Fiction, Anna Grady
Randy, you gotta listen to this story.
So, I’m sitting out on the table in the back on the deck. I’m with Claire and Walter—and they’re still planning their wedding and all that talk, so I’m not really paying attention—and in walk these girls. There’s gotta be five of them, maybe even more, but I only noticed three of them. They look around fifteen and sixteen and the main one has got this scraggly, wheat-blonde hair down to her hips and these big square teeth.
Hot? Randy asks, Blonde one sounds like something.
Well, just listen. It’s hot as hell out, and I can tell they’re not from around here. I mean, you can always tell with these girls. They had on seersucker and all that jazz and those pastel button-ups from Puritans. The second girl looks timid; you can tell just from her shoulders: the way they slope down, and she looks up at the square tooth girl like she’s gonna tell her what to eat for lunch. You know, those girls who just really don’t know themselves.
I know just what you mean, Randy says.
The third one looks like the little sister to the main one—maybe even a fraternal twin or something—and she’s got on this real preppy outfit, and, anyways, I know they’re summer kids.
So, they walk up to Eli at the deli counter, and you know Eli how he’s got those big eyes, and he smirks over at me from through the door and I give him a nod. Eli gives them the big cow eyes and I roll my eyes at him. Whole time I’m just out there sipping my coke and Claire is going on about, Oh, I think we should have Jenny be the flower girl; she really would be so excited about it, Walt. And I’m just thinking they didn't tell us this when we graduated: how boring the girls get.
Don't I know it, says Randy. All Jeanine talks about is the damn wedding.
Well, I’m still looking over at the deli counter and I watch Eli hand the shy one this big sub wrapped in wax paper. She blushes really hard when his finger brushes hers and it’s just classic. Eli’s giving them all their sandwiches, and now they’re holding them, and then they look lost. One of them walks down the produce aisle, picking up plums and putting them back down again. Another one is walking down the chip aisle just gazing around. I’m almost done with my lunch at this point, but I don’t really want to go back in because I hate doing register with Gina— you remember Gina?
Of course, Randy says, nasty bitch.
I know. I hate doing register with her because she’s always hacking and spitting into that cup so much so I just stay out watching them.
Take a look at these kids, I say to Walter, but he just sorta brushes me off.
Then I notice the blonde. She’s just standing right in the middle of the floor in front of the cash registers, and she looks like she knows things. You know those girls who look like they’ve got some secret.
The best ones, Randy says staring off.
Well, she unwraps her sandwich and starts eating it right there. I couldn’t believe it. She's jutting her hip out, and her jean shorts are only buttoned up halfway, and I’m thinking about how she doesn’t look as preppy as the rest of them. Then, Randy get this, all of a sudden, she looks out at me, right dead in the eye.
From inside? Randy asks. He ashes his cigarette.
Exactly, she keeps on eating her sandwich too, so she’s biting into this big sub with those teeth and staring me down. Randy, it’s insane. She won't break her gaze so I don’t break hers either; it’s like some sort of game. Then Walter’s saying something to me, and I wave him away and this girl—she smiles, and I can tell she knows what’s going on. She starts laughing, but it's that type of thing where I know she’s not laughing at me, so I start laughing too, and I’m thinking this girl is something else when Jack comes out and tells me it's 12:30.
Randy, I was so pissed. I mean, imagine you’re having this moment and fucking Jack starts groaning at you. He’s standing right in front of the door, and I try to look behind him and his gross, old, and wrinkled hands, but they’re waving all over the place, and he’s telling me to get back to work, and I need to count out the register tonight, and he’s tapping on his watch, looking at me with his bloated eyes, and Claire is talking about—Okay, wait, before you go back in, what do you think—red or maroon? I think she’s talking about tablecloths or something.
Red, I say, always go with red.
That’s true, Randy says.
And when he finally moves away and Claire shuts up, the girl is gone. She’s at the checkout now, Gina rings her up and I’m so mad you wouldn’t believe it; of course she goes up to Gina while I'm on break. And then, they just walk out the front door. They get on their new summer kid bikes with their little skirts and the sandals and then they're gone. Randy, you would’ve been so mad.
Randy’s smoking another one now, Jack’s the devil, he says. Then what, you go after them or something?
No, I just go back in.
Oh, huh, Randy says. He turns his music back up. Lights another cigarette.
I put mine out, take the cups inside, and wash them all in a row. The water’s soapy, and it’s hot, and it's turning my hands bright red. I can feel my hands burning up. Pretty soon I’ll have no fingerprints. I put the cups away and sit back down outside next to Randy.
Need a light? Asks Randy.
No, I say, I’m good.
I’m going to go to the baseball field later. I’m gonna hit a home run. I’m gonna hit it all the way into the city, hear their windows crash in on their empty rooms.
Anna Grady is a student at Emerson College in Boston, Massachusetts where she studies writing, literature, and poetry. Her work has appeared in various literary magazines and was awarded the Pen Women Award in the Letters category in 2020. She loves writing fiction and poetry that explore themes of Americana and the mid-century. She can be found on IG @annaagrady
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