Cut Both Ways Read online

  Part of me wants to tell Angus. Tell someone what happened. And part of me never wants Angus to know. Because I think of him smiling and of Brandy smiling and I don’t want either of them to stop that.

  The whole way to her house, I don’t say much to Brandy but she doesn’t say much, either. I’m totally exhausted. She’s got to be too. She directs me to her house, which means we pass the Laundromat. My dad’s truck’s not there and I try not to think about that. She points to a house on the left, small but nice. There’s a screened-in front porch and hanging baskets of flowers and stuff.

  I put the car in park, shut it off. I don’t want the idling engine to wake anyone up, but then I remember her nana’s deaf. Oh well. Her aunt, then. If she’s even around. I wonder if Brandy’s used to having her aunt be gone too. Like my dad now. Like we’re both these orphan children.

  “Thank you for the ride,” she says. All formal. Like, this is good-bye, forever. Like, she’s getting on a ship to go to the New World and that’s it. I can’t have that. I can’t; I mean, why did she stay with me all night if that’s how it is?

  I lean over and kiss her and she’s kind of surprised and I don’t care. I’m kind of surprised too. I surprise myself. I didn’t know I could do this. If I’d known it would be so easy, I’d have done it long before tonight. Long before Angus did it to me.

  Maybe Angus knew that? Maybe he was trying to help me.

  “You want to . . . should I . . . I can call you . . . ?” she says. Looks down at her lap.

  Is it terrible that it makes me smile that’s she all nervous sounding? It’s absolutely the best thing. But right away, I want to smooth out the dent in this too.

  “Yes,” I say, totally certain. She looks up at that. Smiles. I don’t want her feeling bad because I don’t feel bad at all. She hands me her phone and I put in my number, just like I did with Garrett.

  “I’ll text you after I get my nana up and stuff.”

  “After you get some sleep.”

  “Right,” she says. “You get some sleep too.”

  “Okay.”

  “’Bye, Will,” she says. Then she’s out of the car, running up the walk and fumbling with keys. She never looks back. I drive back home just as the sun comes up.

  FOUR

  THE THING WITH Brandy is like I drank some potion in a comic book. And now, instead of growing or shrinking or getting radioactive superpowers, I’m this guy who does things and says things and I’m not all nervous all the time. Especially the thing with Angus.

  When I go see my mom a few days later, she gives me this solution and little special chamois-cloth thing to clean my glasses and it’s like everything looks a million times better. Sharper. Clearer. Even when I see Angus, everything’s great. We don’t talk about what happened. I don’t tell him about Brandy, but we hang out in his garage and it’s fun. I tell him about maybe working for Garrett. He tells me he’s got an interview at a garden-center place. The happy feeling doesn’t even go away. Keeps getting stronger.

  Brandy and I text each other a lot and then we meet up the next time she’s done babysitting. I end up walking her to the bus stop and we kiss for a minute, but nothing major, because another dude comes up to wait for the bus. Then we don’t see each other for a couple weeks because the Vances take her with them on a vacation to Wisconsin Dells. I can’t believe people would do that, drag a nanny on vacation, or that she’d agree, but they’re paying her.

  Then, at the end of July, my dad gets it up his ass to reroof the house. There was a storm back in May and hail damage, I guess. I was out at my mom’s, so I missed it. But he’s all busy filing an insurance claim, so work comes to a halt on the house.

  I think it’s a mistake, since Roy worries we’re running behind schedule and it’s hard enough to get used to life in the house now. It’s like camping, but we’re still inside. The water’s cold for some weird reason, there are bugs coming in through all the open bits from the demolition, the power’s iffy. There’s a scorch mark on the bare plank floor near the kitchen, about six inches long. I don’t know if that was the old-ass waffle iron my dad loves, or something else.

  But it doesn’t matter; my dad wants the new roof, because it’ll be free, paid for by insurance. There’s no talking to him about it, because what do I know about insurance? And Roy’s hesitant, but I can tell he doesn’t feel like he can tell my dad his business.

