It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story Read online

  Jason opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off before a sound can escape. “Please don’t with your crush from space camp,” she says.

  “It was robotics camp, and I dated him all summer,” Jason says with a glare. “We just didn’t want to do the long-distance thing.”

  Julianne rolls her eyes, then levels me with her gaze. “Come on,” she says, and heads back through the swinging door to the kitchen. I follow her, because what other choice do I have?

  At the back of the kitchen, there’s a wooden door that sits half open. Julianne bumps it with her hip and gestures me in with a cock of her head. The room is the size of a broom closet—it may actually be a broom closet—but Del has turned it into his makeshift office. There’s a small desk with a computer on it, a metal filing cabinet with labels written in faded script, and a time clock on the wall that appears to be the most modern piece of technology in the room. Julianne is bent over rifling through a cardboard box that’s open beneath the desk. When she stands, she’s holding a fistful of red fabric.

  Oh god. My uniform.

  “I’m guessing you’re a small?” she asks, though it sounds more like an accusation. She holds out the shirt. “They’re men’s sizes, and the cloth is stiff as a board. If you wash it with a bunch of fabric softener, after about sixty or seventy washes it kind of stops feeling so much like sandpaper.”

  I grimace as I take the shirt in my hand. Her vivid description seems spot on.

  “I keep begging Del to order something softer and with a more flattering cut, but he’s too much of a cheapskate.”

  I take hold of the sleeves and hold the shirt up, though I already know what it says. I’M HOT ’N CRUSTY. In all caps. Heavy, black font. Unmistakable. Right across my nonexistent boobs.

  “And here’s a cap, one size fits no one,” she says, offering me one of the black baseball hats. It’s cheap, with the plastic adjuster in the back. Then she hands me a short black apron to tie around my waist.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, and she steps out, pulling the door shut behind her. I guess I’m just supposed to change here, next to the ancient computer. As I whip off my tank and pull on the T-shirt, I realize this is it. I’m really becoming one of them. I also realize that Julianne was right. This is the cheapest, itchiest, stiffest T-shirt I’ve ever worn. It also smells like the burnt bottom of a pizza. As if having this awful catchphrase emblazoned across my chest isn’t awful enough. I feel pricks of sweat in my armpits almost immediately. Is this thing even cotton, or is it just made of industrial misery?

  Just as I’m starting to feel like the walls of the office are closing in on me, Julianne knocks. I open the door, shoving my tank into the bottom of my purse. She steps back into the office as I adjust the ball cap, pulling my long, thick ponytail through the hole at the back.

  “Okay, so here’s the time clock. Punch in when you get here. Your number is the last four digits of your social. It’s super easy, just pound, your number, then pound again,” she says, her fingers waving over the hashtag sign. She steps aside so I can punch in, which I do, and the machine beeps back, my name appearing on the screen along with the time. “Congratulations. You’re officially getting paid to be here.”

  Well, at least there’s that. I’ve spent plenty of time at Hot ’N Crusty over the course of my life, but I’ve never actually made any money off it, unless you count the lifetime supply of pizza. Which my dad points out isn’t taxable income, so it doesn’t actually count. It’s the tiniest sliver of a silver lining.

  “So, I’ll show you stuff until customers start coming around five. Then you’ll just have to, like, watch and not get in the way.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, as if there isn’t a big boulder of dread sitting in the pit of my stomach.

  Pizza Princess, reporting for duty.

  * * *

  By the time Julianne locks the door and flips off the neon open sign that hangs in the window, I’m completely gassed. I’m so tired I’m pretty sure I could lie down on the sticky tile floor behind the register and fall immediately into a deep sleep, only to dream about extra banana peppers and the guy who demanded a free pizza because he swore up and down that there was a stray olive on his cheese-only pie. I’m pretty sure it was just a large piece of basil, but I’m no expert.

