The Fake Out: Chapter 4

“Don’t you look nice,” Mama said. “Another night out?”

I shot her a small smile. “Yep.”

Nope. At least not the kind of night she thought.

After the bills started arriving, I knew we were in trouble and the only way out I could see was to make extra money. But I’d refused to tell Mama about the money or the job. The former because I didn’t want her to worry; the latter because I knew she’d try to talk me out of it.

I tugged on the fitted sparkly tank top I was wearing, something I wouldn’t normally be caught dead in because its itchiness far outweighed its cuteness. But to keep up the facade, I had to dress the part. As painful as that might be. Like these ridiculous high-heeled boots peeking out from under my jeans. I wanted to burn them. Instead, I would be wearing them all night.

“I’m so happy you’re getting out and having fun.” She shuffled to the small dining table and sat down slowly and carefully.

She’d insisted on making a simple dinner of chicken and rice tonight. Sometimes she pushed herself too hard just to prove she could do it. But tonight, she seemed steady on her feet and the pinched look she often got around her eyes when she was tired was missing.

“You’re too young to spend your Friday nights with your mother.”

“I like spending time with my mom.” I pressed a kiss to her forehead before checking the time on my phone. Where in the heck was Iris? “Can I get you anything before I go?”

“No, I’m fine.” She patted my cheek. “I love you, Maebe-Baby, and I’m so proud of you.”

The front door slammed, and Iris clomped into the kitchen in her black army boots and knee-high socks dotted with tiny skulls. “I’m here.”

“Hi, sunshine,” Mama said, patting Iris on the cheek when she was near enough. Mama refused to admit her little “ray of sunshine” had turned into something closer to a bleak, cheerless landscape.

“Sorry for being late,” she said as she wandered over to the fridge. “The car was acting weird.”

Oh, great. We did not need car troubles right now. Mine was already twenty years old and held together with duct tape and prayer. Mama’s car was newer and more reliable, so Iris drove it for the time being.

“Weird how?” I asked, already moving money around in my brain to cover the cost of fixing it.

“The battery light came on a couple of times.” She grabbed a pitcher of grape Kool-Aid from the fridge and set it on the counter.

Mama shot me a worried look.

I rushed to reassure her. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll take it into Joe’s on Monday when he’s open, and Iris can drive my car.”

My sister grunted behind an oversized plastic Scooby-Doo cup. “Your car is a piece of shit.”

Mama whipped her head around. “Iris, how many times do I have to tell you? Watch your mouth.”

“I am almost eighteen,” she said, grabbing a handful of animal crackers.

Mama narrowed her eyes. “As long as you live in my house, you’re going to watch your mouth. I don’t much care when the government decides you’re an adult.”

“Whatever. I’m going to do it eventually. You don’t want me learning it on the streets, do you?” She tossed a cracker in her mouth and turned to me. “I hate your dumb car. The AC doesn’t work.”

“Roll down a window.”

“It’s hot,” she whined.

“You won’t melt.”

She wiped purple Kool-Aid from her top lip and flung herself at the table next to Mama. “Whatever.”

“You’re my favorite sister,” I said.

“I’m your only sister.”

I ruffled her hair as I headed out of the kitchen. “That’s good news for you or your ranking would probably not be quite so high.”

“Be safe tonight,” Mama called as I passed into the living room.

“Yes, ma’am.” I poked my head around the corner and sent Iris a pointed look. “You’ll be here all night, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “Mama and I are gonna watch TV.”

As I was leaving, I heard Mama say, “What do you want to watch?”

“There’s a new Swedish police procedural about a serial killer terrorizing a small lake town. It’s filmed with one camera and all in black and white,” Iris said. “Don’t worry. It has subtitles.”

“That sounds… fun,” I heard Mama say as I pulled the door closed behind me, almost grateful I had to go to work and miss it.

Forty-five minutes later, I was sitting in my car, giving myself a pep talk. In front of me, Chicky’s Bar and Grill stood in all its glory.

“You can do this, Mae. You are strong and smart, and you can do anything you put your mind to.” I stared at myself in the visor mirror, shuddering at the image.

It was bad enough I had to cake on the makeup—“a Chicky’s girl always shows the world her best face”—or that I have to wear my contacts instead of my glasses—“a Chicky’s girl has an image to uphold”—but my strawberry-blonde hair was now in two braided pigtails that hung to past my shoulders. Each tied with red gingham ribbon.

Furthermore, the braids were the least offensive part of the Chicky’s uniform as far as I was concerned.

Four months ago, when the medical bills started coming in, it became painfully clear we were in a whole lot of trouble. Even with the decent health insurance she’d had through her job as a nursing assistant, the deductible and out-of-pocket expenses were shockingly high. Besides, she’d had to quit her job since she wasn’t physically capable of performing it. Just like that, we were down to a one-income household.

But this was what I was good at: being the person in our family who could figure things out. It was Ali’s cousin who’d given me the idea. She had worked at Chicky’s and often bragged about how much she made in tips even though she only worked a couple of nights a week.

