Cinderella in the Surf (16 page)

"That's Jackson for chicken quesadilla," his mom says with a smile and a ruffle of the boy's hair. "It's all he'll eat."

"Actually, ma'am, we don't...um..that's not on the menu," I say
 
politely, remembering to keep the smile on my face.

But the one on hers flickers, though it doesn't fade. "You're a Mexican restaurant that doesn't offer quesadillas?"
 

"Well, we're mostly just a taco stand," I say without thinking about it. "But we do have a menu that shows everything we have."
 

Bingo. Her smile disappears completely and she reaches for the laminated piece of white computer paper that lists our five different meal choices: chicken, beef, pork, fish and surprise tacos.

"This, you mean?" she asks, waving it around in front of her face. "This is what you're calling your menu?"

I bite my lip, suddenly sure I've backed myself into a corner I can't get out of, and Lydia's going to fire my butt as soon as I go back to the kitchen for being rude to a customer. "It lists what we serve, yes." My voice is strained, but I hope it still sounds friendly.

"And you can't conjure up a chicken quesadilla? I can't imagine you don't have the ingredients. Soft taco shell, cheese and chicken if you forgot."
 

Lydia had spent a solid ten minutes stressing how Missy won't make anything unless it's from the menu, but that customers will sometimes push for more options. Personally, I can't see why we can't whip up a quesadilla for a kid, but she's made it clear that if I want to have a job here, I'll listen.

"I'm sorry, we can't."
 

"Well then, what do you suggest Jackson eats?" The woman is downright huffy now. I kinda want to tell her she should've asked to see a menu before grabbing a table, but I figure that's probably a no-no.

"If he likes chicken, you could probably scrape some out of the tacos for him."
 

She presses her lips together so hard they practically disappear. "That's unacceptable. He doesn't like lettuce."
 

I glance at the kid, who's still happily plowing into all the items on the table with his trains while his mom stares me down like a vulture circling a baby mouse.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. We only have what's on the menu."
 

I return her stare, refusing to look away even while trying to keep the sweet smile stuck to my face, until she lets out a long, dramatic sigh and flops against the back of her chair, glancing down at her watch.

"He had nuggets, what, two hours ago?" She turns to her husband, who's stayed quiet this whole time, and he nods. "That'll have to hold him over. We'll have two orders of the shrimp tacos."

She passes the menus to me without making eye contact, and I take them, and scurry back inside to pass the order on to Missy.

"Two shrimp taco plates," I say, as she juggles several frying pans and a squirty plastic bottle of something red.

"More?" She sighs. "How many orders still aren't in?"

I glance around the inside of the restaurant and do a quick tally. "I've taken everyone's order now or they have their food. We're good 'til we get more customers."
 

"Thank God," Missy mutters. "I'm just about dyin' for a smoke break."

I'm about to tell her I don't think that's a great idea -- partially because of Lydia but mostly because I don't like the idea of being the only hand on deck to deal with everything -- when the bloodcurdling shriek of a banshee fills the tiny restaurant.

Missy and I both stop what we're doing and stare at each other, eyes wide, mouths slightly open.

The dim buzz of good conversation and one too many bottles of Corona stops as the restaurant falls silent inside. The screams and cries are still filtering in from out front.
 

I shut my eyes. I already know the sound of this voice.

We hurry outside where, sure enough, Jackson's sitting in his white chair, tears streaming down his face as he howls, while his mother stands in front of the table, her cream T-shirt and jeans covered in what looks alarmingly like blood.

"--ruined! It's all ruined! I can never wear this shirt again! It's
Prada
!" The woman is in the middle of screaming at her poor, frazzled-looking husband when we get outside.

A wine glass lies shattered on the cement ground, and it looks like a wayward toy train ran off its tracks and collided with her drink.

"Honey, please, you have to calm down," her husband says in a soothing voice.

"Can I get you anything?" I ask, feeling ridiculous just standing around while the red wine bleeds into her clothes.

