Page 12 of The Fake Out

It was bad enough I had to cake on the makeup—“a Chicky’s girl always shows the world her best face”—or that I have to wear my contacts instead of my glasses—“a Chicky’s girl has an image to uphold”—but my strawberry-blonde hair was now in two braided pigtails that hung to past my shoulders. Each tied with red gingham ribbon.

Furthermore, the braids were the least offensive part of the Chicky’s uniform as far as I was concerned.

Four months ago, when the medical bills started coming in, it became painfully clear we were in a whole lot of trouble. Even with the decent health insurance she’d had through her job as a nursing assistant, the deductible and out-of-pocket expenses were shockingly high. Besides, she’d had to quit her job since she wasn’t physically capable of performing it. Just like that, we were down to a one-income household.

But this was what I was good at: being the person in our family who could figure things out. It was Ali’s cousin who’d given me the idea. She had worked at Chicky’s and often bragged about how much she made in tips even though she only worked a couple of nights a week.

Still, I was not Chicky’s Girl material.

Then I learned how much Mama’s medications would be each month.

After a little liquid courage, I went online and applied. The application required a photo and after some debate (and more wine), I found a photo of me in a bathing suit from college. It wasn’t entirely accurate. I’d gained a little bit since then but I’d never been thin to begin with.

Granny, when she was alive, used to say I was “pleasantly plump with junk in the trunk and girls in the front.” It always made me laugh. I wasn’t petite, that was for sure. My pants said size 16 or 18 and I felt comfortable in them. That’s all that mattered to me.

I didn’t expect a callback for an interview. But when it came, I pieced together an outfit, then forced myself into the car. By the time I pulled into the Chicky’s parking lot, I’d convinced myself this was the right thing to do. Until I sat down across from Shane Sullivan.

He was the worst.

That was apparent right from the beginning when all his interview questions were directed to my chest. Halfway through, he made me try on the uniform—Daisy Duke cutoffs and tiny gingham shirt that buttoned (barely) and tied far above the waist. I felt naked.

“’Course, you’re a little thicker than most the other girls, but I think you’ll work out.” He leered. He was leering. My skin crawled.

I was two seconds away from launching into my rant about the size of an average American woman, and how the media had so distorted our expectations that anything bigger than a size 4 was plus-sized, and exactly where he could take his stupid comments and creepy staring and his ridiculous job.

But I needed the job and it wouldn’t be good to tip my hand about my propensity to share my opinions. He’d figure that out in time.

I’d been working here every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evening for three months now and still I had to talk myself into walking into the building every single time. But I reminded myself that the tips I made over the weekend would cover all of Mama’s therapy this next week and a little toward the medical debt. Mama was worth it.

“Just a heads-up,” Amanda, a Chicky’s veteran server, said. “There’s a bachelor party tonight.”

I groaned. I’d like to say the customers of this fine establishment where of a discriminating variety, but they weren’t. While we did occasionally have families come in, most customers seemed to be slight variations of Shane. But the bachelor parties were the worst. Aside from being loud, they had the nasty habit of getting a little touchy-feely. On top of that, they never left decent tips. All work and no reward.

“Let me guess? It’s one of my tables?” I began reciting another pep talk in my head. The one where I convince myself that someday I’ll look back on this experience fondly.

Amanda patted my back in sympathy. “Maybe they won’t be idiots.”

They were idiots.

Most of them had clearly been drinking well before they’d even arrived. The groom was wearing one of those stupid hats with the built-in drink holders and straws, which he thought was hilarious, and he refused to drink any other way. Another man insisted on making a speech for each new round. He’d blather on and make everyone in their vicinity cheer for the “dude getting married.”

“Hey, Saaamantha,” the drunk guy at the end of the table yelled at me, waving his arm.

It should be noted I played a game with myself when I worked at Chicky’s. I imagined I was a character in a novel. Her name was Samantha (as my nametag read), and she was a shameless flirt. Samantha had started out a shy, innocent country girl until I realized shameless flirts made better tips.

“Hiya,” I said, laying on the Southern drawl a little thick. Because better tips. “What can I do for you, handsome?”

He crooked a finger. “Come here.”

Tucking an empty drink tray under my arm, I leaned down. “Yes?”

“Little closer, babe.”

Babe. Ugh. I bent closer, until I was only a few inches from his face. His breath was hot and rancid with alcohol. I bit back the strong desire to gag.

Samantha plastered on a smile; inside, Maebell seethed.

“I just wanted to put this”—he held up a folded piece of paper—“right here.” With a wink, he tucked it in the back pocket of my shorts and gave my backside a squeeze.