  It wasn’t even that busy. Tuesdays usually aren’t, according to Julianne. This is just one of a metric ton of tidbits she mumbled at me throughout the course of the night. I feel like a balloon she kept filling up with information until I was in danger of exploding and scaring all the small children who paraded through here tonight, leaving footprints of marinara on the tile floor. It was a constant, running commentary, either about how things are done (“If you make incorrect change, the no sale button will open the register.”), or backstory on the people who work here (“Del is divorced and has two grown kids, and I think he’s having a major midlife crisis. He’s been dating like it’s going out of style. Or trying to, anyway.”). I know that the commercial ovens in the kitchen are heated to 800 degrees, even though I’ll probably never be operating them. I know Jason is applying to every single Ivy League school, and Julianne is terrified of what will happen if he doesn’t get into at least one of them. I know that the elderly couple who arrived at 5 p.m. on the dot and split one slice and a Caesar salad have repeated this ritual weekly for as long as Julianne has worked at Hot ’N Crusty, and I know that she started a year and a half ago on her sixteenth birthday.

  She rattled all of this off without ever looking at me. She was always either wiping down menus, rolling silverware, or studying her nails, which are bitten down to nubs. Sometimes she resorted to just staring at her shoes. I don’t know why she talked to me at all, since she seemed to have so little interest in me. But it all seemed to just pour out of her without even realizing she was doing it. It makes me wonder if, when I’m not there, she’s still talking anyway. Maybe that’s the origin of the talking-cat rumor.

  But now it seems there’s something I’m missing.

  Because now that the restaurant is closed and all the patrons are gone, the staff is gathering at the counter. Jason looks oddly pleased with himself, while Frank looks sort of twitchy. Greg is just frowning, which I’ve already learned is his default position. About midway through the evening I had a flash of recognition and realized he’s in my enormous bio class, which BPHS accidentally overfilled and had to haul in extra desks to accommodate. I missed him, because he’s squeezed into the front right corner, while my desk is sardined into the back left.

  “Mine is really good tonight, you guys,” Frank says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He grins, his teeth clenched and his lips wide so that it looks like his mouth is about to wrap around to his ears.

  “The last time you said that, all you had was a dirty diaper,” Jason replies. “Your barometer needs some serious adjustment.”

  “Less talk, more action, people,” Greg says. He drums on the counter like a carnival barker. “Show us whatcha got.”

  I glance over at Julianne, waiting for some kind of explanation, but she’s too busy grinning like she’s holding a winning lottery ticket. And I’m struck by the fact that it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Julianne Scarborough smile.

  They’re all just staring at each other, grinning and waggling their eyebrows. It looks like that scene in last year’s West Side Story production when the Sharks and the Jets are about to rumble or whatever. I swear, if someone breaks into song, I’m walking out that door and never coming back.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” I say finally, because frankly, I’m tired, and I’m pretty sure there’s marinara sauce in my left ear. I just want to go home.

  “Every night we play a game where you bring the weirdest thing you found on a table,” Julianne says.

  “Photographic evidence will suffice if it’s something you actually have to dispose of in order to clean the table,” Jason says, laying out the rules like he’s in Mission Control.r />
  “Like the time Frank had the photo of the table where the toddler threw up his pizza and also his mother’s engagement ring, which he’d swallowed earlier that night,” Julianne says.

  “I still deeply regret looking at that photo,” Greg says, turning slightly green.

  “Everyone shows their hand, and then we vote on the winner. You can’t vote for yourself, that’s how we keep it fair,” Julianne says.

  “It’s not fair when alliances are formed,” Greg grumbles.

  “Some of us grew up watching Survivor with our parents, and are therefore more ruthless than others,” Frank says, blatantly pointing at Jason, who looks not at all cowed by the charge.

  “And what does the winner get?” I ask.

  “The winner gets to designate the closing duties. Which means the winner doesn’t have to clean the bathrooms or take out the trash, because those are the suck jobs and no one in their right mind would ever choose them,” Jason says, looking smug. Something tells me he doesn’t end up cleaning the bathrooms very often.

  “Seriously, less talk. Let’s see ’em,” Greg says.

  Frank goes first, pulling out a white orthopedic sneaker that looks well worn, yet shockingly clean.

