Fifteenth Summer

July





The morning after the party I left a note to my parents on the kitchen table and headed for Mel & Mel’s at six forty-five.

Sparrow Road was eerily quiet, and the sunbeams filtered through the trees at a very unfamiliar angle. I was never up this early when I was in Bluepointe. But I told myself, maybe just a little defensively, that my job quest had nothing to do with Josh. Okay, not much to do with him.

I’m just being a go-getter, I thought. Who knows how many people might be lined up for this waitress job?

I also credited the date—the first day of July.

New month, new job—it’s a fresh start. I’m already getting bored with lying around on the beach.

When I arrived at the corner of Main and Althorp, I cast a furtive glance at the not-yet-open Dog Ear, just to make sure nobody was inside. Luckily, it was dark and still, just like most of the other businesses on Main.

The brightly lit coffee shop next door looked sunny and welcoming in comparison. Just as Josh had predicted, there was a HELP WANTED sign taped to the glass door.

I peered through the door. One of the Mels, I think it was Melanie, was setting heavy china mugs out on the tables. She wore her chin-length gray hair tied back with a bandanna. Her apron—layered over jeans and a tank top—was embroidered with a calico cat.

She glanced up and saw me.

“Be right there, sweetie,” she called.

“Oh, okay,” I yelled back. I stepped back to the sidewalk, feeling awkward and intrusive, but Melanie (Melanie, right?) smiled sweetly as she unlocked the door.

“Well!” she said, planting her fists on her hips. “Somebody’s really ready for chocolate chip pancakes this morning!”

“Oh, uh, no thanks,” I said. “Chocolate chip pancakes really aren’t my thing.”

I smoothed down the marigold-colored cotton dress I’d chosen. On the plus side, it was very 1960s diner waitress. On the minus, it was horribly wrinkled. I hoped she wouldn’t notice.

“Well, maybe you’d like some cinnamon streusel coffee cake?” she offered. “You would not believe what the secret ingredient is.”

“Actually,” I said, pointing back at the HELP WANTED sign, “I’m here because of the job?”

“Oh!” Mel said. She wiped her hands on her apron. “Did you just move to town?”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “For the summer, anyway.”

“I was kind of hoping for someone longer-term,” Mel said skeptically. “What’s your experience?”

“Um, I babysit for one family back in California that has four kids,” I said. “Those kids can eat. Sometimes I feel like a short-order cook.”

Melanie bit her lip. “Let me talk to my sister.”

She looked over her shoulder and called, “Melanie!”

Oh! This sister wasn’t Melanie; she was Melissa. That’s right. It was Melissa who liked calico cats.

Melissa likes cats, I reminded myself. Melanie like the Cubs. Melissa—cats. Melanie—Cubs.

Then my stomach swooped.

I’d just remembered the other tip Josh had given me: Make sure you know the score of the Cubs game.

Okay, so I had no experience, I was here only for the summer, and I didn’t even know who the Cubs had played last night, much less the score. I had a dim awareness that the Cubs always lost. I think I’d heard Granly joke about it.

So I went out on a limb as Melanie—wearing cargo shorts, a sporty-looking T-shirt, and a royal blue baseball cap with a red C on it—came out of the kitchen.

“Hi, I’m Chelsea Silver,” I said, giving her a wave. “Shame about the Cubs last night, isn’t it?”

“What? That they broke their losing streak?” Melanie crowed. “Three to two, baby!”

She held out her hand to Melissa for a high five. Melissa ignored the hand.

“What?” Melanie said defensively. She crossed her arms over her chest, and I noticed how tan and sinewy they looked. Melanie looked like the kind of person who spent her free time hiking up mountains or biking fifty miles or some other ridiculously outdoorsy activity. “That’s a perfectly respectable score.”

I laughed a little. “You remind me of me and my sisters.”

“Sisters?” Melanie said, shooting Melissa a teasing grin. “You have more than one? You must have a strong constitution.”

“That’s why you should give me a job,” I blurted.

The Mels raised their eyebrows at each other. I felt a wave of nervous heat wash over my face. That probably wasn’t what Abbie and Hannah had meant when they’d said I should be more confident.

“She’s interested in waitressing for the summer,” Melissa said to Melanie.

“Just for the summer?” Melanie said skeptically.

