"I'll see you after work, okay?" I say, putting the last of the groceries in her car.
She nods, and when she hugs me, I tug her shirt down.
When you're a seventeen-year-old girl living in a town famous for nothing but its proximity to the interstate and an enormous collection of strip malls and subdivisions, there aren't a lot of high-powered job opportunities.
There are, however, many, many jobs in the fast-food industry, and one of them is mine.
I work for BurgerTown USA (a division of PhenRen Co., which makes fertilizer--tell me that doesn't make you think twice about your BurgerTown Big Bite) as a drive-thru order specialist.
In other words, people tell me what they want to eat; I type in the appropriate code, then read them their automated total. The catch is, I don't actually do it at the restaurant.
When you go to a BurgerTown in New York or California or Massachusetts or Wyoming or Georgia (really, anywhere except Hawaii and Alaska), your drive-thru order comes to a call center like mine, and I'm the one who takes your request for extra-large fries.
Well, me or one of my moronic co-workers (this doesn't include Josh).
BurgerTown has these call centers because of "cost efficiency," which seems to mean they want on-site BurgerTown employees--the ones stuck in the actual restaurants--to have more time to wipe off tables. Or mop floors. Or clean bathrooms. Management is very proud of the fact that they no longer need to hire outside cleaning crews for any reason.
Needless to say, on-site BurgerTown employees don't like us call-center employees much. Mom once mentioned I worked for BurgerTown when she was cheating on her diet of the moment by eating fries, but reported that "the girl who took my order made a face when I said you worked in the call center."
"Did your food taste funny?" I asked.
"Funny how?" Mom said. "Hey, have you seen my red white and blue thong?"
"Never mind," I said, but if I ever go to BurgerTown--which I won't, because I'm so sick of asking people if they want fries or pies or Big Bite combos that the thought of eating there makes me not hungry, which usually takes some serious effort--I wouldn't say I worked at the drive-thru center. Ever.
Why?
Well, you see, saying something like that is a surefire way to get the BurgerTown special--the spit meal.
We even have a secret code for it at the center. When someone's a real ass, the kind of person who says, "Now, what kind of meat do you use in your hamburgers? Will my tomato be fresh? Oh, and I want two pieces of lettuce, not one. And make it fast, 'cause I'm in a hurry!" we put in their order and then hit **.
It's one of those things you just find out after you've worked at BurgerTown for a while (all right, a day) and everyone does it.
Well, not everyone.
Josh, my co-worker and soul mate (though he doesn't know it yet), says that eating at BurgerTown is punishment enough.
"All that meat and grease and saturated fat destroys your body," he says, and I totally agree with him, really, but sometimes after I've dealt with a total ass who thinks ordering four dollars' worth of food means I owe them an ingredient reading or whatever--well, sometimes they still get the special.
Finn gives them too, which really does mean I should stop, because Finn is so--well, he's your average seventeen-year-old Slaterville male, and they can be described in one word: Blech. His interests don't include plans to help others, and as far as I can tell, his favorite thing to do is be annoying, especially to me. I'm pretty good at ignoring him.
Mostly.
"Anyone seen Polly today?" he asks. "Josh? Hannah?"
Josh and I shake our heads, and Finn grins at me. "She must be on break."
I laugh. Josh doesn't, and I sigh, wishing I could be serious like him. But the Polly thing is funny. She's always "on break" because even though she supposedly works here, she's never here. I think she's come in maybe twice the entire time I've worked here. I can understand why she doesn't come in, though. She's twenty-two, her claim to fame is that she was once homecoming queen, and now she works (well, "works") here. Some life.
She gets away with never being here because her father, Greg, is our boss, and I think he's afraid to call her out on how she doesn't work because it would mean discussing Polly's favorite activity, which is hanging out with her forty-seven-year-old married boyfriend, whose wife happens to be Greg's wife's younger sister.
It's just like a soap opera, only more boring because Polly is about as smart as a sponge and Greg spends his workday sitting in his closet of an office smoking pot.