  “Child’s play. We find shoes all the time!” Jason says.

  “Kids’ shoes, sure. Kids are always leaving shoes behind. They don’t care. But this is an adult shoe. A grown-up actually walked out of here sans shoe,” Frank says.

  Jason rolls his eyes, completely unconvinced. “That could have easily fallen out of a geezer’s gym bag. Next?”

  Greg reaches in his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper. “I present to you an index card,” he says, clearing his throat as if he’s about to read some Thoreau. “Written at the top—in shockingly terrible penmanship, I might add—is ‘Reasons I’m Dumping You,’ and below that is a numbered list. Number two reads, ‘because you insist on using a soft g to pronounce gif,’ and three says, ‘because you peed your pants on the Fourth of July.’” Greg drops the index card on the counter. It’s crumpled, the edges soft like whoever wrote it spent a lot of time worrying it in their hands. Good lord, who brings notes to their breakup?

  “To be fair, the soft g is correct,” Jason says.

  “It just sounds wrong, though,” Frank replies.

  “Okay, okay, not bad,” Jason says, reading over the list. Then he pulls out his contribution. At first I recoil at the bundle of fur he’s holding, thinking it’s a dead guinea pig or something, but as he drops it on the counter, I realize it’s a toupee. A golden blond rug of hair that only barely looks human. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s 100 percent synthetic. Put that thing in the pizza oven, and it’ll melt into a puddle of plastic.

  “How do you always find hair?” Frank whines. “I swear, it’s like you’re bringing them in with you. Do we need to start checking your pockets at the start of your shift?”

  “This is his third toupee,” Greg tells me with a scowl. “And I’ve lost track of the hair extensions.”

  “Are we ready to vote?” Jason asks.

  “Excuse me, boys, but I haven’t presented mine yet,” Julianne says. Gone is the glowering, grumbling girl hiding behind her hair. Julianne has come alive.

  “Oh, you’re playing tonight?” Jason says.

  “Yes. Despite my serious handicap, being relegated to the register for most of the night—”

  “Which is why we rarely give you the suck jobs, Julianne. It’s only fair,” Frank says.

  “Thank you, Frank. I appreciate it.” Frank blushes a little under Julianne’s gratefulness. “But I don’t need your charity tonight. Because despite only busing three tables, I managed to score a real winner.” She reaches under the counter and drops a paper plate soaked through with grease, upon which rests a cold, congealing slice of pizza. It lands on the counter with a soggy thud.

  Jason scoffs. “I’m sorry, you’re bringing pizza to this game? Seriously? I know you’re not at the tables often, but you do realize we sell this, right?”

  “Gentlemen, I present to you my selection from table eight,” she says, ignoring him. Thanks to my training, I know table eight is the round banquette in the back corner. It’s usually favored by families or rowdy groups of unchaperoned tweens. “On this plate is a piece of pizza, yes. But not just any pizza. This is pizza that came from somewhere else.”

  There’s a beat of silence while everyone looks at the slice.

  “No fucking way,” Jason whispers.

  “Way,” Julianne replies. She leans back against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest with a satisfied smile. “We do not sell stuffed crust pizza here at Ye Olde Hot ’N Crusty. Someone brought this in from outside.”

  Even I can barely suppress a gasp.

  “What kind of asshole goes to a pizza place and brings pizza from another pizza place?” Greg says, bending down to observe it like a NASA scientist.

  “I wish I knew, friends, but I didn’t see who left it. Now should we vote?”

  “Why bother? Julianne clearly wins,” Greg says with a shrug. He reaches for his note card and shoves it back in his pocket.

  “She’s got my vote,” Frank says, taking the shoe and tossing it into the cardboard box behind the counter that’s used as a lost and found.

  “That’s two!” Julianne says. She flashes me a big, open-mouthed smile, like can you believe it? But then she remembers who I am and the smile drops before she turns to Jason. “You’re welcome to vote, but either way, I believe you have lost. And so I’d like to direct you to the cleaning supplies. Those bathrooms need some attention.”