I glanced at the cash register at the end of the counter. It was covered with photos of calico cats, each photo sheathed in a yellowed plastic sleeve.

“Oh, are those your cats?” I said desperately. “So cute!”

Melanie ignored that and motioned Melissa over for a tête-à-tête.

I leaned against the counter in defeat. It had only taken about five minutes for me to reveal myself to be a total spaz. An unqualified spaz. A spaz posing as a cat-lover.

The front door opened, and a couple with two little kids walked in. Melissa waved at them.

“Just have a seat anywhere,” she called with a smile. “I’ll be right over.”

I eyed the bin of menus mounted on the side of the counter, and shrugged. I had nothing to lose. Why not try to steal a run, as a baseball fan would (maybe?) say.

I grabbed four menus.

Then I glanced at the family as they settled into their seats, and I put two of the menus back, replacing them with kids’ menus. I brought them all over to the table.

“Hi there!” I said, way too cheerily. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“I’ll have coffee,” the dad said. He pointed at his little girl, who looked about three. “And she’ll have—Tally! Leave the salt shakers alone! Sorry. She’ll have—Tally! What did I say?”

“Tally,” I said, bending down to meet her pretty, round blue eyes. “Would you like some milk?”

Tally’s face lit up in a shy smile.

“Juice,” she said.

I glanced at her mom. She was giving her daughter one of those sappy my-baby’s-growing-up smiles, which I guessed meant juice was allowed.

“Apple or orange?” I asked.

“Apple!” Tally cried, clapping her pudgy little hands together.

“Apple!” I said with a nod (and a silent prayer that the Mels had apple juice).

“Thank you!” the mom said. “And I’ll have unsweetened iced tea, and, Zeke, you want OJ, right?”

As their son nodded, I said, “Okay. Coffee, iced tea, apple, and orange. Right?”

“Yup!” Zeke said.

The parents beamed some more.

“Check out the menu,” I said. “You might want to try the cinnamon streusel coffee cake. You’ll never guess what the secret ingredient is.”

“Cake!” Tally cried.

“Thanks,” the dad said to me before turning to his daughter. “Now, Tally, first eggies, then cake . . .”

I felt a surge of pride as I turned to walk briskly away. The surge, of course, was quickly squelched when I remembered that I had just done a bit of guerilla waitressing—and I had no idea what to do next.

The Mels were staring at me. I couldn’t tell if they were mad or amused. I think it was a little of both.

“Um . . . they want a coffee, iced tea, apple juice, and OJ,” I said. “Do you . . . have apple juice?”

“Lucky for you we do,” Melanie said. She glanced at Melissa.

“How about we do a trial for the day,” Melissa said. “And we’ll see how it goes.”

“Okay!” I said. “So do you want me to start now?”

“Well, you already did, didn’t you?” Melanie said.

“I guess I did,” I said, giving Tally a little wave. She flapped her fingers back at me.

“Melissa usually works the counter, but she can finish up with that table while I get you set up,” Melanie said, hustling back toward the kitchen and beckoning me to follow her. “You do know, don’t you, that taking that drink order was the easiest thing you’re going to do all day?”

“Of course,” I said, even though that had never crossed my mind. This was pretty much the most impulsive thing I’d ever done. I was elated and terrified all at once.





An hour later the breakfast rush started to feel more like a breakfast onslaught. And the other two waitresses—Ginny and Andrea—seemed ready to stab me with their Paper Mate pens. That’s when I started wondering which failure the Mels would reference when they told me never to come back to their coffee shop again, even to buy coffee.

Would they mention the slippery streak of ice water I trailed across the linoleum floor at least three times?

Or the moment I served four sides of bacon to the wrong table—a table that happened to be filled with vegetarians?

What about the time I jammed up the cash register, even after Ginny had taken a full five minutes (which apparently was an eternity in waitressland) to show me how to use it?

Or when I filled three pages of my waitress pad with the order of one finicky family because I didn’t know any of the shorthand that the other waitresses used to communicate with Melanie in the kitchen?

If none of those gaffes sealed my doom, I was sure it was going to be the plate I dropped—the plate that had been swimming in maple syrup. It almost exploded, spraying syrup in every possible direction.

By the time the rush began to ease up, I could feel big tufts of frizz popping out of my ponytail. My armpits were so damp, I worried I might have dark circles on my dress.

