Aces Up, Page 5

  “Okay,” Max says. He takes Parvati’s arm and tries to steer her toward the classroom.

  “See you later, Shannon!” she calls over her shoulder.

  “Totally,” I say, giving her a huge fake smile. I head into the bathroom to call Adrienne, since we’re not supposed to be on our phones at school. Also, I don’t want Adrienne to hear any sounds in the background that could be associated with high school, like lockers slamming or bells ringing.

  I barricade myself in a stall and scroll through my phone until I find Adrienne’s cell number, which she gave me at my interview two weeks ago. (“You are to use this number for call-ins only! CALL-INS ONLY, AND NOT IF YOU HAVE A WORK-RELATED QUESTION THAT CAN WAIT UNTIL YOU SEE ME!”)

  “Oh, good morning, Adrienne,” I say when she answers. “This is Shannon Card calling.”

  “Who?” She sounds like she might have just woken up. Which, now that I think about it, is probably true. She works nights. So why would she be up so early? Whoops.

  “Shannon Card,” I say. “You know, your new star cocktail waitress?” I’m trying to be funny (obvi), but Adrienne doesn’t really seem to appreciate the joke.

  “Why are you calling me at this hour?” she demands. I hear a rustling noise on the other end of the line, like she’s rolling over, and then a deep groan. Gross.

  “I’m calling,” I say, “because it’s been brought to my attention that I will not be able to arrive at work tonight until four o’clock.” Please don’t ask me why, please don’t ask me why, please don’t—

  “Fine,” she says, her voice still deep. “Is that all?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “That’s all.” That’s it? Much easier than I expected.

  “Don’t forget your birth certificate.” And then the line goes dead. Right.

  At least if I get fired, I won’t have to worry about my tutoring interfering with my work schedule.

  By the time I leave school, I still haven’t heard from Chris Harmon. I don’t think he’s a very good businessperson, running a business where you can’t even get in touch with him. If there was a Web site where you could go to rate the person who got you your fake ID, I would definitely leave him a bad rating. Seriously, this is not any way to do business. Next time I will be getting my fake documents from someone else, for sure.

  Not that I know anyone else who does fake documents. But he can’t be the only purveyor of fake documents in town; that would be ridiculous.

  Anyway, now I’m going to have to spend the night avoiding Adrienne. The good news is I didn’t even have to worry about being late for work, because Parvati was right. The meeting lasted about fifteen minutes. And it was a total waste of time. Ms. Kellogg went over the expectations, and we all had to sign a sheet saying who we were going to tutor. And that was about it. Although one super-embarrassing thing did happen. When the meeting started, Ms. Kellogg was all, “Oh, Shannon, here, I have your shirts,” and handed me two T-shirts that said “YOU CAN COUNT ON ME—I’M A MATHEMATICIAN!” I won them a few weeks ago during a raffle for the math club. But if you didn’t know that, it seemed like I bought two dopey T-shirts about math. Ugh.

  When I get to work, I rush into the dressing room. I’m hoping I’ll have a few minutes before work starts to talk to Mackenzie. I want to ask her about Cole and Aces Up.

  But when I get into the dressing room, Mackenzie’s standing in front of the mirror in the communal area, looking at herself and putting on mascara. And sitting on the sink, watching her, is a guy. A very cute guy, in one of those scruffy I’m-in-a-band-and-your-parents-would-probably-hate-me kind of ways. But still. There’s a guy. In the girls’ changing room.

  “Oh,” I say. “Um—”

  Mackenzie rolls her eyes at my obvious discomfort, like she can’t believe how totally immature I am for thinking it strange there’s a guy in here. “You don’t have to freak out, Shannon,” she says. “It’s just Lance.”

  As if its just being Lance makes it any less sketchy that there is a boy in the girls’ dressing room. I mean, I don’t even know him. Not that Lance could see me changing or anything. We have separate stalls for that. But still. How am I supposed to ask Mackenzie about Cole now? Not to mention that if Adrienne finds him in here, she’ll flip out.

  “I’m not freaking out,” I say coolly, pretending to just go with it.

