Fifteenth Summer - By Michelle Dalton Page 0,37

eye level, was the mayonnaise—jar after mammoth plastic jar of it. The industrial-size mayo containers were stacked three deep and covered two entire shelves.

Suddenly I realized why Josh had thought I had mayo-on-the-face paranoia the first day I met him.

And why he’d asked about my celery-chopping abilities.

“Melissa,” I said, “what is the secret ingredient in the cinnamon streusel coffee cake?”

Melissa hung her head.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Mayonnaise?”

Melissa nodded.

“I had a little ordering snafu,” she admitted, looking a little weary. “There was . . . an extra zero.”

Andrea shook her head and gave a little snort of laughter.

“The supplier wouldn’t take them back,” Melissa went on, “and even though the jars are sealed, there is an expiration date on them. So . . .”

“When life hands you mayo?” I prompted.

“Make lots and lots of tuna salad,” Melissa finished. “And dips and cake and old-fashioned Jell-O molds . . . Well, it’s actually kind of interesting how many uses there are for mayonnaise when pressed to the wall. It’s great for moisturizing your hair. You can even use it to polish piano keys.”

Melanie had wandered out to pour herself a cup of coffee during the lull.

“The only problem,” she interjected, “is now we’re so sick of mayonnaise, we can’t eat it. Ugh, I dream about mayo. Sometimes I just want to throw it out! But little Miss Waste-Not-Want-Not over there won’t let me.”

Melissa glared at her sister defensively.

“It’s immoral to throw away perfectly good food,” she said.

“It’s a condiment,” Melanie said. “It barely counts as food.”

“Hey!” I said. “What about donating it to a soup kitchen or shelter? It wouldn’t go to waste there.”

“Did it!” Ginny said as she swung around the counter to fill a few plastic cups with ice. “We gave ’em so much mayo, they said to please stop. They couldn’t take any more.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s a lot of mayo.”

Melanie swung her arm over Melissa’s shoulders and looked mock-sorrowful.

“It is our burden to bear,” she said. “And our shame.”

I laughed out loud.

“Oh!” Melissa scoffed. “It could have happened to anyone.”

“Sure it could, sweetie pie,” Ginny said. “Don’t you listen to Melanie.”

Melanie scowled and gave Ginny a fake punch on the arm as Ginny strolled over to a customer sitting at a two-top near the counter.

“What can I get you, sir?” she asked the man.

“I’ll have the club sandwich,” he replied.

Andrea and I shrieked at the same time, “Want mayo with that?” Then we both laughed so hard that tears streamed down our faces.

The man looked very confused.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ginny said to him, giving us a glare. “I’ll get right on that. And while I do, Chelsea’s going to get you a free iced tea.”

I hopped off my stool and hurried to do what Ginny ordered, a big slaphappy grin on my face.

I needed that jolt of lightness to get me through the lunch rush, which was almost more hectic than the breakfast one. My section was full of people in work clothes, needing to eat fast and run back to their jobs.

I couldn’t help but notice that Josh was not one of them. But I didn’t have time to think about it. Or about Granly or about anything really, except the constant rhythm of taking orders, delivering food, checking in on customers, then checking them out. There was only, “We don’t serve fries, only chips.” And, “The soup of the day is spring vegetable.” And “Of course you can have extra mayo on that.”

I realized that maybe that was what I liked most about this job. It was a vacation from my vacation—the one that left me way too much time to brood about . . . everything, especially what might be going on on the other side of that wall that separated Mel & Mel’s from Dog Ear.

Melissa scheduled me for the two-to-eight p.m. shift the next day, and put me down in the schedule for four afternoon shifts a week.

“We’re more of a breakfast and lunch place,” she told me, “so you can slow down and learn the ropes a bit.”

I got to town at one fifteen the next day. But not because I wanted to get to work early.

I was going to Dog Ear.

At the corner of Main and Althorp, I paused—and hyperventilated a bit. Clutching my stomach, I ducked onto Althorp, which was really more of an alley than a street—skinny, one-way, and mostly stocked with service entrances to the stores on Main.

I smoothed down my poofy A-line skirt, adjusted the straps

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