The remaining customers were all in Ginny’s and Andrea’s sections (I’m sure that was no accident), so I slumped into one of the stools at the counter and gave Melissa a guilty look.

“Turns out,” I said, “serving a restaurant full of people is more challenging than babysitting four little kids. Who knew?”

I gave a lame laugh.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, I placed my order pad on the counter and started to untie my apron. Even though the morning had been so hard, it had also been kind of fun. A sticky, egg-yolky, spazzy kind of fun. Plus, I’d made almost forty dollars in tips! In three and a half hours! That was way better than babysitting money.

Melissa, who had a stack of receipts piled at her elbow, glanced up from the numbers she was pounding into the cash register.

“What are you doing, sweetie pie?” she said. “Your shift isn’t over for two and a half hours.”

“But, but . . . I was a disaster!” I said.

“I hate to agree with her, Melissa,” Andrea said as she popped a new filter full of grounds into the coffeemaker. “But she kind of was.”

She sat next to me at the counter, smiling sympathetically through dark red lipstick. Andrea looked like she was in her early twenties. She had a ton of tattoos and wore Adidas sneakers with tube socks pulled up to the knee. I loved her style, and I marveled at how non-sweaty and pretty she still looked after that brutal shift.

“No offense, Chelsea,” she said.

“None taken,” I said sadly.

“Oh, Andie,” Melissa scolded. “You on your first day, now that was a disaster. Remember the way you cried! ‘I can’t do it, Mel! I can’t do it! Just let me wash dishes!’ ”

“You started me on Sunday brunch!” Andrea protested. “Talk about trial by fire! Today’s only Monday! A slow Monday, at that.”

“That was slow?” I squeaked.

“Moderately,” Melissa admitted. Then she looked at me. “Listen, if you’d had any experience, I’d say, yes, this day was a disaster. But for someone on her first day, I’d call you, oh, a mild calamity.”

“Is that good?”

Ginny breezed by on her way to a table, with a parade of oval plates stacked along the full length of her arm. She was probably in her fifties, had short salt-and-pepper ringlets, and her eyes looked tired even when she was smiling, as she was now.

“Calamity’s not bad,” she said encouragingly. “You’ll get there. If Andie did, anybody can.”

“Hey!” Andrea said poutily.

“So . . . do you want me to stay?” I asked Melissa cautiously.

“Well, I’ll have to talk about it with Melanie,” Melissa said, “but I think you might be a good fit. You are good with the little ones, and we get a lot of those in here.”

“I know,” I said with a grin. “I was one of those! I’ve been coming here for forever.”

“Oh, now you’re making me feel old,” Melissa complained with a good-natured smile. “So, what, do your parents have a summer cottage here?”

“My grandma,” I said automatically, before catching myself. “I mean, she did. I mean, the cottage is still here but my grandma . . . isn’t. She passed away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Melissa said. “What was her name?”

“Delia Roth,” I said, looking down at the white Formica counter. It blurred a little bit.

“Oh, right, I did know that,” Melissa said softly. “I remember Delia coming in here with all those granddaughters. That must have been you and your sisters. I should have recognized you from your—”

“Hair,” I said, and sighed, smoothing back the frizzy corkscrews that had pulled out of my ponytail. “I know.”

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss, sweetie pie,” Melissa said.

I nodded and swallowed hard. “Thanks. It’s okay.”

I was glad for the distraction when Melanie called through the order window.

“All righty!” she said. “Just got my first lunch order. Turn on the specials board!”

Melissa hopped promptly off the stool behind the cash register and walked over to a glossy black screen propped on an easel next to the pie carousel. Ceremoniously she plugged it in. The specials—written in different colors of neon marker—lit up, glowing brightly.

“Wow, that’s fancy!” I said.

“I know!” Melissa said, giving the light board an affectionate pat. “We just got it last season. I think it really sells the specials, don’t you?”

“Melissa,” said Andrea, propping her chin on her fist, “are they really specials when they’re always the same?”

“Well,” Melissa said, giving Andrea a scolding glance, “only since, you know, the order.”

I wondered what they were talking about as I scanned the specials on the light board.

