Pizza Boy is behind the counter again.
“You’re back,” he says.
“Yeah. I filled out the application.”
He takes it from me and looks it over.
“Annaleah. Nice name.
Looks like you’re good at math, Annaleah.”
It’s a little weird
how he keeps repeating my name.
He says,
“Let me pass this to my boss.”
Pizza Boy comes out from behind the counter
and heads for the kitchen.
He comes back with an older man and says,
“Frank, this is my friend Annaleah.
I think she’d be great
at working the back tables.”
Friend? I only met him yesterday.
I don’t even know his name.
Frank looks me and my application over.
“Ever waitressed before?” he asks.
I attempt a joke,
“No, but I clear the table at home.”
“See, Frank. She’s funny.
Customers will like her,” says Pizza Boy.
“Do you think you can carry the trays?”
Frank asks, pointing to a tray
that’s loaded with dirty plates and cups.
“Definitely,” I say,
even though I’m not so sure.
“Okay, then,” Frank says.
“Can you do a mix
of afternoon and evening shifts
until school starts?
Then maybe some weekends
after September?”
“Yes. Thank you,” I answer,
wondering what Brian’s gotten me into.
“All right, then.
You start in two days.
Come in at four.
Wear black pants and a white polo shirt.
See you then.”
He shakes my hand
and then goes back to the kitchen.
But Pizza Boy is still standing there.
“Thanks for doing that,” I say.
“Telling him you know me, I mean.”
“No problem.”
“I guess now would be a good time
for you to tell me your name…
since we’re friends and all.”
“It’s Ethan.”
“Well, Ethan.
See you in two days.”
“So I went to Renzo’s,”
I tell Brian later that afternoon.
“At first, I wasn’t sure
why you sent me there.
But then that guy asked me
if I was there about the job
and it all clicked.
But visiting you,
talking to you,
has kept you close.
Feeling sad
has kept me busy—
it’s been my job.
And if I come here less,
what will I have?
But I am going to try,
because this
is what you want.”
Ethan is behind the counter
when I get to Renzo’s
for my first day of work.
“Hey,” I say.
Ethan tosses me an order pad
and an apron
to tie around my waist.
“Frank’s not here yet.
So I’m going to show you around.
This is Lou,” he says.
He’s pointing to a chubby guy
who nods in my direction.
“Lou’s usually on the ovens with me.
Come on, I’ll introduce you
to the cooks in back.”
Ethan leads me into the back
and through old saloon-type doors.
“Mike, Frank, Jimmy,
this is Annaleah.
She’s the new waitress.”
They all smile and wave at me
from behind columns of steam
and piles of chopped vegetables.
I push out a smile
and wave back.
Smiling is new.
For the last few weeks,
none of the muscles in my face
have been put to much use.
No smiles.
No frowns.
No eyebrows raised.
No wrinkled brow.
No nothing.
It all hung there
on the bone—
motionless.
Ethan grabs a menu
and we sit down in one of the booths.
“If someone orders
pizza or calzones and stuff like that,
let us know up front.
If it’s kitchen stuff
like salad, meat, and pasta,
let the guys know in the back.”
Ethan points to the menu and says,
“If someone orders from this side of the menu,
they get a salad to start
and steamed vegetable of the day.”
He goes on to list
more dressings than I can remember at once,
to explain how each booth has a number,
and that as soon as someone sits down,
I should give them a breadbasket
and take their drink orders.
“You getting all this?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say as I try to repeat
all those dressings in my head.
“Ribbit.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, totally confused.
“R-I-B-B-T.
Ranch, Italian, blue cheese, balsamic, thousand island.
It’ll help you remember.”
“Pretty clever, thanks.”
“No problem.
So, if it’s quiet, you can refill
the salt, pepper, and sugar.
You can also make napkin wraps
or just hang out with me and Lou.
All right, Annaleah,
that’s pretty much the end of your tutorial.”
As Ethan walks back up front,
he looks over his shoulder and says,
“If you need anything,
I’m here.”
The answer to the question
of how many slices of pizza
it takes to make me feel really sick:
three and a half.
I am sweeping
bits of crust, straws,
gum wrappers,
and shredded napkins
into piles,
into a dustpan,
and into the garbage can.
I want to do the same
with my feelings.
I want to sweep them together
into neat piles,
then toss them out.
I want them
away from me.
I sit with Brian and tell him about work.
“At Renzo’s, I’m just a waitress.
I’m not the girl
whose quasi-boyfriend died.
To Ethan,
to Lou,
to the customers,
I’m just a regular girl.
No one asks questions like:
Are you okay?
Why don’t you call me back?
How do you feel?
Did you eat today?
Did you sleep last night?
The only questions I get are:
Can I get some more bread?
Do you have root beer?
Does this have anchovies?
But when I leave work,
I go back to being me.
To being sad.
To visiting you.”
I’m wiping down table six
when I turn around and see Marissa
and Jessica Bennett giving Ethan
their order at the front counter.
This is the first time I’ve seen Marissa
since she stormed out of my house.
“What are you doing here?”
she asks, walking toward me.
&
nbsp; “I started working here a few days ago.”
“Oh,” she says.
She looks wounded
that I didn’t tell her earlier.
“It happened kind of quick.”
“Well…how are you?”
“Okay, I guess.
I needed to get out of the house,
you know.”
But maybe that isn’t the right thing to say.
Marissa’s been trying to get me
out of the house since Brian died,
and I haven’t been willing.
Marissa looks back toward the counter.
“So…Jess is waiting.
I should—”
“Yeah.
I’ve gotta get back to work.”
But that’s not true.
It’s quiet enough that I could talk to her.
If I wanted to.
If she wanted to.
If it weren’t so weird.