  But I don’t want to complain about it. Garrett calls me one Saturday while my dad’s in Rochester looking at an energy-efficient furnace and I’m eating cold pizza for breakfast. He asks about the house and I tell him what’s going on and then he kind of pauses.

  “Hey. I know I should have called earlier, but I had a guy quit yesterday and I’m kind of shorthanded. You still interested?”

  I swallow the pizza but it’s not all the way chewed so it’s like a lump stuck in my throat.

  “Sure.”

  “Make sure you have ID. Social Security card, plus driver’s license. Or passport, if you don’t have that. I’ll need two forms of ID. Wear jeans and a T-shirt—nothing fancy. Come to the front checkout and ask for me, okay?”

  I say okay and hang up, guzzle a bunch of Gatorade to wash down the pizza.

  I get to Time to Eat around three o’clock, which Garrett says is good because it’s after the lunch rush. Garrett looks like hell. He’s wearing a stained white apron over his jeans and he looks very tired. He invites me to sit at a big booth and spreads out a bunch of papers.

  “Sierra, can you bring us something to drink?” he asks a passing waitress. Who is very cute. Like, hot-cute. She’s got cherry-red hair and super pale skin and tattoos around her collarbones and arms and her little outfit is black and very tight. There’s a clock over her left boob where Time to Eat is stitched in bright blue. “What do you guys want?”

  “Coke’s okay,” I say. Because I can talk to girls now. The Brandy Magic in full effect.

  “Anything for you, Mr. B?” Sierra asks. Garrett’s last name is Ballantine.

  “No, I’m good, thanks, Sierra,” he says. “This is your new prep cook,” he adds, pointing to me. “Meet Will.”

  “Very nice to meet you,” Sierra says. She smiles and it’s kind of perfect. I think about what it’d be like to kiss her.

  I do the paperwork while Garrett talks about the job. When I’m done, he gives me a fresh apron and shows me around the back of the place. He shows me the time card machine, his office, where the schedule’s posted, two weeks in advance. There are two cook guys leaning against the line, a blond dude who’s inspecting his biceps and a redhead guy who’s dumping ranch dressing into a square storage container. They nod at us. Carl’s the redhead; the blond guy is something I don’t catch. But I don’t ask.

  Then we go to the dishwasher area, which is like a tiny little room that’s full of a dishwasher. The whole thing hums and smells like chemicals, and the floor is wet and then this guy comes back and he’s soaking wet and his name is Everardo. Which I only remember because he hands Garrett a set of keys and hands him his apron and the name tag flops over Garrett’s hand: EVERARDO. They talk a little bit, then Everardo leaves. We watch the cook guys for a minute, as they get a couple of orders in, and Garrett points to the grills, the fryers, the reach-in, the fire extinguisher, the setups. I nod, like I know what he’s saying.

  Then we’re back at the ice machine, the walk-in cooler, the supply shelf, and the supply closet, where the mops and cleaners and piles of towels and aprons and trash bags are. Anything that’s not food goes in there, he says, explaining that the blue towels should never go beyond the kitchen—only white towels in front of the house, he says.

  Then it’s time for keys. Keys to the Dumpster and the supply closet and the back door and the frying-grease collection bin. All of it. He says the keys rotate possession depending on who’s scheduled in back. You have to pass them on to the next person listed on the schedule—that’s important, because if people take them home after a shift, everyon
e’s kind of screwed unless Garrett’s around.

  I nod like we’ve got it all figured out. Though I can just see myself taking the keys home and ruining everything. But then Garrett opens a sack of potatoes and asks me to wash them so we can start soaking them for hash; he’ll put me on dish duty in a minute, but he’s got to make a quick couple of calls.

  Nobody really talks to me but Garrett. He keeps bringing me things to chop and wash. Ham. Onions. Green peppers. Tomatoes. Mushrooms. Even bacon. I can’t use the slicer thing until I’m trained on it, so he works it and we talk about the house remodel and how it’s going. I fill big plastic tubs with all these things as Garrett explains what they go into: omelets, garnishes for burgers. The prep cook stocks the coolers and reach-ins with all these ingredients, so the cooks have whatever they need ready to go.

