Small Miracles

Mom corners me after dinner one night. "We need to talk," she says.

"Do we?"

"Yes, we do." Her voice is firm, and it surprises me, so I nod. Lately, I've been noticing a change in her. With each passing day, it's like a small part of her is coming back, parts of her that left when Dad did, but are now finding their way back to her. She's stopped acting helpless and sad and more like the controlled, I-can-handle-anything Mom I'm used to.

We start washing the dishes from dinner together, even though we have a perfectly fine dishwasher, and it's silent for a few seconds before she says, "You need to get a job."

I blink at her, because this conversation hasn't come up in a while. Last year, Mom encouraged me a few times to look for places to work, but then football took over and she soon forgot about it. And then, of course, when Dad up and left, we were too busy on crisis control to think about that.

"Get a job?"

"Yes," Mom says, handing me a plate to dry. "You're seventeen now, Julianna, and it's time you started helping me out at the diner. Georgia said she's willing to show you the ropes, not that you really need them, and you can start waitressing by next week."

It's a lot of information to take in. I stare at her for a second, trying to process what she's saying. She continues, "I don't want you moping around the entire year. We need to dust ourselves off and keep going." She keeps talking, but I'm not listening; instead, I'm watching her profile, the way she meticulously washes each plate and cup until they're sparkling clean and hands them over to me. Mom is like a machine, steady and strong, and I'm suddenly filled with a rush of admiration for her.

"Okay," I say, interrupting her.

She pauses. "Huh?"

"I said okay. As in, I'll do it. I can come in Friday after school and Georgia can teach me what to do."

Mom looks at me for a few seconds before she nods. "Good. Now, put the rest of this stuff in the dishwasher, would you?" She dries her hands, pats me on the shoulder, and leaves.

▲ ▼ ▲

I stop at home first after school on Friday to drop off my backpack and change into some sneakers. James is at a friend's house for the day, so I don't have to worry about picking him up.

Blue Sky Diner isn't that busy when I walk in; the senior citizens don't come until 5 o'clock. Mom is standing at the counter, overseeing everything, but once she spots me, she comes over. "Hey, honey. How was school?" Before I answer, she says, "Georgia is gonna teach you the basics, but I'm sure you'll catch on quickly." Georgia is about twenty-two now, but she's been working for my mom ever since she was my age.

Georgia comes bustling out of the kitchen, and the first thing that comes out of my mouth when I see her is, "You're pregnant?"

She grins at me. "Hello to you too, Jules," as Mom shoots me daggers.

"Sorry," I say, a little embarrassed.

Georgia laughs. "No, it's okay." She pats her stomach, which is slightly protruding beneath her t-shirt. "I'm four months along now, I think."

"Wow. Congratulations." It just occurs to me how long it's been since I've seen Georgia, and it's strange, because I didn't even know she had a boyfriend. Or maybe she never did have one. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"I think it's gonna be a boy, but Tom wants a girl," she says, answering my previous question. "He wants to spoil her." She smiles for a second before clapping her hands. "All right, so let's get to work here."

I spend the rest of the day listening to Georgia talk as she spews out tips, rules, and words of advice, writing down nearly every single word that came out of her mouth. "Rule number one: know your menu. Always," she says, picking one up from the host stand and handing it to me. I know it won't take me long to memorize it, because I practically know the entire thing by heart.

"Rule number two: always be clear about your order," she continues. "Take time to clarify that you've written it down or heard the request correctly. If there is a choice of selection, ask. Don't simply present the diner with white toast because the customer didn't ask for rye, unless the menu states that a certain item will be given unless otherwise requested.

"Rule number three: do one thing at a time. Don't count on finishing writing the order down as you walk to the order counter. Do it now! Chances are, someone will stop you on your way over and ask for more coffee, and you'll forget the first order."

I follow Georgia around the diner like a puppy, listening as she sprouts out more and more advice. "Got all that?" she says finally, turning around so fast I nearly bump into her. For a pregnant woman, she sure can move.

I consult my notes. "I think so," I say, and she nods, satisfied.

"Good. So just follow those rules and you'll soon be on your way to the best waitress this diner has ever seen." Georgia pauses. "Besides me, of course."

