to make their principal cry. I hated mine. I hated all my teachers. They always said I’d never amount to anything. But look at me now, eh? Thirty-three years old, no qualifications, and a waitress in a crappy diner with a neon Elvis on the wall.”
Amber gave her the thumbs up. “Living the dream, Sally.”
“Damn right,” Sally said. “And hey, at least your parents are taking an interest for once, right? Isn’t that something?”
“I … I guess.”
“Listen to me. Just stick it out for another few years and then you can go off to college somewhere and build a life for yourself.”
Amber nodded. New York, she figured, or Boston. Somewhere cooler than Florida, where the air alone wouldn’t make her sweat.
“My point is,” Sally continued, “wherever and whenever you decide to start your own family, you can do it right.” She gave a little grin. “Okay?”
Amber could never resist one of Sally’s grins. “Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”
“Attagirl.”
Customers came in, and Sally put a spring in her step as she walked to greet them. “Hi there!” she said brightly. “Welcome to the Firebird! Can I show you to your booth?”
Amber watched her, marvelling at how natural her sudden cheerfulness seemed. A smile from Sally could turn a bad mood on its head – it was a phenomenon that Amber had witnessed on multiple occasions, and it rarely failed. The customers smiled back and they exchanged a few words and Sally led them to a booth by the window. Even though the Firebird was the third most successful fifties-themed diner franchise in the state – and Amber had no idea where that statistic had sprouted from – Wednesday afternoons were always slow. On slow days, it was policy to sit as many patrons by the window as possible in order to entice people in. Hungry people liked eating with other hungry people, it seemed. Amber had never been able to understand that. For as long as she could remember, she had always hated people watching her eat. She didn’t even like eating meals with her parents.
Although, if she was to be honest with herself – and if she couldn’t be honest with herself, then who could she be honest with? – their inherent weirdness might have had something to do with that.
Her parents were odd. Amber had known that for quite some time. Ever since she could remember, it was like they shared a private joke that she’d never been let in on. She loved them, of course she did, but she’d always felt like an appendage. She didn’t complete the family because the family didn’t need her to be complete. Bill and Betty Lamont were so perfect for each other that there were no gaps left for Amber to fill.
Two guys walked into the diner, both in their late teens. Joking and chatting, they stood at the PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign and only looked at Amber when she smiled and said “Hi!” in her perkiest voice. “Welcome to the Firebird. Can I show you to your booth?”
“Don’t see why not,” said the first guy.
She smiled again and turned on her heel, making sure to keep the smile in place. She wasn’t pretty like Sally, wasn’t tall like Sally, wasn’t captivating like Sally and certainly did not look as good in her yellow shorts as Sally did, but, even so, there were so many mirrors in the diner that to lose a smile at any point could mean a drastic loss in tips. She stood by the booth in the corner and her two customers slid in on opposite sides of the table.
“My name’s Amber,” she said, taking her notepad from her back pocket, “and I’ll be your waitress this evening.”
“Hi, Amber,” the first guy said. “My name’s Dan, this is Brandon, and we’ll be your customers.”
Amber gave a little laugh. “What can I get you?”
“We’re keeping it simple today. We’ll take your cheeseburger deals. The whole shebang.”
Amber marked the orders down. “Two cheeseburgers with the works, two fries. No problem at all. And to drink?”
“Coke,” said Dan.
“Coke it is.”
“Actually, no,” said Dan, “I’ll have a strawberry milkshake instead.”
“One strawberry milkshake, gotcha. And for you?”
Brandon didn’t look up from the menu. “Do you have 7-Up?”
“We have Sprite,” Amber said.
“That’s nice,” Brandon said, raising his eyes to her slowly, “but I didn’t ask if you had Sprite. I asked if you had 7-Up.”
Amber’s headache started to spike again, but she kept her smile and smothered her words. She needed this job. The Dark Places convention was in a few months and tickets were not cheap.
“I’m really sorry, we don’t have 7-Up,” she said brightly, like she’d just been told she’d won a bunny in a raffle. “Would you like Sprite instead?”
Brandon took off his glasses and cleaned them. “If I had wanted Sprite, I’d have asked for Sprite, now wouldn’t I?”
“Please excuse Brandon,” Dan said, grinning. “He’s in one of his moods. Brandon, out of all of the drinks that they have here, which one do you want?”
Brandon let out a heavy sigh. “I suppose I’ll have a milkshake.”
“Okay then,” Amber said, pencil at the ready. “What flavour?”
“Well, I don’t know. What flavour do you recommend?”
“I’ve always loved chocolate.”
“Then I’ll have vanilla,” Brandon said, and put his glasses back on.
Dan was trying not to laugh at the antics of his buddy. Amber stood there and smiled. “Sure thing,” she said. “Can I get you guys anything else?”
“If we think of anything,” said Dan, “we’ll be sure to ask.”
Amber smiled and left them, fighting a swirling tide of nausea. She got through the swinging doors to the kitchen and leaned against the wall for a moment, waiting for the feeling to subside. When she was sure that she wasn’t going to pass out or puke, she gave in the order and stood beside Sally, both of them making milkshakes.
“What are your guys like?” Amber asked, ignoring her surging headache.
“Two businessmen,” Sally said, “slumming it, flirting really badly with me and destined to end up with sauce splattered down their shirts. What about yours? The one in the glasses looks cute.”
“He’s a tool.”
“But not that cute,” Sally said quickly. “In fact, if you had let me finish before interrupting, you would have heard me say he looks cute, but, on closer inspection, he’s obviously a tool.”
Amber grinned. “You were going to say that?”
Sally nodded. “If you had just let