  I unpack hamburger patties and stack them in square bins. Chicken. Steak. Chicken-fried steak. Everything in boxes, stashed in the walk-in. Delivered every morning by a truck, Garrett says. We only make the hash and the fries from scratch, he says, sounding sorry. But Time to Eat has too many tables to turn over. And the hash and the fries keep people coming.

  Cheese slices, unpacked and crisscrossed for easier grabbing. Cheddar, Swiss, pepper jack. Portions of things too, for faster cooking: pulled pork, chicken breasts, sauerkraut for Reubens, bacon for club sandwiches, buffalo chicken bites, taco meat for taco salad. Everything ready for grabbing and grilling or warming or slapping together.

  Because while some of it is a little detailed, most of the cooking done at Time to Eat is about slapping stuff together on a plate as fast as possible. While I’m in the dish room, loading dirty cups and plates into the washer and waiting for them to finish, I sneak glances at the cooks running the dinner-rush line. One person grills, one fries, they both meet on extras. Plates go up on the order window with the proper ticket. Everything they do moves fast and they are talking through the order window at the cute waitresses and I’m seeing where everything comes from: buns, Kaiser rolls, taco meat packets for taco salad and nachos, cheese, sliced and shredded, sides of ranch and barbecue and vinaigrette, cherry tomatoes and cucumbers for side salads, fries and chicken fingers and mozzarella sticks. The deep fryer scares me but it also smells good, and after the rush lessens and the night-shift cooks slide into place like there’s nothing to it, the redhead and blond dudes clocking out like they’ve been waiting for this moment forever, Garrett has the new cooks make us a couple of burgers.

  We eat in the break room and talk. He explains that prep cooks need to come in early, to take deliveries and start stocking. Time to Eat is open all night, but after the post-bar rush not much really goes on until about six a.m., when the daytime people come in for breakfast. So the night crew can prep too, if necessary or if things are slow.

  “Anyhow, you’ll see,” he says. “There’s always a list. One of the other cooks or managers will tell you. Or I will. I’m here most days.”

  I nod. I eat my burger. It’s really, really good. I don’t know if this is because it is good or because I’m really hungry. My dad and I have been coming to Time to Eat since I can remember, but mainly only for breakfast. My dad likes a big greasy breakfast. Still, the fries here are also good. Though I’m not sure there are fries I won’t eat. I even eat the soggy baked cafeteria fries at school; DeKalb always gives me his because he thinks they’re awful.

  After we finish eating, Garrett has me stand behind the line to do a few orders of fries. There’s a process; you don’t just dump them into the grease. Plus, you have to swap the old grease out too. Which has its own process, its own list, its own place to initial things. We go back to the Dumpster area and he shows me the spot where you have to mark on another list when you dumped it. There are a lot of lists in the restaurant world, I guess. I say as much and Garrett laughs. Lights a cigarette.

  “Lists and schedules,” he says. “And lucky me, I get to make them.” He blows out a big gray smoke cloud. It’s dark now—it’s after ten, according to my watch—and I feel uneven. Like I could work more or I could tip over and sleep right here in this nasty-smelling Dumpster corral.

  Garrett pulls out some cash from his wallet. Gives me three twenties and I feel dumb about it but he’s on to the next thing.

  “Can’t pay you a check until I process those forms, but I’ll have it all figured out by the next time you come in.”

  I shove the money into my pocket. It makes a little crispy sound when I fold it down in there. I want it out of view as soon as possible. But I’m thrilled to have it.

  “When do you want me to come in next?” I ask.

  He scratches his head. Garrett has really big hands with lots of dark hair on the tops of them, but he doesn’t have a lot of hair on his actual head. And no beard, like my dad. But I can see a little peep of chest hair coming out of the top of the T-shirt he’s wearing under his Time to Eat denim shirt.

  “Not tomorrow,” he says. “Me and Kristin have this craft-show thing she wants to do.” He thinks, smokes for a minute, like he’s looking at an invisible schedule in his head. “How about Monday? That work?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’d like if you could come in the morning, so I can show you the deliveries and such. Ask your dad if he can spare you, though.”