Adults are so classy.
"That'll be $10.22," Josh says, and smiles at me as he checks to make sure the order went through. I guess he doesn't think I'm awful for laughing about Polly. Good.
I know I've already mentioned this, but Josh really is my soul mate. He's smart and kind and, best of all, isn't a complete dog like every other guy in the world.
Josh cares about things. He writes poetry (I've seen him working on it in government), is always going to coffee shop meetings for political and social discussions, and donates half of his paycheck to online social organizations.
He even reads--he's always carrying around these huge novels with tiny print and the kind of covers you only see on books you have to read for school. But he reads them because he cares about his mind. I love that.
He's also pretty cute.
Okay, he's gorgeous. Hard-not-to-stare-at gorgeous. He's got black hair and deep brown eyes and the most beautiful smile. Plus he's tall (but not too tall) and thin (but not scrawny), and just So. Out. Of. My. League.
Josh doesn't date girls like me. He dates girls with hair that's usually almost as dark as his; tall, skinny girls who care about political causes and wear short, gauzy dresses that I could never get away with. Plus, they always have cool names like Arugula or Micah.
Hannah is not a cool name. Hannah is an ordinary name.
I actually wish Hannah was my only name.
But it isn't. My mother, in all her "wisdom"--and because she was facing a paternity suit-
-named me Hannah Jackson James. Before I moved to Slaterville, I never thought about my name. It hadn't mattered before. Not at school, and definitely not to Mom. I even . . .
well, I even sort of liked it.
I didn't like it when we moved here. Jackson was more popular back then. His website, castle, and collection of girlfriends were not quite the joke they are now, but in Slaterville, which prides itself on being a sunny, welcoming community (there are actually signs when you get off the interstate)--well, let's just say some people didn't want Jackson James's former girlfriend or his kid around.
Mom didn't care--she was dealing with other stuff then-- but me? I cared. Teachers raised eyebrows. Kids in my new seventh-grade classes said--wel , they said a lot of things. Mostly about Jackson, which didn't bother me because by then I hated him.
But some of the stuff was about Mom, and that did bother me. It went away after a while. Not until I'd had a miserable time in seventh and eighth grades, not until I'd decided to become the Invisible Girl, but it did go away. And now, if someone does say something, I can handle it.
The thing is, though, I would love a normal mom. A mom with a job that doesn't involve sitting around in her underwear reminiscing about how one time she and Jackson went to a club and had sex on the dance floor, or how she got the pizza ad. (The director had a picture of her from Cowboy Dad as his desktop wallpaper when he was a kid.) But I don't have a normal mom. And when we first moved to Slaterville, all Mom had was a broken heart and me, and she did what she felt like she had to. What she knew.
And that involved a Web cam, underwear, and charging $24.95 per month to join The Candy Club.
I used to wish we'd move back to New York, but now I'm glad we didn't. Jackson goes there a lot more than he used to, seeking excitement and/or plotlines for his television show, and I don't want to be anywhere near him.
"Hannah, order," Finn says, and nudges me
with his big horse feet.
"I know," I say, even though I'd missed the little beep that signals them, and start my spiel.
"Welcome to BurgerTown, home of the Better Burger! What can I get you today?"
When I'm done, Finn nudges my foot again.
"What are you thinking about?"
He truly is annoying. If you could put pictures in the dictionary to define words, Finn would be there. He'd also be under "jerk" and "jock,"
which are synonyms at Slaterville High. He's only a second-string football player, which means he sits on the bench, but still.
"You," I tell him. "You, oh glorious Finn, King of Crappy High School Football. Now stop butting your chair and your big-ass feet into my space and leave me alone."
"You know what they say about big feet," he says, and then blushes. It's the one thing he does that's almost endearing. Almost.
"Yes. No brain," I say, and he blushes more.
"I'm going to get a soda," he says. "Want one?"
"Nah," I say, even though I do, and watch him get up. Finn is barely an inch taller than I am, and on my first day Greg said we should sit next to each other since our hair and heights almost matched.
