Chapter 7

CLUBBING

Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just heading out to the country club. Why, yes, I do like to spend a great deal of time there. No, I don’t play tennis; I mostly spend my time at the restaurant. It’s ever so droll!

Sorry. I start talking like that whenever I go to the club for work. It’s completely involuntary and usually only stops when Brainzilla starts mocking me.

We take the bus to the club whenever they need us, which is a lot during their busy seasons and not so much the rest of the time. But, hey, we’ll take what we can get.

The city bus huffs up in a cloud of carbon monoxide and belches to a stop. “Here.” Brainzilla is waiting with me, and I hand her two crisp dollar bills.

“How did you know?” she asks, tucking her long blond hair behind her ear. Brainzilla is one of the prettiest girls in school, and a total clotheshorse. She spends every spare cent on clothes and is, therefore, always short for the bus.

My best friend blushes and says, “Sorry I’m short, but this scarf was on sale—”

“It’s great. Just hit me back on the way home out of your tips.” Brainzilla always makes a killing at the club. Gorgeousness + excellent manners = serious cash. The cash I earn is much less serious.

When we arrive, we’re greeted by two kinds of people: people who work there and people who play there. The people who play there are mostly okay, but I always feel a little dingy around them. They’re shiny. Shiny, shiny people. Their teeth are white and even, and their skin is all glowy, and their clothes always look brand-new.

The people who work there are like me and Brainzilla. You know—kinda deprived. Mostly broke.

Usually, I start out doing prep for the kitchen, but when the main floor gets busy, I waitress with Brainzilla. So once I’ve set up all the garnishes, I grab my pad and pencil and head out to Table 16 where—surprise!—Marty Bloom is waiting for me with his entire family.

Actually, it’s interesting to see Marty here, instead of at school. His little sister leans against him, like she thinks that he’s the greatest big brother ever. His mom is very smiley, and his dad is the kind of guy who seems to always be clapping everyone on the back. They seem really nice, and when they place their order, Marty’s mom apologizes for wanting her sauce on the side, which I think is cute.

So this raises the question. Why such a Hater, Marty Bloom?

I’m about to head over to check on Table 4 with a pitcher of water, when I nearly run into Marty, who is headed for the men’s room. “Hey, Maggie,” Marty says. “You look pretty.”

I stop, too surprised to say “thank you” or even “my name is Cuckoo,” while he doesn’t even break his stride—just heads right into the restroom, as if giving me a compliment is the most natural thing in the world.

I don’t know what to make of it. Is it a sign of remorse for torturing Zitsy? A sign of an imminent zombie apocalypse?

Or maybe just a sign that I look relatively cute in a black skirt and apron?