Any Way You Slice It (3 page)

“Kidding.” He watches me write his name on top of the order pad. I try to catch my breath while I turn and hand the slip through the pickup window to the kitchen. I ignore Jorge's wink.

Thirty seconds later, the aroma of bacon permeates the whole place and people are lining up. It's a pretty awesome smell, but I'm not admitting it to anyone. I peer over the counter and realize there's way too much bacon on the grill just for Jake's sandwich. Jorge's got bacon pizza on the brain. He smiles at me and whispers, “Tell your new boyfriend his bacon sandwich is on its way.”

My eyes flicker over to where Jake is standing to make sure he can't hear. He's tapping his fingers in a beat on the Formica, staring at the big screen.

I hiss at Jorge, “He's not my boyfriend.”

He winks and flips the bacon. “Yet.”

I pick up a handful of olives out of the tray on the counter and start flinging them at him one at a time.

“Keep that up,” he says, holding his spatula like a tennis racket and swishing it back and forth in front of him, “and I'll tell your grandmother that strange boys are giving you their phone number.”

“You wouldn't dare,” I say, tossing the last olive into my mouth. But I don't tempt fate. It's never a good idea to piss off the chef.

“Bacon Pizza is the special for the next hour,” I turn and yell to the crowd.

The guys are all energy. The camaraderie in the room is palpable—I try to imagine what it would be like to be a part of the team. It's a mistake to think like that, but when Ethan Carter tells a joke about a flying fish, I catch myself laughing along with the rest of the team. Between taking phone orders, I find out that Carter is crushing on Myka Dearborn, and that Jake's broken arm last year happened hiking Mount Washington, not in a fight with the football captain, which was the rumor around school. Despite feeling like a major fly on the wall, I'm starting to like these guys.

“What are you celebrating?” I ask Jake, when I deliver the bacon sandwich.

He leans on the counter, and looks around the room. “Our third loss this month.”

“Wha—?”

Before I can process, the door swings open and a couple of big dudes walk in—Warren McNeill and Hunter Tilton. They're juniors, like me and Jake, and they are both wearing letterman jackets. Tiny little hockey sticks peek out from behind the Viking on the “V” for “Vernon High.”

Warren tips over someone's soda as he walks through the crowd. The noise level gets noticeably quieter. I notice Hunter stops to apologize for the spilled soda.

“Jake.” Warren holds out his hand to shake.

Jake nods as he grasps the offered hand. “Warren.” His expression is something between contempt and nausea, like he stepped in something disgusting and tracked it down the sidewalk.

“What are you doing here?” Wiping my hands on my apron, I glance behind me to see if Jorge is paying attention. Warren's uncle owns our primary competition, Tim's House of Pizza, five miles away in the next town.

The only time he ever comes to Slice is to stir up trouble.

“I'm just delivering a message to the Rink Rejects.” He scans the room. “You're all a bunch of traitors. My uncle doesn't sponsor your stupid team for his health. From now on, you eat at Tim's after practice. Or else.” He turns to his friend and smirks. “Get a load of these guys.”

Jake steps forward. “We appreciate Tim's sponsorship, but you do realize he's not open on Friday nights, which is kind of weird for a pizza place.”

“Now you're giving business advice?” Warren sneers. “When are you going to leave the Reject Rats and play for a real hockey team?” He says it loud enough for the whole room to hear, and it's suddenly so quiet you can hear the low sound of the TV. Jorge is scraping the grill. But he's listening, ready to morph into bouncer mode if necessary. Mom peers around the partition separating the rooms and takes in the awkward silence.

Coach Walsh and a few other parents sit at attention from the front booth watching the interaction, but no one moves. It's as if the entire room is holding its breath, like some big moment hinges on Jake's answer. His jaw twitches. I hear his grinding teeth. “I'd rather play on a team that loses fair and square than a team that has to cheat to win.” This is clearly not the answer Warren expects. His face turns purple and splotchy.

He looks like he's about to pummel Jake right here in front of me.