That should give you an idea of his "management style," and explain why Polly is able to get away with . . . well, everything.
Finn and I do have similar hair, I guess. We're both blond, but Finn's hair is dark blond, and mine is the shade Jackson's used to be. (Actually, it still is, but he's seventy-two, so you know he dyes it. After all, what seventy-two-year-old man has bright blond hair?) We also have blue eyes, although mine are dark blue, just like Jackson's again, and Finn's are light blue. They are actually not bad looking--Teagan says Finn is hot, but what does she know? She doesn't have to work with him.
"You know," Finn says, leaning over my terminal, "one day you're going to ask me out.
We're meant to be together. Like peanut butter and jelly." "Like peanut butter and jelly? What kind of line is that? When's the last time you ate?"
"I am kind of hungry," he says, blushing again. "But I'm telling you, you and me--"
"Meant to be stuck sitting next to each other. Believe me, I know that. Now go get your soda and eat something. And never mention anything involving fate and sandwiches again."
"Deal," Finn says, and ambles off to the vending machines. We have a break room, complete with a moldering sofa and matching chair, but nobody ever goes in there because you have to punch in your employee code to get in there, and however long you stay gets taken out of your pay as a break. We're all supposed to go in there if we work eight-hour shifts, but when you're getting paid crap, you don't take breaks.
Or you do, and just make sure you avoid the one place where they're monitored. Greg is actually supposed to keep an eye on us, but you can guess how often he checks in.
"Order at Finn's station," Josh says, and I let out a little sigh, letting his voice wash over me. He even sounds good. His voice is soft, and he has this way of making everything sound so meaningful. I could listen to him talk all day.
"Hannah, I'm sort of--," he says, and gestures at his own computer, and I realize he means someone needs to get the order.
"Sorry," I say, and slide into Finn's chair. Slipping on his headset, I say those magic words. "Welcome to BurgerTown, home of the Better Burger. What can I get you today?"
I switch Finn's orders over to my terminal while I'm punching in the order for three chicken sandwiches for the guy I'm talking to, and give him his total as I'm sliding back into my own seat, my headset settling into place as the customer drives off to pick up his BurgerTown Tasty Chicken Sandwiches.
"Lull," Josh says, and I nod, tossing Finn's headset back onto his seat. I would put a knot in the cord, but the last time I did that, Finn smushed his chair right up next to mine and started making static noises every time I took an order, and all of my customers thought they weren't being heard.
It was actually sort of funny, but Josh pointed out that he'd ended up having to take most of the orders. "Some of us don't mind working," he'd said, glancing at Finn, "but it's not fair to not do anything."
"Unless you're Polly," Finn said. "Then it's fair. Which means there's a flaw in your argument. Plus someone has to do something to keep us all from dying of boredom."
Josh had just shaken his head, which I'd loved. I wish I could deal with Finn like that, but I lack Josh's ability to shrug off Finn's goading/immaturity/general annoyingness.
"I love this time of day," Josh says, and I try to think of the right thing to say.
"I love you" sounds a little intense for the conversation.
"Can we make out?" sounds like something Jackson would say, and even if I am thinking it, I never want to sound like Jackson. Ever.
"Me too" is what I come up with. And it's true--the half hour before the night crew (10 p.m.-6 a.m.) comes in is always the slowest one, when people have eaten dinner no matter how late they work (for the most part), and the late-night munchers are still doing whatever it is they do before they drive around ordering food late at night.
"I can't believe I have to meet Micah after this," Josh says. "I'm tired, and I've got a ton of homework to do."
"Me too. Not meeting Micah, I mean. But the homework thing," I babble, and Josh smiles at me.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. It's almost enough to make me forget about Micah and how she's waiting for him.
Almost. Micah is Josh's girlfriend, and she's dark-haired and intense and plays the guitar and has political and social cause stickers plastered all over her car and can get away with wearing tiny floaty patchwork dresses. You know, the kind of thing you can only pull off if you have a certain counterculture vibe.