But instead of looking relieved, she latches her fiery gaze onto me.
 

"And you," she says. "It's like you've never done this a day in your life!"

I exchange a side-eyed glance with Missy.

She's not wrong.

"You left the wine glass exactly where you saw Jackson playing! I've never seen such incompetence from the waitstaff before," she continues, arms flailing, child crying, husband apologizing to me with his eyes. "And now look. Our dinner is ruined. My clothes are ruined. I'll expect the food on the house, at the very least."
 

My cheeks are burning with the embarrassment of being scolded by a total stranger, but I feel my heart rate kick up as soon as she says she wants a free dinner out of it. There's no way Lydia's going to keep me working here after this mess.

"Let me get you some towels," I say, trying to keep my composure, and I scurry inside, leaving Missy to deal with this family.

Lydia's in the kitchen, flipping a frying pan, her face and chest bright red.
 

"Is she smoking again?" she growls as soon as her gaze lands on me.
 

I shake my head. "Ah, no, there's kind of a situation out front."

"Customers?"

"And a wine spill. Apparently I left the glass too close to her son's toys."

I'm bracing for my boss to explode, but it never comes. Instead, Lydia blows out some air and rolls her eyes.

"Always our fault," she mutters. "Never theirs. People don't watch their kids right. I'll deal with it. You watch the meat."

I open my mouth to ask her how I'll know when it's finished, but she's already crossed the dining room in three strides and swishes out the door.

I keep flipping the chunks of chicken in the frying pan like I have any idea at all what I'm doing, but mostly my eyes are glued to the scene I can barely see through the red curtains hanging on the windows.

Lydia doesn't look like she's really groveling for the woman's forgiveness, and that doesn't seem to be doing much for her hysterics. Both are getting more and more animated with their arms, and at this point, I'm not even paying attention to the cooking meat.

A slow hissing sound fills the air as I'm staring out the window, but I ignore it. The woman's husband has just walked around his wife to comfort their crying son, and Lydia's talking a mile a minute.

"Miss? Miss? I think you should -- "

Whooooooosh
.

The customer sitting right in front of the kitchen doesn't have time to finish his sentence before the chicken in the pan goes up in flames.

"Omigod! Omigod!"
 

I look around for the source of the screaming, then realize it's coming from me.

Flames rise higher and higher, the heat singeing my skin.

And like a dope, I just stand here, staring at it.

"Water!" I exclaim to no one, turning to find a pot to fill with the skin.

"Nonono!" a male customer cries out, but I'm not listening and quickly turn on the faucet.
 

The front door bangs open, Lydia rushes in, sees me at the sink and screams.

"Grease fire! No water! Stop it!"

Within seconds, she's pushed me out of the way and is holding a fire extinguisher she pulled from underneath the sink. Lydia points and blasts, and soon a sticky, white foam covers the entire stove, part of my uniform, and, I'm pretty sure, all of my hair.

"Mercy almighty," she mutters, resting the extinguisher against the sink countertop.

Now I pretty much know I'm toast.

"Lydia, I am so, so, so sorry!" I blurt out, rushing over to her. "I wasn't -- I don't know how -- oh my god."

But Lydia only laughs, and my eyes widen. "You look like you just shot a puppy," she says between chuckles. "You think this is the first grease fire we've had at Trippy's?" She waves her hand in the air dismissively. "Once a week, probably. Just remember for next time. No water."
 

I smile weakly and nod, then glance out the window. Jackson and his family aren't on the patio anymore.

"You got rid of them?" I ask. "They didn't even get their shrimp tacos."

Lydia grins. "Piece of cake."

"Thanks," I say, sighing with relief. "I better go clear that table."

My boss nods, and I grab one of the dirty dish bins before going back outside to bus the table and sweep up the broken wine glass.

I'm carefully brushing the smaller shards into a blue dust pan when I hear screams for the third time in the last half hour.