“Excuse me.” I reach across the counter and wave my hand in front of Warren's face. “We've got a nice special tonight on meatball sandwiches. Two for one. I can have Jorge whip a couple up for you and your friend.” I gesture to Hunter, who hasn't said a word.

“Spaulding,” he says. “Pizza Princess.” He looks at me like I'm an alien, like he can't believe I've taken the spotlight away from him. “I didn't come here to eat.”

I ignore his words. “I'll even throw in a couple of bags of chips. On the house.”

Jake looks at Jorge in the kitchen. “That sounds almost as good as bacon on toast.” He takes a deep breath, and his shoulders relax a little.

Hunter steps forward and with a glance at Warren, says, “That's wicked. We'll take 'em.”

Jake moves backward. Maybe he's hoping out of sight will be out of mind.

Warren spends the next two minutes texting madly on his phone, while Hunter just looks around the room nervously. There's an awkward silence as no one else even moves. I'm sure my mother's finger is poised on speed dial to call the cops.

I have no idea how Jorge gets two meatball subs ready at lightning speed—I have no idea what made me say meatball, not bacon—but they are on the pickup shelf in under two minutes. It's the longest two minutes of my life.

Warren narrows his eyes when I hand him the bag of food. “My uncle sponsors this ridiculous excuse for a hockey team,” he says to no one in particular. “He'll hear about this betrayal.” The whole room takes an audible breath when the door slams behind them.

“Yeah, be sure to enjoy that meatball sub before you tell him, cretin.” Ethan Carter is waving his middle finger out the window, but Warren and Hunter are gone.

Jake walks back to the counter with a big smile on his face. “Nice move, Blades.”

It's a better nickname than Pizza Princess.

I like it.

I lean in so only Jake can hear, and say, “You think that was smooth, you should see my moves on the ice.” I have no idea why I say it. Maybe it's the adrenaline from the last few minutes. It might have been the lighting or my imagination, but for a second, I swear Jake blushes.

The room buzzes behind him. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. And then the phone rings.

“Slice Pizza,” I say, never taking my eyes off Jake. “Pickup or delivery?”

When things finally slow down, I step outside the back door to get some fresh air. I stare at the blinking yellow light at the intersection across the street as Dad's old BMW cruises around the corner and into the parking lot.

“What are you doing out here in the cold?” he calls, getting out of the car.

I wrap my arms around myself, knowing I should be wearing a coat. “Just taking a breather.”

He looks blankly at me for a second, and then smiles and shakes his head. “Keep up the good work, kiddo.”

The meeting with the Restaurant Network people must have been good. He's been gone all night and there's a bounce in his step as he strolls toward the building. For a split second I consider telling him about Jake's invitation to play hockey. Maybe I'm wrong about everything and he'll be excited for me.

“Dad?”

He turns around and rakes his hand through his hair. Something makes me pause. Nah. I don't want to spoil his good mood, so I fall back on the old faithful. Apology.

“I'm sorry about this morning.”

He strolls over and gives me a quick hug. “Me too. We'll talk about it later.”

I start to say something, but it will just start the fight all over again, which is the last thing I want right now. So I shut my mouth.

As he strides toward the restaurant, a couple of guys from the team walk by. Ethan Carter gives me a salute. Dad turns back to look at me. “Are those kids wearing Tim's House of Pizza jerseys?”

Figures. Even blindfolded, Dad would notice the competition encroaching on our business.

A half hour later, when the game on the big screen ends, the place empties out fast. Luckily, my parents are both in the other room when Coach Walsh comes behind the counter and shakes my hand. “I've never seen such a natural shot from a first timer before. You have a spot on the Rink Rats, if you want it.”

I nod, and look warily behind me in case Dad is in earshot. I don't know how to answer. “Thank you.” It's the only thing that comes to mind.

Jake's leaning against the corner booth, watching me wipe down the tables. “You missed a spot,” he calls. I whip the towel at him, but he starts to help me straighten the salt and pepper shakers and restock the chip rack. Jorge glances up from scraping the grill and grins.

