Postcards From Last Summer by Roz Bailey

my bike helmet. “Now you’re preaching to the choir.”
    Â 
    Although I managed to stall for another week, by the beginning of June I was walking down Southampton’s Main Street, past the quaint blue striped awnings of exclusive boutiques and gourmet shops, for my first day as a pizza girl. The smell of baking pizza, sweet tomato sauce, and melted cheese brought tears to my eyes as Sal Marino welcomed me to his shop.
    â€œCome in, come in. You gotta duck behind the counter here.” Sal wore a tired smile, but his warmth seemed genuine as he wiped his hands on a white towel, telling me I looked just like my mother and grandmother. “So, Lindsay . . . grab an apron, wash your hands, and I’ll show you how to use the register.”
    Scrubbing my hands with astringent pink soap, I observed that the back room of Old Towne Pizza was surprisingly clean for a small hole-in-the-wall take-out joint—the only pizza parlor in Southampton, where a monopoly could mean a fortune during the short summer months. It was four-thirty, the lull between lunch and dinner, and the dining area was empty. But by dinnertime on a Friday like this, the place would be packed with people grabbing a slice or waiting to pick up pies.
    Back in the kitchen, Sal was stacking round silver platters of uncooked dough into shelves of the fridge and calling out things like “Three cases of whole tomatoes” and “Ten pounds of semolina.” Biting his lip, Mickey nodded and scratched out a list.
    Ironic that both pizza guys were thin. Skinny, even. Did it have anything to do with being near the ovens and sweating it off? Maybe I should have tried for a job in a Laundromat. As a red car flashed past the shop window, I imagined Darcy driving by and spotting me inside. Brakes squealing, she’d pop out and square off with me, hands on her skinny hips. “Whoa, girl! Don’t you know pizza puts on the pounds?”
    The bitch. Part of me hated her and part of me missed her like crazy. Schizoid, I know, but the summer was not going to be the same without her, even if I did manage to trim down on my fabulous new weight-loss plan. So far today I’d only eaten a peach, two boiled eggs and a slice of special fat-free toast—inspired by a celebrity diet I’d seen in Glamour magazine. Between the diet and the surfing, I figured that the pounds would eventually melt, right?
    Smoothing a red and white checked apron over my khaki shorts, I stepped up to the register and found someone sitting at the counter, facing away. Okay, time to be a waitress. “May I help you?” I asked, aglow with professionalism.
    Bear turned to face me. “Hey, squirt. I’m just waiting for the calls to start.”
    Calls? I nodded as if I got it, though I didn’t.
    â€œDuh. I’m the delivery guy.”
    â€œOh.” So this was the night job that kept Bear on the beach all day this summer. “Does Sal pay enough to keep you in Sex Wax?”
    He shrugged. “I’m working on getting something going. Real sponsors, so I can focus on the surfing, maybe get to the coast.”
    â€œThe West Coast?” This was news to me. “Did you like it out there?”
    â€œIt’s different, but yeah. I’m talking to a guy who manufactures his own boards in Hawaii. If he comes through with the deal, I’ll be surfing in the islands this winter.”
    â€œProfessional.” Bear was good enough; I just never thought he had the confidence to pursue his obsession.
    â€œLindsay?” Sal called from the back. “You want me to heat you a slice before the rush starts?”
    A slice, hot from the oven. Crisp crust and bubbling cheese . . . My mouth watered profusely, but I swallowed it back, thinking: Carbs are evil. Carbs are not your friend. “No, thanks.” I choked on the words.
    â€œI’ll take one,” Bear called to the back.
    â€œYou?” Sal waved him off