  “Yo,” Lance says, giving me a little salute. He’s wearing silver rings on every finger. Cool.

  “Yo,” I say back, because it seems appropriate. Then I just stand there. I’m not really sure if I’m supposed to go in and change, or if I’m supposed to wait until Lance leaves. I walk over to the sink and start washing my hands, mostly because I have to do something.

  “So that’s why I think we should go,” Mackenzie says. “Everyone is going to be there, and Krista’s sister will definitely be able to get us in.” She leans forward and pouts at herself in the mirror.

  “Honey, how are we going to afford that?” he says. He’s reading a magazine—it looks like Rolling Stone or something—and he flips the pages fast, barely glancing at them. “You know that drinks alone are going to cost at least a hundred bucks.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mackenzie says. She pulls the front of her uniform down, exposing a huge amount of cleavage, along with a small sparkly butterfly tattoo on the top of one breast. “I’ll work on getting extra tips tonight.”

  I pull a paper towel out of the dispenser and dry my hands. I wonder what Lance is going to think of Mackenzie’s exposing her boobs like that.

  “Sweet,” he says, and pulls her toward him, giving her a big kiss on the lips. Well. I guess that answers that question. Eww.

  “So I guess I’ll go change now,” I announce loudly once they’ve pulled apart and Mackenzie goes back to applying her makeup. I throw my paper towel into the garbage can with a flourish.

  “You know, Shannon,” Mackenzie says, turning away from the mirror and looking at me thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t hurt you to show some cleavage, too.” She looks me up and down. “You’d get much better tips. Don’t you agree, Lance?” She turns around and looks at him, waiting for the verdict.

  Lance nods. I don’t have time to think about the appropriateness (or inappropriateness) of some other girl’s boyfriend deciding whether I should show cleavage, because Mackenzie has pulled a bra out of her bag. A very padded, very sexy, very red bra. “This,” she declares, holding it up by its strap, “is what you should be wearing.”

  I don’t point out that I really don’t want to take fashion advice from Mackenzie, since right now she’s wearing sparkly black shoes with five-inch heels and straps that crisscross up her ankles, her boobs are hanging out of her dress, and she has six pounds of makeup on. Not that she doesn’t look great, because she does. But she also looks like she’s on her way to amateur night or Pussycat: The Search for the Next Doll auditions. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I give her a smile like I really mean it, and hope that’s the end of the conversation.

  She holds out the bra to me. “Take it,” she commands.

  “You want me to wear this one? Right now?”

  “Oh, come on, Shannon, it’s clean,” she says. Not what I was worrying about, but good to know.

  “You totally should,” Lance says, licking his lips. He has a tongue piercing, and the stud glints in the light. “You would look totally sick.”

  Mackenzie nods. “But not as sick as me, right, honey?”

  “No, no one is as sick as you,” Lance declares. Then he reaches over and smacks her on the butt. I’m not sure if I should be insulted, but then decide no, since a) she is his girlfriend, and b) she is definitely sicker than me.

  I sigh, then take the red lace bra from Mackenzie and check the tag: 34B. Thank God. I’m a 36B. “This is the wrong size,” I say, shrugging as if to say, “Oh, well, we tried, better luck next time, haha.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she says. She leans close to the mirror and wipes some purple shadow over the
tops of her eyes. “It’ll still push you up, and it’ll be way better than that granny thing you’re wearing now.” She wrinkles her nose in disgust.

  How does she know I’m wearing a granny thing? Is it that obvious? Could Max tell I was wearing a granny bra? Could Parvati? Are my boobs sagging? I pull my shirt tight and look at my boobs in the mirror. Hmm. I guess maybe I do look a little … frumpy.

  I sigh and take the bra into one of the changing stalls. I pull my clothes off, ball them up into my bag, put the bra on, and then throw my uniform on over it. Wow. This thing really does push your boobs up, and it isn’t all that comfortable. Then I realize that there’s no mirror in here, which means that if I want to see what I look like, I’m going to have to venture out.