I train for a few more days, and then start my first ever shift a week later. At first, I'm freaked out, convinced that everyone is staring at me or judging me as I stumble over the words. But then, after a few tries, I finally glance up at the customers and realize that they're not paying attention to me at all; they're busy looking at the menu or taking the sugar packets from their kids. They may know me, but right now, I'm just another waitress. And I love it.

Besides me and Georgia, the only other waitress is Morgan. Morgan is twenty-one and she's animated and lively and extremely over-dramatic; I've been working at Blue Sky for only a few weeks and I've already seen her "quit" five times. Nobody even reacts anymore.

It's definitely strange, and I'd never admit it to Mom, but I sort of like working at the diner. I like rush hour, when everything is hectic and I'm running around and taking orders and thinking quick on my feet. I like feeling a thick wad of tips in the pocket of my apron. I like talking to people and taking orders and getting in on the action. I'm thinking maybe I was meant to be a waitress.

Until one Saturday afternoon. I'm taking my short lunch break. Mom let me use the car today, so I'm sitting on the hood of the station wagon, a basket of fries on my lap, eyes closed against the burning sun. It feels like a trap, making the air thick and claustrophoic, like a thick blanket is settling over everything. Even though it's nearly October, it's hot, and people have been complaining about the heat so much it's beginning to sound like a broken record.

The diner is air-conditioned, so it it's kind of dumb for me to be sitting out here, but my feet hurt and it was a slow day and I just kind of wanted to be alone. When I left, Morgan was handling the tables herself, since there were only three of them and Georgia was sitting behind the counter, folding napkins and resting her swollen feet.

I'm parked behind the diner, near the back door and the dumpsters. It's not the most pleasant of smells, but it'll have to do. I'm not paying much attention anyway; trying to focus on getting the fries into my mouth and soaking up as much shade as possible.

The back door opens, and footsteps are coming down the stairs, dragging something heavy-sounding, most likely a garbage bag. I don't react. Then, a voice says, "Julianna?"

I open my eyes and lift my head and what the fuck. Nick Kingston is standing a few feet away, staring at me with his head cocked.

"What are you doing here?" I demand, sitting up.

"I work here," he says slowly, pointing to the slightly grimy apron he's wearing.

"Doing what?"

"I'm the line cook. Me and Corey." Colton is the head chef, a stoic, calm guy in his twenties. I've never seen him get angry or raise his voice. Georgia told me once she's trying to set him up with Morgan. I always thought he was the only chef we had, but apparently not.

"Since when?"

"Your mom hired me, like, over the summer," he says, the corner of his mouth quirked up. "I work here on weekends and sometimes after football practice. She didn't tell you?"

"Obviously not," I say, annoyed.

He shrugs. "I just can't believe you've been workin' here for a few weeks and you never knew." He sounds amused.

"Oh, shut up," I sigh, leaning back onto the car again and closing my eyes. I hear footsteps getting closer, and when I open them again, Nick is standing next to me, a small smile on his face. "What?"

"Are those fries?" he asks, and before I can stop him, he reaches in and takes a few.

"Hey!" I snap, and he just smiles, chewing.

"These are good. Although I would prefer a piece of fruit or something."

"Oh, God," I groan. Nick furrows his eyebrows.

"What?"

"You're one of those health nuts, aren't you? You're gonna make me feel bad for eating fries for lunch. Pretty soon you're gonna make me, like, wear sunscreen whenever I go out."

"Well, you should wear sunscreen in this weather," Nick says, shrugging. "And I wouldn't say I'm a health nut. I'm just saying, wouldn't you want some nice, cold fruit salad? Doesn't that sound good?"

"No, actually, it doesn't," I answer snootily, and Nick shrugs again. "And anyway, shouldn't you be back inside?"

"Shouldn't you?" Nick shoots back. "Isn't your break nearly over?"

"I've still got, like, ten more minutes," I say matter-of-factly. "So no, it isn't."

He rolls his eyes and begins to back away. "Whatever. I've got to get back to doing actual work."

"I do actual work," I defend myself. "Waitressing is tough."

"So is cooking. But I don't get tips for it." I can't think of anything to say to this, and he must figure this out because he smirks and then starts backing up. "See you around."

I don't answer, throwing my arm over my eyes to block out the sun, pretending not to watch him walk to the back door and go inside the diner again.