SPINACH ARTICHOKE DIP WITH TOAST POINTS . . . $4.99

EGG SALAD–CHICKEN SALAD–TUNA SALAD COMBO ON BED OF LETTUCE . . . $8.50

PIMENTO CHEESE SANDWICH ON PUMPERNICKEL . . . $6.50

GRILLED ASPARAGUS WITH LEMON AIOLI . . . $3.99

I was starting to see a theme here. A certain ingredient that all the specials contained.

Then I remembered something I’d noticed that morning as I’d rushed from the dining room to the kitchen and back again. In my frantic state it had barely registered, but now that I had a moment to think, it finally clicked.

Just inside the swinging doors that led to the kitchen was a tall, chrome shelving unit. The top and bottom shelves were filled with various dinery items—spare salt and pepper shakers, red and yellow squirt bottles, a big glass jar of pickle relish, and several stacks of napkins.

But by far the predominant feature on the shelves, placed square at eye level, was the mayonnaise—jar after mammoth plastic jar of it. The industrial-size mayo containers were stacked three deep and covered two entire shelves.

Suddenly I realized why Josh had thought I had mayo-on-the-face paranoia the first day I met him.

And why he’d asked about my celery-chopping abilities.

“Melissa,” I said, “what is the secret ingredient in the cinnamon streusel coffee cake?”

Melissa hung her head.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Mayonnaise?”

Melissa nodded.

“I had a little ordering snafu,” she admitted, looking a little weary. “There was . . . an extra zero.”

Andrea shook her head and gave a little snort of laughter.

“The supplier wouldn’t take them back,” Melissa went on, “and even though the jars are sealed, there is an expiration date on them. So . . .”

“When life hands you mayo?” I prompted.

“Make lots and lots of tuna salad,” Melissa finished. “And dips and cake and old-fashioned Jell-O molds . . . Well, it’s actually kind of interesting how many uses there are for mayonnaise when pressed to the wall. It’s great for moisturizing your hair. You can even use it to polish piano keys.”

Melanie had wandered out to pour herself a cup of coffee during the lull.

“The only problem,” she interjected, “is now we’re so sick of mayonnaise, we can’t eat it. Ugh, I dream about mayo. Sometimes I just want to throw it out! But little Miss Waste-Not-Want-Not over there won’t let me.”

Melissa glared at her sister defensively.

“It’s immoral to throw away perfectly good food,” she said.

“It’s a condiment,” Melanie said. “It barely counts as food.”

“Hey!” I said. “What about donating it to a soup kitchen or shelter? It wouldn’t go to waste there.”

“Did it!” Ginny said as she swung around the counter to fill a few plastic cups with ice. “We gave ’em so much mayo, they said to please stop. They couldn’t take any more.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s a lot of mayo.”

Melanie swung her arm over Melissa’s shoulders and looked mock-sorrowful.

“It is our burden to bear,” she said. “And our shame.”

I laughed out loud.

“Oh!” Melissa scoffed. “It could have happened to anyone.”

“Sure it could, sweetie pie,” Ginny said. “Don’t you listen to Melanie.”

Melanie scowled and gave Ginny a fake punch on the arm as Ginny strolled over to a customer sitting at a two-top near the counter.

“What can I get you, sir?” she asked the man.

“I’ll have the club sandwich,” he replied.

Andrea and I shrieked at the same time, “Want mayo with that?” Then we both laughed so hard that tears streamed down our faces.

The man looked very confused.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ginny said to him, giving us a glare. “I’ll get right on that. And while I do, Chelsea’s going to get you a free iced tea.”

I hopped off my stool and hurried to do what Ginny ordered, a big slaphappy grin on my face.

I needed that jolt of lightness to get me through the lunch rush, which was almost more hectic than the breakfast one. My section was full of people in work clothes, needing to eat fast and run back to their jobs.

I couldn’t help but notice that Josh was not one of them. But I didn’t have time to think about it. Or about Granly or about anything really, except the constant rhythm of taking orders, delivering food, checking in on customers, then checking them out. There was only, “We don’t serve fries, only chips.” And, “The soup of the day is spring vegetable.” And “Of course you can have extra mayo on that.”

I realized that maybe that was what I liked most about this job. It was a vacation from my vacation—the one that left me way too much time to brood about . . . everything, especially what might be going on on the other side of that wall that separated Mel & Mel’s from Dog Ear.