  Maybe after Mackenzie and Lance leave. Yes. That’s a good idea. I’ll just hang out in the stall until they leave. Five minutes later I’m still standing in the stall while the two of them talk about a litany of things (the weather, Mackenzie’s new dress, which she got on sale for forty dollars, and some situation involving a stolen car and their friend, who, from what I can tell, is named Chicken). This is a horrible plan.

  “What’s taking you so long?” Mackenzie finally demands.

  “Yeah, we want to see what it looks like,” Lance chimes in. Oh, Jesus.

  “It doesn’t fit,” I try.

  “Nice try,” Mackenzie says, leading me to believe she’s smarter than I previously thought.

  I sigh and open the door. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror over the sinks. Not as bad as I expected. My boobs are definitely pushed up and out, but not to the point of threatening to give everyone a peek.

  “Hot,” Mackenzie says.

  “It’s okay.” Lance shrugs and goes back to his magazine.

  “Thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes at him.

  “But you need some makeup,” Mackenzie says.

  Ten minutes later, I’m on my way out to the floor, with my hair brushed, my boobs out, eyeliner applied, and lips glossed.

  “There you are,” Adrienne says. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Oh, hi,” I say. Damn. Figures I would run into her first thing. I grab my tray from the table and start loading it with drinks.

  “You look good,” she says.

  “Thanks.” Although I’m not sure this is a good thing. If Adrienne and Mackenzie think I look good, does that mean I don’t? Today Adrienne is wearing tight black leggings, a short fitted black skirt, and a tight black T-shirt that plunges so far down I feel like I can almost see her belly button. The outfit isn’t that bad, I guess, but she has black lipstick on. And black eyeliner. And her nails are painted black as well. Very Elvira scary. Although I think Elvira has red lips. Anyway. The point is if these two think I look good, does it mean I do look good, or that I look, as Lance would say, “sick”?

  “Anyway,” Adrienne says, obviously through with being nice. “I need your birth certificate.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, as if I’ve totally forgotten about it. I reach down to grab a couple more cups of water to add to my tray, and the top of my push-up bra peeks out of my dress. Oops. I push it back down with one hand.

  “So where is it?” Adrienne demands.

  “Uh, it’s in my locker,” I say. “Is it okay if I get it for you at the end of the night? I don’t want to leave Mackenzie in our section all alone.”

  “Fine,” she says. “But don’t forget.” And then she disappears.

  “Hey, Mackenzie,” I say once Adrienne’s gone and we’re almost finished loading our trays. “Can I ask you something?”

  She nods, but she’s already walking down the hall toward the poker room. I rush to keep up, being careful not to spill my tray. Fast walker, that Mackenzie. She’s like some kind of acrobat in her heels.

  “Do you know a guy named Cole?” I try to keep my tray steady. A mini-bottle of water falls over, and I quickly stand it back up, thankful it has a cap.

  She frowns. “Cole who?”

  Good question. “Um, just this guy, Cole,” I say. “He’s about eighteen or nineteen, I think he hangs out here a lot, kind of looks like Casey Affleck.”

  She seems confused for a second, but finally she says, “I think I showed him and his friends my tattoo once.” She pulls down her dress, showing off the sparkly butterfly.

  “You showed them your tattoo?” I ask, confused. “So you know them?”

  “Yeah,” she says, waving her free hand like it’s nothing. “I mean, no, I don’t know them know them. But they’re here a lot. So I’ve seen them around.” She looks at me and knits her fake eyebrows. Well, at least I think they’re fake. They look like she pencils them on. I’d never have the nerve to do that. What if you didn’t have time to draw them on one day? Or what if it rained and your eyebrows starting dripping off? Hopefully her eye pencil is waterproof. “Why? Do you like one of them? The scruffy one, what’s his name?”

  “Cole,” I answer. “And no, I don’t like him. I just …” I consider telling her what happened last night. She might know something I don’t. But I’m not sure I can trust her, and besides, what if she makes me tell Adrienne? The last thing I need is people asking me a bunch of questions, and I really do not want to see Adrienne again tonight if I can help it. “It’s nothing.”

  And then I push Cole and the crazy happenings of last night out of my mind and force myself to focus on my shift.

