“I’m not really hungry,” I lied.
“It’s a new recipe. I found it in one of them magazines they have at the dentist’s office. Marla came down with something, bless her heart. Couldn’t even taste the dang thing. She wanted to try it so bad.”
I sat obediently at the table as she slid a plate with a slice of cherry pie and a fork in my direction. She patted the back of my hand on the table.
“Now, don’t be shy, Courtney. Not with your momma. Eat.”
Courtney.
Well, that didn’t last long. Grams called me Courtney frequently. The first few times after it happened, I took her to get some tests done, see what caused her forgetfulness. The doctor said it wasn’t Alzheimer’s, but to come again next year if things got worse.
That was two years ago. She hadn’t agreed to go back since.
I shoveled a chunk of the cherry pie into my mouth. As soon as the pie hit the back of my throat, it clogged up and shot a message to my brain:
Abort mission.
She’d done it again.
Mistaken salt for sugar. Prunes for cherries. And—who knows?—maybe rat poison for flour, too.
“Fine as cream gravy, huh?” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her knuckles. I nodded, reaching for the glass of water next to my plate, chugging it down in one go. I glanced at my phone on the table. It flashed with a message.
Marla: Fair warning: Your gram’s pie is particularly bad today.
My eyes watered.
“I knew you’d like it. Cherry pie is your favorite.”
It wasn’t. It was Courtney’s, but I didn’t have the heart to correct her.
I swallowed every bite without tasting it, down to the last crumb, pushing through the discomfort. Then I played a board game with her, answering questions about people I didn’t know who Courtney had been associated with, tucked Grams to bed, and kissed her goodnight. She held my wrist before I got up to leave, her eyes like fireflies dancing in the dark.
“Courtney. You sweet child of mine.”
The only person who loved me thought I was someone else.
Grace
The next morning, I arrived at the food truck early to prep ahead of opening hour. Sheridan’s Farmers’ Market was open on Saturdays, which meant more competition, more food trucks, more human interaction and its byproduct—more war paint. I put so much makeup on my face on Saturdays, I gave party clowns a run for their money.
Silver lining: it wasn’t rodeo day. I refused to do the rodeo shift. Not since a customer had compared my face to a horse and explained the stud would win in the beauty department.
Karlie was late, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. Even though she was one of the most laser-focused, hard-working people I’d known, she could sleep through anything, a World War included. I didn’t mind her slacking as much as I probably should. The Contrerases paid me well, provided flexible shifts, and Karlie had proven to be an amazing friend in the past four years.
I washed and cut fish, sliced vegetables, made the frozen margaritas, and rewrote and hung the wanted sign on the truck. My best friend stumbled inside at quarter to nine. She wore big pink headphones and a tank top with Bart Simpson on it.
“Hola. Everything good?” She popped her watermelon gum in my face, taking off her headphones. “Rebel Girl” by Bikini Kill blasted through them before she turned off her music app. I shoved the tongs into her hands.
“Woke up feelin’ somethin’ bad is going to happen today.”
That wasn’t a lie. Waking up today, I’d noticed the flame ring on my thumb had finally succumbed to its old age, and half the flame had broken, leaving just the hoop and part of the flame.
It was a hundred and twelve degrees outside—so hot you could fry an egg on the concrete—and probably ten degrees hotter in the truck. Something about today felt different. Monumental, somehow. Like my future had been suspended over my head, threatening to thunder down on me.
“Today’s going to be fine.” She dropped her backpack on the floor, snapping the tongs in my face. “Fine, but busy. There’s already a line outside. Better get your ass to your window, Juliet.”
“If Romeo eats fish tacos at nine a.m., I’d rather stay single.” I laughed, feeling a little more like myself again and a little less like the pitiful girl West St. Claire had made me feel I was last night.
Mrs. Contreras insisted on serving her special recipe fish tacos only. No Tex Mex in this food truck. We only did one type of taco, but we were the best at it.
“Ah, that’s the angle Shakespeare didn’t expand on. Romeo died of Juliet’s fish taco breath, not poison.”
“And Juliet’s dagger?” I tossed Karlie an amused look. She pretended to shove the tongs into her gut like it was a sword, holding her neck as she fake-choked.