  “I think it’ll be okay.”

  He nods. “Okay, kid. You’re free to go whoop it up. It’s Saturday night, after all, right?” He laughs, pats my shoulder. “Tell your dad hello, okay?”

  I say okay and he opens the Dumpster corral and lets me out, like I’m a prisoner or something. A trash prisoner. A grease prisoner. For some reason, this makes me laugh. How the trash is all locked up. Because people steal the grease to use in their cars as fuel or rummage for food or whatever.

  I get in my car and pull the money out of my pocket. One crisp twenty, one worn, the other in the middle. Plus a few quarters and ones in tips that Sierra slipped me after I helped her clear a few tables while Garrett was doing something else.

  There’s something about cash for me. I get cash from my mom a lot—to run to Walgreens for her (Taylor and Kinney are wild to go to Walgreens with me, as if it’s something special, since they’re in a car without their mom or dad), to pick up pizza when she’s running late. I rarely get cash from my dad, though. He’s just not like that. If I need shampoo or something, he’ll go buy it, of course, but mainly I ask my mom for that stuff. She just kind of knows too, when I’m running out of those things. And I know she’s got more money, because she makes a crapload at her job and so does Jay. My dad runs a tighter budget. He doesn’t pay himself a big salary, and now he’s out one income since he sold the car wash. I just don’t want to bug him with what I need, really.

  But this cash is mine. Because I made it. Which is, like, No shit, Will. But I did make it. Through all these hours and my hands smelling like chemicals and onions. Through the way my feet kind of ache from all the standing. From following Garrett around. Doing what he said. Filling up plastic tubs. Chopping things. Portions. Stacks. Racks of steaming hot clean cups. I made it. I made it be in my pocket.

  My phone beeps and it’s Angus:

  whut r you doing

  I’m sweating. The Audi’s air-conditioning broke and my dad said it was stupid to fix it. I roll down the windows and hot air from the parking lot fills the car more. It’s been stupid humid lately.

  I text Angus about work and then he says he’s got some weed and am I staying with my mom or my dad, because his parents went out to the lake for the weekend.

  Right that second, I get hard. I do. All the way. I’m sweating, sitting in a car, with a fucking boner. From a text.

  There’s a dent in the happy, then. I don’t know if it’s that I’m tired or if I know I’m ruining the Brandy Magic. I don’t know what the fuck this is. But I don’t want to think about it too much.

  By the time I pull up to Angus’s house, I feel like I drank a million cups of coffee, even though I don’t drink coffe
e. Angus is standing in front of his garage when I pull up, and he tells me to park in the garage, where there’s a spot because his parents’ car is gone.

  “You want to smoke out?” he asks.

  I shrug, but it’s a lie. I’m so fucking zingy. I feel like a little kid in gym class, excited to play the dog-catcher game where you chased everyone everywhere and put them in the pound, which was really just the basketball key lines on the gym floor.

  “Here?”

  “Come inside.”

  He doesn’t say it sexy. Like it’s supposed to mean something else. But tell that to my dick. I’ve got the shouting in my head again. FUCK. WANT TO. FUCK.

  The Rackler house is ice cold from air-conditioning. We take off our shoes just like at my mom’s house.

  “Let’s go on the patio.”

  This time he’s got a joint. We step through the sliding glass door and smoke it together, standing up. Passing it back and forth. I’m aware of his spit on the paper. Maybe it’s the pot, but I’m aware of how sticky my skin is. Of how it’s weird to do it here; this is where the adults hang out and drink wine and beer and talk about their adult shit. Maybe that’s why he wanted to do it here, instead of the garage.

  The Racklers’ backyard seems empty compared to my mom’s backyard, where there’s the above-ground pool and the play system thing, which is almost identical to the one in the park. Of course, Taylor and Kinney need their own personal one for some dumb reason. Probably it’s the pot, because at the same time, the Racklers’ yard seems endless. Huge. Mrs. Rackler has a garden and flower beds, and the grass goes on for what looks like a mile. The yard ends in a tall wooden fence, so you can’t see the adjoining backyard. No chain link like in my dad’s neighborhood. No alley.