soggy in the warmer, so I am not supposed to cook more than we need. But sometimes when I don’t put enough in, buses pull in off the highway, and then forty-five people are waiting in the lobby, standing in five different lines in front of the counter.
“Fries,” DuPaul will say, snapping his fingers. “Come on, Evelyn. Let’s go. Let’s go.”
People have to wait too long when I don’t make enough. Sometimes they say they are in a hurry and will just have an apple pie instead, but they look disappointed, or even mad, shrugging as they walk away from the counter, their heads hanging down.
But when I make a lot of fries, the lobby stays empty, and I have to throw them away. DuPaul can sense it when I have to throw fries away, no matter how far away he is. I try to bury them in the garbage, underneath hamburger wrappers and napkins. But he knows.
“Ms. Bucknow,” he says, frowning, kicking the trash can a little so we can both see all the fries underneath the wrappers. “May I remind you that when we throw away our product without selling it, we lose money. It’s a terrible waste.”
“I know,” I say, pushing my visor up so I can see him. “I know.”
He tells me I have to learn to watch, to check for buses in the parking lot, to keep my eyes open. “Rhythm,” he says, closing his eyes. “You’ve got to develop a rhythm.”
Trish is no longer the dining-room attendant. She’s the assistant manager now, and she gets to wear a special blue-and-white-striped shirt with a red tie. When I make mistakes, she isn’t as nice as DuPaul.
“Are you stupid or something?” she asks. She pushes me out of the way and takes the fries out of the oil. They’re burned, all of them, like little brown worms. “How could you forget to put on the timer?” Her eyebrows are still frozen high on her head.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just forgot. I’m sorry.” When Trish yells at me like this, in front of everyone, I have to work hard to think about something else so I won’t cry.
“You’re sorry.” She dumps the burned fries in the garbage and puts another batch in. Her hands move quickly, and I can see raised scars on them, places she has burned herself. “You kids think you’re so smart out in that lobby. But when it comes down to it, you don’t know how to push a goddamn button.”
DuPaul cuts in sometimes when she’s like this. He tells her to go easy on me, to have a little patience. I’m still young, he says, still learning.
I hardly ever see either of them anymore, except for Sundays, when Deena drives Travis’s no-muffler car to her grandmother’s to do laundry. You can see she’s pregnant now, a little slope sticking out of the middle of her ballerina body. It takes her a full minute just to get up out of the driver’s seat. She carries the laundry basket on her hip, walking with her feet spread wide. The baby is due in November.
My mother is on the floor next to Samuel, helping him through his physical therapy exercises, pulling his legs when he does not want them pulled, and he is screaming. She looks out the window and sees Deena. “Poor thing,” she says. “Honey, why don’t you go help her?”
I shrug. “I’m busy.”
“You’re reading a magazine. When’s the baby due?”
“I don’t know. November.” I glance outside. Deena is bent over, trying to pick up a shirt that has fallen out of the basket. She leans backward, one of her arms stretched out for balance, bending at the knees as if she were trying to get under a limbo stick.
“Evelyn,” my mother says. “I don’t know what this fight between you two is about, but at least go carry the basket.”
“She’s fine.”
My mother leans across Samuel, grabs my magazine. Before I can believe she is really going to do it, she swats me with it on the back of my thigh.
“Ouch!” I stare at her in disbelief, and she does it again. I try to move away, but she leans after me, hits me again. “Knock it off!” I hold out my hands to shield myself, and she hits me there too.
“Go help your friend, Evelyn. You big meanie. Go help your friend.” She stands up and swats me again, herding me toward the door. Samuel waves his arm from his