolled behind her. People stampeding, stomping on discarded shopping bags, tripping over them, and as some fell, over each other.
A man skidded over the floor, his glasses bouncing off to be crushed under someone’s foot. Reed grabbed his arm.
“What’s happening?”
“He’s got a gun. He shot—he shot—”
The man shoved to his feet, ran on in a limping sprint. A couple of teenage girls ran weeping and screaming into a store at his left.
And he realized the noise—gunfire—came not only from in front of him, but also from behind him. He thought of Chaz, a thirty-second sprint behind him, and his restaurant family, double that ahead.
“Hide, man,” he muttered to Chaz. “Find somewhere to hide.”
And he ran toward the restaurant.