  Jason groans, but does as he’s told. Apparently the rules of the table game are sacrosanct. Greg gets trash duty, and Frank is in charge of mopping floors. Joey apparently always does the kitchen close. He asks for help if he needs it, but tonight he’s good. Julianne sticks to counting out the drawer, carefully detailing every moment of the experience for my personal Hot ’N Crusty handbook. I’m surprised she didn’t send me off to do trash, but maybe after her big victory, she was feeling charitable. But she actually doesn’t assign me any jobs, so I’m left standing there awkwardly as she starts wiping down the plastic-covered menus.

  “You can leave if you want,” Julianne says as she dunks a washcloth into a tub of soapy water.

  “You sure? I can help with the menus or something.” I really do want to leave, but I also feel bad that everyone’s doing jobs while I just stand here like a decorative fern. I don’t want special treatment or anything. I don’t want them to hate me.

  “It’s fine. There’s nothing else to do anyway.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” I say. “And for all the training. I hope I can remember it all.”

  “It’s not the jet propulsion lab. Unless you’re a total idiot, you’ll be fine.” It almost sounds like a compliment.

  “Sure. Great,” I say. I’m already picturing myself sinking to the bottom of a deep pool of marinara and diet soda, while everyone stands around going jeez, couldn’t you figure it out? I didn’t realize I needed to work on my fitness to be a Hot ’N Crusty employee, but I am full out exhausted.

  I make my way back through the kitchen, where Joey is washing a stack of metal trays from the pizza ovens in the industrial sink. The floor is covered in soapy water, like he just dumped a bucket down and hoped for the best. As I pass by the stainless-steel ovens, I catch my reflections in their doors. My ponytail has quadrupled in size from the heat and humidity of the kitchen, and several long bits of frizz have made their escape from beneath my hat and are plastered to my forehead and neck with sweat. My jeans are covered in splatters of marinara dipping sauce from when I dropped an entire bowl of it while delivering breadsticks to a table. There’s a white film of grated Parmesan cheese on my nose from who knows when, and there are dark sweat stains in the armpits of my shirt. I sort of look like I was thrown from a moving car into an Italian swamp. I am—literally—Hot ’N Crusty.

  “Hey, hot stuff,
” I mutter to my reflection before I hurry away to the office to clock out. But as soon as I step in, I suddenly forget how the damn thing works. It’s the last four of my social, that part I know, but do I hit the star button? Pound? Do I do it before, or after? Or before and after? I make a few attempts, but the thing just beeps angrily at me. My brain feels full of garlic and a night’s worth of pizza orders, numbers swirling with pepperoni and mushrooms and red onions. There’s no room for how to punch out. I think the last extra large, extra garlic, extra onions (zero make out, apparently) shoved it out.

  “Are you lost?” A deep voice jolts me out of my fog of exhaustion. I look up from the time clock to see a tallish guy standing in the doorway. He’s wearing the Hot ’N Crusty T-shirt, but it’s mostly hiding beneath a faded denim jacket that looks so worn in, it has to be velvety soft to the touch. His ball cap is nowhere to be found, leaving his mop of dark wavy hair free to flop over his dark eyes. He shoves his hair back with one hand, revealing deeply tanned skin and freckles.

  “I just, um, I was, uh,” I stammer, trying to figure out how to get out of this situation without looking like a complete idiot.

  “Who are you?” he asks, although it comes out as more of an accusation.

  “I’m Beck,” I say, and then after a pause, I hold out my hand like I’m in a job interview. Oh my god, I’m such an effing loser.

  He grunts again, this time with a little bit of a laugh, one that’s definitely directed at me and not with me. “Right,” he says with a knowing nod. My hand hangs there between us until I finally let it drop, my palm sweaty. “The pizza princess.”

  I bristle at the mention, whatever nerves I was feeling at first catching a glimpse of him now fading away. “It’s just Beck, actually.”

  “That short for something?”

  “Rebecca,” I say. I’m named after my grandmother, though he looks like he couldn’t possibly care less. “I just go by Beck.”