Any Way You Slice It (12 page)

Outside in the chill air, I cross my arms to try to stay warm. “Seriously, Jake. You've got to tell the guys they can never wear those jerseys in here. My parents won't see them at school, but …” The plan starts to unravel in my mind.

I've got to come clean. They're going to see the shirts, or see a newspaper article, or talk to another parent. A different part of my brain isn't worried about them knowing I'm on the team, but it's trying to figure out how to make the sponsorship seem like Dad's idea.

“I'm sorry,” he says, with a clipped tone. It's as if the light switches out of his eyes as his gaze drops to the ground. “We shouldn't have come. I just thought you'd like to see them.” He starts to walk away, and the cold cuts through me. Not just the temperature. I'm losing him.

“Jake,” I call after him, but I have no idea what to say.

He stops and turns around. “I don't understand why your dad doesn't want the name of the restaurant on the shirts. Seems like a good way to advertise. But what do I know?”

“It's not that Jake. It's just—” I stop short of spilling everything as a noise distracts us and we both stare over at the parking lot.

A van with the Restaurant Network logo pulls into a space. Two guys get out of the van and walk toward the building. I close my eyes and try to pull it together. I've got to get back inside before the crap hits the fan. Jake is staring at me, waiting for an answer.

“I haven't been a hundred percent truthful.” I decide to give him part of the truth, hoping I can salvage our friendship, at least. “I promised Coach the money without asking my parents first, but I couldn't tell Coach no after I'd said yes. So I gave him my own savings. My parents haven't actually agreed to sponsor the team yet.”

Jake stands with his mouth open before he speaks. “You're kidding. You gave him your own money? Does Coach know?”

“No and you're not going to tell him. And you're not going to tell my dad either.” I stare at the building. “I'm still going to ask him, but I have to do it carefully.”

Jake looks suddenly suspicious, like he's figured out that if I can lie to my dad and Coach, then I can certainly lie to him, too. “Is there something else you're not telling me, Pen?”

I shake my head, but the tears well up behind my eyes again. I haven't cried this much since sixth grade. “I've got to get back to work. You guys should get out of here.” I feel Jake's eyes linger on me as I walk back through the kitchen. Dad is barking orders in a stage whisper, and he opens his mouth as I pass, but I keep walking back to the front counter. I so don't want to answer any questions right now. I've disappointed everyone important in my life. Jules looks at me like I've murdered her cat, but before anything else I take the package, so carefully wrapped, stuff it down to the bottom of my backpack and shove it back under the counter.

I ignore Jules and her annoying glare, and pick up a pad. “Can I take your order?” I say to the next person in line, a skinny guy with bleached-blond spiky hair. If I didn't already know it was Troy Depalma, the Restaurant Network logo on his button-down shirt would be a dead giveaway.

“Well then.” He glances at my name tag. “Penelope. Give me a slice of the best ‘local flavor' in New Hampshire, please.” He grins like it's the best pun he's ever told. Jules is beaming over at him, almost drooling, and I half wish she'd taken the order instead of me. All I can do is smile weakly and watch Jake over Troy's shoulder tell the boys they have to leave.

They all look like I've canceled spring break as they stream out the front door. A few of them take selfies as they leave, trying to get Troy in the background. They manage to take half a dozen large pizzas with them, and I have no idea where they're going to eat. I shouldn't have made them leave. Someone who looks like a producer eyes them up and down—and finally follows them outside.

The rest of the evening, I try to smile at customers. Aside from not getting orders wrong, though, I'm not really listening to anyone. I'm paranoid about what the producer said to the team out in the street, but I'm too embarrassed to text any of them to ask.

The site visit lasts two hours. They take some pictures of the space and make a lot of notes. Jules manages to photobomb at least two of the shots, and eventually, she convinces the camera guy to take a test shot of her with Troy. Dad watches nervously from the kitchen until they leave. Troy signs autographs for everyone in the room and winks at Jules as he leaves.

I feel her forehead in mock concern. “You're not going to pass out or anything, are you?”

“Did you see him?” She's practically panting. “He is so hawt. Oh. My. God.” She whips her phone out and starts texting.