This time, they're not coming from the restaurant.

They're coming from the beach.

I stop what I'm doing and climb onto one of the plastic chairs to get a better look. The patio is probably one hundred yards from the water's edge, but I can already see there's a crowd forming near the shoreline.
 

One of the lifeguards blows their whistle three quick times, the shrill blast filling my ears. The crowd starts to split then, and I strain my eyes for a better view.

And that's when the world stops.

A male lifeguard staggers up the sand carrying the body of another man.

Dressed in neon hot pink swim trunks.
 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I feel nothing.

I mean, I know I'm moving because I can feel the soft sand squish beneath my sneakers with every step I take.

And I know exactly where I'm going.

I have to get to him before it's too late.
 

There's no doubt in my mind that the guy being carried out of the ocean by the lifeguard is Walker.

And even if he hadn't been wearing those stupid, ridiculous shorts, I'm still confident I would've known anyway.

But still, there's no panic, no fear, nothing. I just know that I need to be down there with him.

The crowd is bigger now than it was when the screams first started, but everything seems to be calming down.

Until I come sprinting in, anyway.

I reach the group and push my way through several walls of people until the crowd breaks.

And there, in the middle of the circle, lies Walker.

He's flat on his back on a red towel someone must've spread out before he was pulled from the water.

Three lifeguards huddle around his body, blocking most of him from view. I can't see his face. I don't know if he's awake, if he's talking, or smiling or even breathing.
 

I try to push past them and want to rush to his side, but something's holding me back.

"Hey, hey, hey, lady, hey!"
 

It takes me a few seconds to realize that it isn't
something
keeping me from Walker but
someone
.
 

I shake my head quickly, trying to get all the cobwebs out.

An older man has his arms wrapped around me, preventing me from reaching Walker. He's talking, but I'm barely hearing his words.

And then there's an older woman right in front of my face, completely hiding Walker from sight. She reaches out and puts her hands on my shoulders.

"Are you okay?" she asks loudly, and it's like her words lift whatever fog has invaded my brain.
 

"What? I don't -- me? Is
he
okay?"

"Do you know him?" The woman is using a soft, soothing tone with me now that she's got my attention.
 

"Yeah, yeah, of course I do. That's Walker. What happened? Why won't any of you people tell me anything?"

"Breathe, honey, breathe," she says. "I'm sure everything's fine. I bet one of the lifeguards will want to get some information from you, though."

My eyes dart around her, trying to get another look at Walker. Information? That doesn't sound good. The only reason they'd need information from
me
is because Walker isn't able to tell them, and if Walker isn't able to tell them, then it's just like Alex all over again and I don't think I'll survive something like that again.
 

"I really need to know what's -- "

"Rachel? What the heck happened to your hair?"

The sound of Walker's voice is so shocking, so unexpected and so wonderful that I'm pretty sure I push the nice old lady aside and tear around her without thinking about it as I try to get to the center of the circle as fast as possible.

Walker's sitting up, the crowd of lifeguards backing off to give him some room.
 

I know from spending so much time on the beach that they'll only do that if they're confident the patient is going to be okay, or if he's dead.

And I'm pretty sure Walker isn't dead.

He doesn't look dead, anyway.

"What the
heck
?"" I demand, flinging myself down into the sand and spraying him with some grains. "What is going on?"

He grins as the crowd begins to disperse once they realize they're not going to get to see something cool or grisly.
 

"No big deal," he says, a sparkle in his eyes that only makes me mad. "I got stuck in a current or something."
 

"Stuck in a current or something?" I spit, leaning back on my legs. "What are you talking about?"

He shrugs sheepishly. "I just got swept up and then I had no idea which way was up and the next thing I knew, one of the lifeguards was dragging me to the surface, and now I'm here, and...so are you. Why are you here? And, seriously, what's in your hair?"

"Wait, wait, wait, I don't get any of this. It doesn't make sense. Were you just out for a swim or something?"