Page 7 of Shatter

I fold the bills into a rubber band and zip them into the inside pocket of my apron, then slide out of the booth and head for the bathroom.

The light over the mirror flickers.

I lean close to the glass and part my hair with two fingers.

A thin line of blonde, a quarter inch at least, runs straight down the middle of my scalp like a seam coming apart.

I'm due.

The box I use costs almost twelve dollars at the Walgreens on Monroe, and this week I have exactly enough for rent and the electric bill if I skip the dye.

Fine.

I can pin it back another week.

Nobody looks at a waitress's roots.

Nobody looks at a waitress at all.

I twist my hair into a knot and stab two bobby pins through it, then study the woman in the mirror.

Copper hair from a box, dull under the bad light.

Freckles faded from months of working nights, and purple smudges under my green eyes, darker than they were last month.

The skin under her eyes is thin enough to see the veins.

She looks like a Katie.

Good.

On my way back to the floor, I duck into the walk-in cooler to grab a sleeve of creamers.

Cold air rolls over my arms, and my breath clouds in front of my face.

I pull the creamers off the shelf.

My eyes go to the ceiling on their own.

Third panel from the left, above the milk crates.

I never touch it.

Every night, I only look, the way Mom used to check the stove three times before we left for Whistler, her hand hovering over each knob.

Then I shoulder the door open and step back into the warm, greasy air of the kitchen, and Dale tells me the FSU kids want their check.

The kids leave arm in arm around one-thirty, laughing at something on her phone.

At one-forty-five, Dale hangs up his apron on the hook by the back door and jangles his keys at me.

"You good to lock up, Katie-girl?" He zips his windbreaker up to his chin.

"I'm good." I flip the chairs up onto the counter stools one by one. "Go home. Lorraine's going to think you've got a girlfriend."

"Lorraine knows I'm too tired to cheat." He pushes the back door open with one shoulder, and humid night air slides in behind him. "Lock this behind me. And don't sit out in that car playing on your phone, you hear? Wrong kind of people come around here this late."

"Yes, Dad." I roll my eyes at him over the stack of chairs.