AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Now I just have to learn how to skate.
+++
I stare down at the saucer and cup in my hand. The coffee shudders inside the ceramic mug as I set it on the tabletop in front an elderly man. They say he's here every Tuesday. He's not the reason I'm shaking. It's not the working on skates, either. I'm a natural skater. The first time I put them on, I could just do it. It's easy, mostly. And way more fun than walking. I just have to remember not to swing my feet out too far on either side so I don't kick the chairs or roll over the customers' toes.
It's the song on the radio that's playing through the diner. Usually the music is from one of the jukeboxes, but when it's slow, like now, the radio kicks on. It's supposed to be an easy listening station.
This song is anything but easy. Angel by Aerosmith.
The sound of it still makes me want to smile, then I can't help but remember what happened, which makes me want to curl up and die.
Leaving the coffee and cream on the table, I turn and head back to the counter to keep busy.
One of the beautiful things about the state of California, aside from the natural beauty, is when the state asks if you're a convicted felon, and you check the 'no' box, they take your word for it. I found that out when I applied for state health insurance-it's one of those unenforced laws. I have to manage. Management is the most important thing. I needed insurance to pay for my meds and therapy. Part of maintaining good mental health is staying away from stressful situations. Don't get too hungry, too angry, or too sleepy. Those are my triggers. Oh, and I have to ask for help when I need it.
The last notes of the song fade into an Elvis tune as my name is called.
"Sheri-berry!" The grating voice of my boss calls out to me.
"Coming," I call back to Chip, and make one more swipe over the glass pie case before rolling to the doorway of the kitchen to poke my head inside.
Chip is a good manager and a shitty speller. My name is supposed to be Sherry, like the wine. But when Chip printed up my nametag, it was spelled with one R and an I, like some mid-western idiot made it up. So I roll around for ten hours a day with my misspelled name pinned to my chest. Even so, everyone calls me Sheri-berry, rhyming like a stupid playground name game.
For obvious reasons, I had to change it. I chose the best I could-the one that was easiest to remember. The lyrics from Jakes first song gave me Sherry, and then I took my mothers' last name, Barry. I guess I was asking for it.
I've settled into something here at this little out of the way diner in an old neighborhood. It's my own routine. I work in the days and go to school at night and make time for therapy, eating, sleeping, and homework in between. It's an odd sort of normal-maybe something like that normal that everyone is always talking about. The one they openly reject and secretly savor.
"You rang?" My voice is low, monotone, imitating Lurch from that old Munsters TV show. Funny to those of us who are too poor for cable. If it weren't for public access, I'd have no culture. Besides, Chip happens to look a lot like that creeper. But I don't tell him that because he's the only son of owners, Voytek and Henrietta.
"Table two's waiting and Jeanine's on her break," he orders from over the rim of his glasses.
I salute him and take two greasy menus under one arm, fill two glasses with water, and head on over.
"Hello, my name is Sheri. Can I get you something to drink?" I set the glasses down, then the menus in the center and go for my writing pad. Focused. Poised, with my pen-tip set to paper, anticipating. The two guys grab the ice water, down them in a flash, and then ask for refills with what sounds like strong accents. Every other person in L.A. has an accent, though. You get used to them.
When I get back with the water pitcher to grant the request, their noses are buried behind the lunch menus.
"How much for an order of chips?" One with curly hair says.
"They're French fries, here." The second says.
"Half-order or whole?" I ask, and then realize I haven't looked at their faces. I've been concentrating on not banging the tips of my skates on the chair legs.
Eye contact makes me go weak in the knees. The man who asked about fries looks exactly like the boy from the park.
The boy who looks exactly like Jake.
My mouth goes dry when I see those hazel eyes, set under a strong brow and full lips, slightly puckered as he focuses on my wide eyes and gaping jaw.
The name flies out, taking my breath with it. "Jake?"
Hazel eyes stare widely back at me. "What's that?" His full lips ask with an English accent.
My skates roll back from the table. The oblong restaurant zooms by. Chip and the cooks watch me plow through the kitchen. A few voices crack out questions, but I can't stop. The air breezes by as I make my way out the back door of the kitchen, leaving their questions unanswered. I have a few of my own that I need to sort, first.
The air outside is a warm slap to the face. The dumpsters in the alley are near capacity. I breathe in the rancid air through my half apron, counting backwards from twenty, trying to calm down. Chip follows me out, aiming to give me a talking to, but pauses when he sees me hunching over, trying not to lose my complimentary breakfast on the pavement.
He sets on palm against the door frame. "Are you pregnant?"
