Wonder When You’ll Miss Me by Amanda Davis Page B

wondering…”
    My voice sounded thin and high. I cleared my throat. Buck up, I told myself, buck up . But inside I felt a creeping sense of shame. They were never going to hire me. All these people were beautiful, fresh faced, and perky. Not the kind of people who’d want me around.
    â€œI was wondering if you’re hiring,” I blurted.
    The woman gave me a warm smile. “Well, not right now, but things turn over quickly around here and we may be looking soon. What’s your name?”
    â€œFaith Duckle.”
    â€œAnd, Faith, how old are you?”
    â€œSixteen,” I said, shifting from one foot to the other.
    â€œSixteen,” she repeated, and I saw her thinking. “Well, you can’t serve alcohol unless you’re eighteen,” she said finally. “So waiting tables is out, you have a little time there, but are you willing to work hard? We may have an opening for a busboy…busgirl soon. Do you want to fill out an application?”
    â€œSure,” I said. I wasn’t sure what a busgirl was but it sounded fine. She led me to one of the tables and gave me a black pen and a sheet of paper littered with questions.
    When I had finished, I brought it back and stood awkwardly, trying to figure out what to do with my hands. “Thank you,” I said, overly bright, and smiled as wide as I could, baring my teeth and willing myself to look as shiny and fresh as someone who deserved to be there. Then the fat girl scooped up a handful of mints and I followed her out the door.
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    I walked home from Clark’s thinking grand thoughts. I would work hard and then we would take off, abandoning school and the terrible claustrophobic familiarity of Gleryton.
    â€œI bet they’ll hire me,” I said, talking as fast as the words could come. “I’ll work really hard and I bet I’ll make a lot of money. They must make a lot of money, huh? How much do you think we need?”
    The fat girl kicked along beside me with her hands behind her back. She didn’t say anything. Finally I couldn’t take it. I stopped by the side of the road.
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    She sighed and looked beyond my shoulder to the field that bordered the road. “You are still going to have to do something to strike back. You can’t just leave like nothing happened. You have to make a point.”
    â€œOh please,” I said. “Be serious. There’s nothing for me to do. I mean what point could I possibly make before we leave?”
    â€œYou know, Faith,” she said. “You know what you have to do.”
    I pushed past her and began to run as fast as I could in the direction of my house. My head pounded in time with my feet, asphalt crunched beneath me. My face was warm and sweat began to stream down my back, soaking my father’s shirt. I only looked over my shoulder once. The fat girl was a blue dot in the distance.
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    The next day I was supposed to go see Fern Hester. The fat girl walked ahead of me eating a string of licorice, and the sun filtered through thepine trees and played over the top of her head so that her hair, dancing with light, looked shiny and smooth. Her sleeves were pushed up and the skin at her elbows dimpled where the fat gathered. She wasn’t speaking to me. All day she’d been following me around like a petulant shadow, sighing and snorting, but didn’t answer when I asked what her problem was.
    We shifted in the sun and ignored each other until the bus pulled up. Then I slung my backpack over my shoulder and climbed on board. I slid my coins into the slot and walked back without looking at the driver.
    The fat girl rode for free.
    The bus was mostly empty. I walked halfway back, took a window seat, and leaned my head against the cool glass. Through the window the world looked distant and manageable.
    Soon we zoomed down the highway, heading downtown, and the fat girl, who still hadn’t spoken, began