Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,49
at me. Tina gave him a sarcastic, waggle-fingered wave. “Guess he’s not used to being rejected,” she said to me.
“Definitely don’t let those chicks wash your ride, Stan,” he said to one of the other guys, pointing out me and Tina. “If they do it for free, you overpaid.”
“Lean into to it, sweetheart,” one of Keith’s buddies was saying to Franchesa. “I want to see those hands working.”
“Hey, Marie, feel free to use your tongue if you want,” Keith said. Marie gritted her teeth but didn’t lob one of her usual insults at him. We were at their mercy until we had their money.
“Are we seriously going to have to deal with this kind of shit all day?” Dawn asked me. “These fucking guys are assholes.”
“I know,” I said. “But if we want to go to Wisconsin . . .”
“All I know is, if they hold a car wash, I’m getting payback,” Tina said.
“Ugh, I do not want to see them in short shorts,” I said.
When the girls finished, Keith shoved three balled-up dollar bills at Marie. “What do you say, fellas? Get some grub?”
“What about the other cars?” Marie asked.
“Got places to be, sunshine,” Keith’s friend said.
“Fuck you,” Marie said. She kicked Keith’s tire.
He waved a scolding finger in her face. “Cute girls like you shouldn’t be so angry. This is why chicks shouldn’t play sports.”
They drove away, and we put the three bills with the bit of cash our parents had chipped in that morning. We had twenty-six dollars. “The rest of the customers might not be so shitty,” I offered.
“What customers?” Marie asked, gesturing to our lack of a line.
The next hour passed too slowly. A few more cars pulled in. One was an old couple who needed directions to the expressway. Franchesa’s brothers each came by in a muscle car, and while they were much nicer than the football players, they managed the entire process, giving us tips for how we could do a better job. Tom Meyer came by to flirt with Arlene, who practically rolled her body over the hood of his car and gave him a discount in exchange for his promise to take her out that night. Fortunately, Joanie coaxed Sal Mondello to pay extra for his wash to make up for their date the night before, when he’d dragged her to a horror movie after she’d thought they were going to see 10.
“Where’s Bobby?” Tina said. “Shouldn’t he be helping us?”
He’d told us he’d be a little late, and I’d hoped it was for a Personal Best customer, not a date who he had to make breakfast.
With two hours to go, we had $66. Even if we made that much each of the next two hours, it wouldn’t be enough.
A car pulled up next to me. It was coated in bird poop and the inside was loaded with greasy fast-food bags and random junk. The man inside rolled down his window. His face was oily and he smelled awful. “Are you cheerleaders?”
“No. Soccer players,” I said.
“Never mind,” he said, rolling up his window and driving away.
I let out a long sigh. We had to make this money. Bobby would be so disappointed if we couldn’t go.
Three p.m. Southwest Highway. Susan counts the money from the car wash one last time . . . yep, it’s all there, $750, more than enough for their trip to Wisconsin. She’s sent the rest of the team home—they worked hard—and waits for Bobby to come pick up the metal box of cash. When he arrives, he’s astounded. “How did you do this?” I smile. “I knew how important it was . . . for us.” “You sure did,” he says, taking me in his arms. “Now, let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”
“You look like you’re trying to think of a way to end world hunger.”
Joe’s voice shook me back to reality, and as I mentally filed away my grammatically unsound fantasy to use for later, I gave him a smile, surprised he’d shown. When I’d told him about our game and the car wash at last week’s practice session, he’d been excited for me. I’d teased him that we’d probably have to charge extra to wash his beast of an old Nova, and he’d contested that I owed him a discount, if anything. But I hadn’t called to remind him about the car wash, figuring he was helping me out enough already with the practices.