Mom is still serving in the bar, but it's down to just the regulars and a few date nighters. She yells over, “You can take off any time, sweetheart.”

Jake shuffles his feet. Almost nervously.

Interesting.

“Can I walk you home?” he says.

I laugh out loud. “What, is this, the fifties? You want to ask my dad if it's okay?” For a second, he looks like he's considering it. “I'm kidding. How did you know I usually walk?”

He shrugs. “I've seen you walking at night.”

Jake Gomes has noticed me walking at night. I'm not sure if I should be elated or creeped out. I tell myself to remember we used to be friends, and to forget why we stopped.

I flip the CLOSED sign facing outward on my way out, and Dad locks the door behind us. He raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything about Jake. Maybe it's his way of apologizing again for the fight this morning or maybe Mom said something. Or maybe he just blindly trusts any kid who chooses to eat at Slice. Even if he's wearing the competition's logo.

Two cars cruise by as we cross Main Street, heading past the Asian market toward the lake and our neighborhood. The familiar night sounds get louder as we walk; the rumble of a truck from the highway, an owl hooting in the large oak next to the church. A cloud passes over the moon and I shiver. I pull my gloves out of my pocket and zip up my parka.

There's a warmness emanating from Jake's side of the sidewalk. He grins when he sees me looking, and I catch my breath. I've never been lonely walking home by myself. But after tonight, I think I might be.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and clears his throat. “So you're thinking about it?”

My heart pounds because for a second I'm afraid he's asking if I've been thinking about him. I chuckle nervously and then realize, of course, he means hockey.

Would he believe it's all I've been thinking about since this afternoon? Not likely, so I shake my head. “I can't. There's no way I can afford the equipment. I've got some money saved, but it's for an emergency.”

The fact of the matter is, I've got three thousand dollars squirreled away from tips since I started working the counter, but I can't touch that money. I might need it if Dad decides to make good on his promise not to pay for anything but culinary school.

He looks at me with wide eyes. “But your parents are rich, they own a restaurant!”

I sigh and shake my head. It's the same old story. Everyone thinks we're loaded. “You don't get rich on a twelve-dollar pizza. My dad would love to franchise, but it hasn't happened yet.”

We walk in silence for a few minutes. “Well don't commit, then,” he says. “Just come and watch. Or maybe practice; there are some used sticks and gear in the equipment closet. You've got skates.”

It takes me a half second to realize he's stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Listen.” He inhales through his nose. “We've been last in the league forever. We need someone who can shoot. We've got guys who can play defense; we need someone who can score. Just come and watch. No commitment.” He looks at me with the same Labrador puppy expression from earlier. Like he's selling me something I'd be crazy to refuse.

I don't know how to answer. I want to say yes so badly, but I just can't wrap my brain around how I could make it work.

“I'll think about it.” We walk a little farther, past the 7-Eleven and the Congregational Church. Another quarter-mile and we're firmly in suburbia. Most of the lights are already dark.

It's so quiet, when I finally turn to answer, I feel like I have to whisper. “Okay. I mean, sure. Yes. I'll come watch. When do you guys practice?”

He does a little jig, which makes me smile. “Excellent! Next practice is Monday afternoon.”

We walk past his house on the corner and around the block to mine. The whole way he's yammering on about practice and the season and the other guys and the coach. I try to smile at the appropriate places, but I can't stop thinking about how the cold air felt as I bared down on the puck. How different it was from the heat of the pizza kitchen and the lingering smell of gasoline after the Zamboni runs across the ice. I imagine a crowd cheering when I take a shot. I make a mental note to watch some hockey games on YouTube later.

“Well,” Jake says, clearing his throat. “See you later.”

“Yeah. Okay.” I give a little wave as I turn up the walk way to my house. Jake doesn't move until I'm inside. I watch him through the peephole. He looks at the house for a beat, and then nods before walking back the way we came.

I lean against the front door and think about Jake. And hockey. And then reality comes crashing down.
What am I thinking?
I imagine asking my parents to give me time off to play hockey, or more realistically, what I'm going to tell them to get away on Monday to go and watch practice.