Conversation buzzes around me for the rest of the evening, but nothing registers. The only thing I can think about is the jersey in my backpack.

My
jersey. Not a loaner from a ten-year-old boy.

And how crappy I feel about being a jerk to the team.

After closing, I sling the backpack over my shoulder after checking to make sure my precious package is still there. It's cold tonight, so I move fast on my walk home. But I'm also watching every car that whizzes by, waiting to see if Jake drives by. Would he even stop if he did?

I key into the house and sprint up the stairs. When I get safely into my room, I pull out the shirt and spread it on my bed. I don't care about the side that says “Slice Pizza.”

The thing that makes me cry is what's written on the back.

“Spaulding” is spelled out above the number “ten.”

I'm dying to show my new jersey to Grams, but when I tiptoe downstairs later to find her, I hear voices.

“Are you sure you don't know something?” Dad's voice echoes from the kitchen as I hover in the hallway, one foot off the ground. I don't dare move.

“Of course I don't know anything, why do you think she would tell me?” Grams scoffs.

The pause suggests that my dad has cocked his eyebrow and is now glaring at my grandmother. I know the look so well, it pops into my head. I close my eyes and say a little prayer that she doesn't spill my secret. Softly, I put my left foot down and hope the floorboards don't creak. Dad's superpower is amazing hearing, and he almost always knows when I'm out of bed.

It only takes Grams twenty seconds to break. “Oh, okay.” She sighs, and I can tell she's irritated. “I know something, but I'm not telling you. Just believe me that it's not illegal or immoral, and no, it won't cause massive numbers of customers to flock to the competition either.”

His voice gets lower—he's really mad now. I strain to hear what he says next. “She's my daughter.”

Funny how they are different. Grams's voice gets louder when she's angry. “Yes, but she's also my granddaughter. And she's a person. Almost an adult. She deserves a little trust and respect.”

I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears, but a few leak out and I wipe them away.

“I don't like not knowing where she is.” He's so angry; I can barely hear him, now. “She can't be at the library all the time.”

Grams make a weird snorting sound. Like she's laughing, but trying not to laugh at my dad. I'm stunned. Only she could get away with that.

“I recall a teenager who once lived under my roof who wanted—no,
had
—to spend weekend nights cruising the mall or he would be ostracized from his friends. Oh, and no, his mother couldn't follow at a discreet distance. And that was before cell phones.”

“C'mon, Mom. It's not the same thing.” I hear the teenage boy's voice as he says it. Just a hint of a whine, and just like that Grams wins the battle.

“Adam, sweetheart, just trust her.” She sighs. “Or try asking her—who knows, maybe she'll tell you.”

He scoffs.
Is he crying?

“She won't tell me. She's too angry about the damn show. And college. Sometimes I think she never wants to talk to me again.” And I hear something else in Dad's voice. Regret? Sadness? Exhaustion? I can't put my finger on it, but suddenly I can't breathe. I turn as softly as I can and tiptoe back upstairs.

Sleep would be good. Too bad my brain won't shut down and let me get a good night. Just one is all I ask. Morning is the worst. I feel like I'm sleepwalking most mornings.

At 6:00 a.m., when Jake's name pops up on my phone, my heart skips a beat. I feel horrible that I made him and the guys leave the other night. I've tried calling him, but he hasn't answered any of my calls.

BTW, remember to dress up today.

Getting that stupid short text message gives me the first feeling of hope I've had all weekend. The guys on varsity usually dress up on game day—Jake suggested the Rats start doing it, too. I always thought it was kind of awesome to see the guys in shirts and ties rather than T-shirts and ripped jeans. We're far from varsity, but I'm wearing my best jean skirt, knee-high black boots, and a sheer top over a cami. I can't wait to see Jake in his shirt and tie, even if he isn't quite talking to me yet.

I slink down the stairs, afraid of running into Dad after overhearing his fight with Grams last night.

He's pouring coffee when I creep into the kitchen. I'm not usually this dressed up for school. I'm hoping he doesn't notice.

“'Morning, sunshine,” he says, in a resigned voice. “Special day today?”