While Marissa and Jessica
wait up front for their orders,
I check on my tables,
refill some waters,
get someone a straw.
Marissa is only a few yards away,
but she’s never felt so far.
Seeing Marissa’s shock
makes me think I should
tell Parker and Joy
about getting a job.
I don’t want to talk,
so I send a text instead.
Got job @ renzos pizza
on richardson & park.
Come visit if u want.
Joy texts back immediately.
OMG! Thurs?
Im gonna make u work
4 yr tip!
Parker texts the next day.
Waitress? For reals?
Will try to come by soon.
On the way to work,
I see a dead bird
lying on the sidewalk.
It isn’t a translucent chick,
fallen from its nest.
It isn’t flattened
from the impact of a car.
It is perfect.
Yellow and brown,
with waxy feathers,
a full round body,
and an open eye
looking right at me.
I wonder where this bird came from.
I wonder how it got here.
It’s not even near a tree.
I wonder how it died.
It looks as if it
were flying one moment.
Then the next,
struck down from the sky,
dead.
I dream
my cell phone rings.
Marissa is calling.
She tells me
my mother is dead.
Suddenly, Marissa
is in my room.
Her arms and legs
are wrapped around me.
She is holding me.
Rocking me.
She is my skin.
If she lets go,
my body will fall apart.
“Who’s that guy?” Joy asks
as she sits down in a booth.
“What guy?”
“The tall one behind the counter.”
“Oh. That’s Ethan.”
“He’s hot,” she says as she adjusts
the absurdly large silk flower in her hair.
“I guess.”
“You don’t think so?”
I lean back
and take a good look at Ethan.
“Yeah. I guess he’s cute.”
“What’s his deal?”
“I don’t know.
He just finished his first year
at Woodson.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“I don’t know.
I don’t think so.
He hasn’t mentioned anyone.”
“You should totally go out with him.
He’s looked over here
like a million times.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
I pause.
“Because of Brian.”
Now Joy pauses.
“Really? But Brian—”
“I better get your pizza,”
I say as I get up.
I don’t need her
to finish her sentence.
I don’t need her
to remind me
what Brian and I were
or weren’t.
“I wonder
how long grief lasts.
Will there be a day
when I don’t feel like this?
When I don’t think about you?
I wonder
how long that will be from now.
Weeks?
Months?
Years?
Will I be thirty and still miss you?
Will I always wonder
what our life
could have been?
Maybe we would have
only lasted another few weeks.
Maybe I would have
gotten angry enough
to demand that I be
your actual girlfriend.
Or maybe you would have
ended things with me,
found someone else
you’d rather be with.
There are so many endings
that our story could have had.
But I will never know
any ending besides this one.”
The death book wants me
to create an obituary for Brian.
It says to focus on positive things
like his talents and pastimes.
He was kind
when he wanted to be.
Funny
without even trying.
He loved music,
especially hearing it live.
He liked to draw.
He was a great kisser.
I stop.
I’d like to be able to
write about his relationship
to his parents or his friends,
but I can’t.
I’d like to be able to
write what was really important to Brian.
But I don’t know that either.
Apparently, I don’t know much.
Here we go again.
9:00 a.m.: Alarm goes off.
9:15 a.m.: Get out of bed.
9:18 a.m.: Shower.
9:25 a.m.: Pull wet hair into ponytail.
9:29 a.m.: Put on white shirt, black pants, and sneakers.
9:33 a.m.: Dab on concealer, brush on mascara.
9:40 a.m.: Eat bowl of cereal.
9:50 a.m.: Walk out front door.
10:00 a.m.: Arrive at Renzo’s.
This is a new sort of routine.
Somewhere in between
the late lunch and early dinner crowd,
I ask Ethan about college.
He says,
“I might major in sociology or anthro.
Not sure which yet,
but definitely something
that involves studying people.
Have you thought about college?
It’s about that time, right?”
“Yeah, it is.
I should be thinking
about it this summer,
but I’ve been distracted.
I might just apply to some state schools.
Or maybe take another year to decide.”
“Aren’t your parents on your ass about it?”
“Nah. My mom’s not too bad.
But she does keep leaving college catalogs around.
I think she hopes they’ll inspire me.”
“And what about your dad?”
“He’s not around…
So I never asked.
Where are you from?”
“Michigan.”
“How come you didn’t go home for the
&nb
sp; summer?”
“And miss the chance
to work with you at Renzo’s?
Just kidding.”
As he says that,
he knocks his shoulder into mine.
“I’m taking a summer class
and renting a house with some guys.
Besides, home is not a good place
to be right now.”
“Oh,” I say as I neaten a stack of napkins.
I’m curious about what he means,
but I don’t want to ask—
especially since I changed the subject
when he asked about my dad.
But to my surprise,
he keeps going.
“My parents are getting divorced.”
“Oh.
I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.
I’m just glad they’re doing something
besides fighting.
I get it.
It took a while,
but I get it now.
They’re not meant to be together.
Or maybe they were,
but only for twentysomething years.
Like their marriage had an expiration date.”
I can’t believe
Ethan’s telling me this stuff.
Brian never talked about his family.
The most he ever said was:
“My dad’ll be home soon,
you better go.”
“Whoa. Look at you,”
Parker says when he walks into Renzo’s.
“What do you mean?”
“In all the years I’ve known you,
I’ve never, ever
seen you in a polo shirt.
And it’s white.
And tucked in!”
Parker is laughing so hard
that his face is turning red.
“Come on.
It’s not that bad.”
“You’re right.
I suppose it could be worse.
It could be a poncho,”
he says, wiping tears from his eyes.
I shake my head and laugh with him.
It is a real laugh.
Not one I am trying on.
I am too tired
to visit Brian tonight.
After seven hours at Renzo’s,