And I do not have it. I look like I could be a stripper, or would if I wore my hair down and didn't always make sure my shirts were big enough to hide the fact that I sprouted breasts in ninth grade. (Until then, I was like a fencepost.) Mom says I should be proud of my body, and that when I'm her age I'll have to actually work to keep it, meaning I won't be able to eat whatever I want and will get wrinkles like normal people do.
I can't wait till then. It's not that I have abnormally enormous breasts or anything like that. (Mom's teeter on the edge of absurdity, but hers have been enhanced.) It's just that I . . . well, I have enough trouble with people looking at me and seeing Mom, or worse, Jackson. It's like they don't see me, and therefore, I see no reason to throw out there the fact that, body-wise, I look just like Mom did at my age.
Especially after she went on to use those looks to land a winner like Jackson. That is so not what I want.
"Here," Josh says, and tosses me a small box. "I remember you said the vending machine was out of these the other day."
"Animal crackers," I say, hoping I don't sound giddy, but really, this must mean something, right? It has to.
"What are you so happy about?" Finn asks, coming back in and flopping down into his chair. "Hey, thanks for taking over my orders."
"Josh got me animal crackers," I say, and smile at Josh. "Thank you so much."
"It wasn't anything," Josh says. "I just saw them and thought of you."
"So Hannah reminds you of a zoo animal?" Finn asks.
Josh just shakes his head--so perfect! I, however, am not, and kick Finn.
"What? It was just a question."
I wonder what would have happened if Finn hadn't come back to work when Josh gave me the cookies, or better yet, if he'd gotten crushed by one of the vending machines and I never had to see him again. I also eat all the animal crackers except one. I would eat them all--I'm starving--but if I save one, then I have something to remember about Josh giving me a gift. And it is something I want to remember.
Now if only he'd like me.
I sigh. Why doesn't he like me? Besides the me not being his type thing, that is. And him being too smart to ever be interested in Jackson James's and Candy Madison's daughter. Why couldn't Mom be a social activist? And why couldn't Jackson be . . . well, how
come I have to be related to him? If Jose had been my dad, life would have been so much better.
"Good night," Josh says as we all head out into the parking lot at exactly 10:01, and I think he smiles at me again.
"Bye, and thanks again," I call out, and watch as he gets in his car.
"Careful, you're drooling," Finn says. "Is your crap bucket going to start, or do I need to hang around and jump the battery again?"
"My truck is not a crap . . . ," I say, and trail off. It is a crap bucket, but it was cheap, and all I could afford. "It's running fine, and I'm not drooling."
"How come you like Josh so much, anyway? All he does is sit around drinking overpriced coffee and bitching about how awful things are."
"He cares about the world."
"If he cared about the world, he'd donate the ten thousand dollars he must spend on coffee every year to charity. That would be doing something."
"And what are you doing to help people? Oh wait, I forgot. Nothing."
"Hey, I don't run around claiming I'm going to change the world or--"
"Exactly."
"Can I finish?"
"I don't know. Can you?"
Finn laughs. "I was going to say, if I want to do something, I just do it. I don't have to announce it to everyone." "Except during football season. Oh wait, I forgot. You don't play."
"Hey, I can't control the fact that people are scared of my natural talent. Besides, I figure it's easier to let everyone else do the work."
I roll my eyes at him. "Bye, Finn."
"You're sure your truck's going to start?"
"One time it didn't, one, and you have to bring it up all the time?" I say, and unlock my truck door. It opens with a creaking groan, and Finn says, "Sounding good, as always,"
before he ambles over to his own car, which is new(ish) and has a paint job that is all one color.
"You better start, damn you," I whisper to the truck as I slide the key into the ignition, and, thankfully, it does. I head out of the parking lot, Finn behind me, and turn right, heading toward the mall, getting away from work and Finn.
I touch the animal cracker I've saved as I drive. I can't wait to see Teagan. She'll know if what happened means something.