  As soon as work is over, I change out of my uniform and then run out of the casino and into the parking garage before Adrienne has a chance to ask me about my birth certificate again. And when I say I run, I mean I run. Literally. So I’m kind of out of breath by the time I get to the parking garage, and my fingers are shaking as I dial Chris Harmon’s cell number.

  To my surprise, he answers on the first ring. I’ve been looking for him all day, and now he answers. Apparently he’s not a fan of normal business hours.

  “Yo,” he says. “Who dis?”

  Who dis? Jesus. “Um, hi, Chris,” I say. “It’s Shannon Card.” Silence. Okay, then. I decide to just put it out there. “I need a, uh … I need a document.” I’m sitting in my car now, my eyes scanning the elevator doors that lead to the casino, just in case Adrienne decides to chase after me. Unlikely, but, you know, better safe than sorry.

  “I know,” Chris says, sounding bored. “Max told me.”

  “He did?” I ask, and my heart skips. Max mentioned my birth certificate! Which means he totally believed me this morning when I told him I was waiting for Chris! I wonder what Max thought I needed the birth certificate for. Is Max worried about me? Was he asking about me? Was he trying to dig up information about what I’ve been up to? “That was nice of him,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “Did he say what I needed it for?”

  “Max doesn’t do my business,” Chris says, sounding upset that I would even imply such a thing. “I do.”

  “Oh, of course not,” I say, not wanting to make him mad, since he’s my one and only link to fake forms of identification. “I didn’t think Max did any business for you.”

  “Anyway, I have it,” he says.

  “You have my fake birth certificate?” Relief floods through my body.

  “Yeah,” Chris says. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Listen, we probably shouldn’t talk anymore about this on the phone.”

  “Okay,” I say, getting nervous that he’s going to hang up and I’ll never be able to get in touch with him again. “But I really—”

  “Can you come and meet me?” he asks.

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah, I’m at the IHOP near school, having some breakfast.” As if to prove this, he starts to chew something noisily. Who eats breakfast at ten o’clock at night? Is he just starting his day?

  “Okay,” I say before I can think about it or he can change his mind. “I’ll be there in twenty.” Then I decide it’s definitely best to clarify. “And, um, you have my birth certificate, right?”

  “I always,”
Chris says wisely, “keep things on my person.”

  And then he hangs up without saying goodbye. Wow. He has a real sparkling personality, that Chris Harmon. I check the clock: 10:07. Okay. Twenty minutes to IHOP, five minutes to pick up the birth certificate, and then ten minutes home. I should be home by eleven, giving me just enough time to study for my math quiz tomorrow.

  But when I try to start my car, the engine won’t turn over. I push the key in again and keep trying it, again and again and again, but the car just sputters and then dies. Every. Single. Time. Crap, crap, crap. I take a deep breath and lean back in my seat. Okay. Think. Who can I call? My family is obviously out, since they’ll wonder what I’m doing at the casino.

  Triple A? Except I don’t have Triple A. I let my membership expire after I’d gone six months without using it. I figured it was a waste of money. Of course now I need it. That’s how it always works. The same thing happened with my laptop. I didn’t get the insurance plan, and a few days later I dropped it and cracked the screen, and I couldn’t afford another one, so now I have no laptop. Ugh.

  I’m contemplating going back into the casino to see if Mackenzie is still around when someone knocks on the driver’s side window of my car.

  I jump. Oh. My. God. It’s Cole. Cole is outside, in the parking lot, knocking on my car window. He motions for me to roll it down, and even though there’s a feeling of trepidation inside me, that’s what I do.

  “Hello,” he says, giving me a big grin.

  “Hello,” I say warily.

  “Miss me?” he asks, still grinning.

  “No,” I say. “I just saw you yesterday, when you creepily dragged me into your hotel room.” He puts a pouty look on his face, then grabs the top of the window frame and leans in close. He smells like cigarette smoke. I make a motion like I might start rolling up the window and crush his fingers between the glass and the frame. I guess that’s one advantage to not having power windows: you can finger crush even if your car won’t start.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he says, releasing the window frame and pulling his fingers back. “Calm down. I just wanted to see if you needed any help.”