“Sort of.” I grab a cup and pour myself some coffee. I just need to say it; I'm hoping he's still riding the high of the Restaurant Network visit last night. Before I get to the real issue, I decide to butter him up about his favorite topic. Unfortunately, I have a hard time keeping the bitterness out of my voice. “Did Troy like anything he saw last night, aside from Jules?”

“Penelope.” He takes a deep breath. “Your attitude …”

I make a conscious effort not to react.

Don't respond. Don't respond. Keep your cool.

He closes his eyes like he's seeing the future and starts over. “This could be the thing that takes us to the next level,” he says. “'It could mean people coming up from Boston, it could mean franchising opportunities.”

“Couldn't we achieve the same thing with a different show?” I can't help myself. It just comes out.

“Yes.” He sighs. “But this was the opportunity they offered. It would be foolish to turn it down. It's going to give us a lot more visibility.”

I remind myself why I started the conversation in the first place, and take the opening. “You know how you're always telling me that we need to be present in the community? That the customers need to see the name ‘Slice' in order to remember it?” I sip my coffee demurely hoping he'll be proud I remembered his philosophy of philanthropy.

“Yeees,” he says slowly, as he walks to the table and sits down. “Does this have something to do with the show?”

“Not exactly, but it could be sort of related.” I ponder my next words carefully as I take a bagel out of the freezer and pop it in the microwave to defrost. “The hockey team from the rink lost their sponsorship,” I blurt. “Tim's House of Pizza bailed.”

So much for carefully considered words.

“I was thinking, if
we
sponsor them instead, Slice will be on the jerseys of all the players on the team. If they win, it'll be in the paper.” I take another breath. “Besides ‘Slice' will look so much better on their jerseys than ‘Tim's House of Pizza.' Everyone loves our pizza best.”

He's looking thoughtful, and I hold my breath. There might be hope. “That's the group that comes in on Friday nights some times. They were there the other night,” Dad says. “I remember seeing those obnoxious shirts with Tim's logo.” He doesn't mention me spending time in the parking lot with one member of the team. “I'd love to stick it to Tim.” He rubs his hands together and winks at me.

His evil professor act makes me laugh. If anyone has a nemesis, it's Dad. He's been one up on Tim's House of Pizza for three years, but he never rests on his laurels. I'm sure it's a big reason for why he wants the TV show. He doesn't even try to disguise his animosity. “How's the team? Do they win?”

I shake my head, but I stay silent. Dad's history with hockey is such that I can't fake it or he won't buy it at all. I swallow, afraid of what's coming next.

“We haven't been out as a family in a while,” he says. “Do they play on a weeknight or a weekend afternoon? Maybe we should go check them out, make sure that we can be proud of our team. That is…” He pauses. “If we decide to sponsor them.”

My dad wants to watch a game. A game that I'm playing in. How the hell am I going to play in a game that my parents are watching?

Hadn't thought of that.

“What would you think about a girl playing on the team?” I sip my coffee, watching him. Waiting for him to see right through me. I hate lying to my dad, but it's become second nature.

“On a recreational team? I've seen it happen, but only because she couldn't play anywhere else. A boys' rec team is no place for a girl.” He narrows his eyes. “You're not asking to play, are you?”

“Me? No way.” I'm shaking my head too hard, but I'm seeing a light at the end of the tunnel about the sponsorship. “They're a good group of guys, though. I see them setting up at the rink when I'm there for free skate.”

He sits down at the table, and opens the paper. Peering over the top at me, he says, “Is there one particular boy you're thinking about?” He's teasing me now.

I glance over his shoulder and I almost choke on my coffee. At the top of the sports section there's a blurb about the rink, and there's a picture of Jake hitting another player into the boards. You can clearly see GOMES spelled out across his back. In the corner of the picture, there's a person half in the picture. It's me. I have no memory of anyone taking pictures for the paper, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. I put the coffee down on the counter and grab my bagel and backpack. “Gotta catch the bus.” Just before I make a run for the door, I snatch the sports section out of his hands and lean in for a peck on his cheek as a distraction. “We need newsprint for art class.”