Still, I was not Chicky’s Girl material.

Then I learned how much Mama’s medications would be each month.

After a little liquid courage, I went online and applied. The application required a photo and after some debate (and more wine), I found a photo of me in a bathing suit from college. It wasn’t entirely accurate. I’d gained a little bit since then but I’d never been thin to begin with.

Granny, when she was alive, used to say I was “pleasantly plump with junk in the trunk and girls in the front.” It always made me laugh. I wasn’t petite, that was for sure. My pants said size 16 or 18 and I felt comfortable in them. That’s all that mattered to me.

I didn’t expect a callback for an interview. But when it came, I pieced together an outfit, then forced myself into the car. By the time I pulled into the Chicky’s parking lot, I’d convinced myself this was the right thing to do. Until I sat down across from Shane Sullivan.

He was the worst.

That was apparent right from the beginning when all his interview questions were directed to my chest. Halfway through, he made me try on the uniform—Daisy Duke cutoffs and tiny gingham shirt that buttoned (barely) and tied far above the waist. I felt naked.

“’Course, you’re a little thicker than most the other girls, but I think you’ll work out.” He leered. He was leering. My skin crawled.

I was two seconds away from launching into my rant about the size of an average American woman, and how the media had so distorted our expectations that anything bigger than a size 4 was plus-sized, and exactly where he could take his stupid comments and creepy staring and his ridiculous job.

But I needed the job and it wouldn’t be good to tip my hand about my propensity to share my opinions. He’d figure that out in time.

I’d been working here every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evening for three months now and still I had to talk myself into walking into the building every single time. But I reminded myself that the tips I made over the weekend would cover all of Mama’s therapy this next week and a little toward the medical debt. Mama was worth it.

“Just a heads-up,” Amanda, a Chicky’s veteran server, said. “There’s a bachelor party tonight.”

I groaned. I’d like to say the customers of this fine establishment where of a discriminating variety, but they weren’t. While we did occasionally have families come in, most customers seemed to be slight variations of Shane. But the bachelor parties were the worst. Aside from being loud, they had the nasty habit of getting a little touchy-feely. On top of that, they never left decent tips. All work and no reward.

“Let me guess? It’s one of my tables?” I began reciting another pep talk in my head. The one where I convince myself that someday I’ll look back on this experience fondly.

Amanda patted my back in sympathy. “Maybe they won’t be idiots.”

They were idiots.

Most of them had clearly been drinking well before they’d even arrived. The groom was wearing one of those stupid hats with the built-in drink holders and straws, which he thought was hilarious, and he refused to drink any other way. Another man insisted on making a speech for each new round. He’d blather on and make everyone in their vicinity cheer for the “dude getting married.”

“Hey, Saaamantha,” the drunk guy at the end of the table yelled at me, waving his arm.

It should be noted I played a game with myself when I worked at Chicky’s. I imagined I was a character in a novel. Her name was Samantha (as my nametag read), and she was a shameless flirt. Samantha had started out a shy, innocent country girl until I realized shameless flirts made better tips.

“Hiya,” I said, laying on the Southern drawl a little thick. Because better tips. “What can I do for you, handsome?”

He crooked a finger. “Come here.”

Tucking an empty drink tray under my arm, I leaned down. “Yes?”

“Little closer, babe.”

Babe. Ugh. I bent closer, until I was only a few inches from his face. His breath was hot and rancid with alcohol. I bit back the strong desire to gag.

Samantha plastered on a smile; inside, Maebell seethed.

“I just wanted to put this”—he held up a folded piece of paper—“right here.” With a wink, he tucked it in the back pocket of my shorts and gave my backside a squeeze.

I froze. Samantha shook her head and stepped aside for Maebell.

“You did not just do that,” I said, my voice quiet.

His grin was sloppy. “Call me.”

“What should I call you?” I straightened, gripping the tray in my hand with all the rage in my body. Which was a lot at this point. I hated this job.

I hated a lot of things lately.

He tried to wink but it looked like he was having a seizure instead. “You can call me anything you want, babe.”

“How about jackass?” I said sweetly. The next thing that happened was completely not my fault. I was trying to get away, honest. Could I help it if his head got in the way of the tray?

Shane didn’t see it that way either.

“Mae, this is the third customer who’s complained about you this month,” he said when he cornered me at the end of my shift. To my chest. My height plus these stupid high-heeled boots put me a good six inches taller than him. But that didn’t have anything to do with it. He was just a pig. A short pig. A short pig with all the power.

“So, I’m improving?” The month before I’d had twice as many complaints.

“Look, if this happens again, I’m going to have to let you go.”

My heart thumped against my rib cage. I couldn’t lose this job. “I’ll do better.”

For once, he met my eyes. “I’m serious. I can’t have this. We have a reputation to uphold here at Chicky’s.”

“Got it. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

As he walked away, I fantasized about putting a pig in his office. Just for fun.