“One strawberry milkshake, gotcha. And for you?”
Brandon didn’t look up from the menu. “Do you have 7-Up?”
“We have Sprite,” Amber said.
“That’s nice,” Brandon said, raising his eyes to her slowly, “but I didn’t ask if you had Sprite. I asked if you had 7-Up.”
Amber’s headache started to spike again, but she kept her smile and smothered her words. She needed this job. The Dark Places convention was in a few months and tickets were not cheap.
“I’m really sorry, we don’t have 7-Up,” she said brightly, like she’d just been told she’d won a bunny in a raffle. “Would you like Sprite instead?”
Brandon took off his glasses and cleaned them. “If I had wanted Sprite, I’d have asked for Sprite, now wouldn’t I?”
“Please excuse Brandon,” Dan said, grinning. “He’s in one of his moods. Brandon, out of all of the drinks that they have here, which one do you want?”
Brandon let out a heavy sigh. “I suppose I’ll have a milkshake.”
“Okay then,” Amber said, pencil at the ready. “What flavour?”
“Well, I don’t know. What flavour do you recommend?”
“I’ve always loved chocolate.”
“Then I’ll have vanilla,” Brandon said, and put his glasses back on.
Dan was trying not to laugh at the antics of his buddy. Amber stood there and smiled. “Sure thing,” she said. “Can I get you guys anything else?”
“If we think of anything,” said Dan, “we’ll be sure to ask.”
Amber smiled and left them, fighting a swirling tide of nausea. She got through the swinging doors to the kitchen and leaned against the wall for a moment, waiting for the feeling to subside. When she was sure that she wasn’t going to pass out or puke, she gave in the order and stood beside Sally, both of them making milkshakes.
“What are your guys like?” Amber asked, ignoring her surging headache.
“Two businessmen,” Sally said, “slumming it, flirting really badly with me and destined to end up with sauce splattered down their shirts. What about yours? The one in the glasses looks cute.”
“He’s a tool.”
“But not that cute,” Sally said quickly. “In fact, if you had let me finish before interrupting, you would have heard me say he looks cute, but, on closer inspection, he’s obviously a tool.”
Amber grinned. “You were going to say that?”
Sally nodded. “If you had just let me finish, instead of babbling on like you always do.”
“I am a babbler.”
“Yes, you are.”
Amber placed the milkshakes on a tray, took a deep breath, and went back out.
Brandon watched her walk over, and Amber tried for a smile. It wasn’t convincing, but it’d do. She didn’t care about the tip anymore – all she wanted was for these two guys to leave, to take their bad vibes with them, and allow her to wallow in whatever sickly unpleasantness had been threatening to engulf her all day.
“Now then—” she started, but the headache sent fresh needles of pain straight to the back of her eyes and she winced, and the tray overbalanced and the milkshakes slid sideways, toppling off the edge and smashing to the ground.
The sound of breaking glass swept the headache away, and as Amber’s vision cleared she could see that the milkshakes had gone everywhere. They’d drenched her sneakers and splattered the cuffs of Brandon’s jeans.
Dan howled with laughter, but Brandon glared at her, heat rising in his face.
“Oh my God,” Amber said. “I am so sorry. I am so incredibly sorry.”
“You …”
“I’ll get this cleaned up. I am so sorry.”
“You stupid fat pig.”
Amber froze.
“You clumsy, ugly little troll,” Brandon said. “You did that on purpose.”
“I didn’t, I swear—”
“You dumped it over me on purpose.”
“It was an accident.”
Sally hurried over, mop already in hand. “It’s okay, no big deal, we’ll get this—”
Brandon jabbed a finger at Amber. “She did it on purpose.”
Sally laughed. “I’m sure it was just—”
“I want her fired.”
Sally stopped mopping, and her laugh turned to a bemused smile. “She’s not going to be fired for dropping a tray, all right? It happens all the time. How about this? Your meal is on the house.”
“Our meal is on the floor,” Brandon said. “Where’s the manager? I want to speak to the manager. I want this fat pig fired.”
Sally’s face turned to stone. “Get out,” she said. “Both of you. Out. You’re not welcome here.”
Dan held up his hands in mock-innocence. “I didn’t do anything,” he said. “I was just sitting here. What did I do wrong?”
“You picked the wrong friend,” said Sally. “Go on. Out.”
Brandon kept his gaze fixed on Amber. His face had gone pale and rigid, like he was about to dive at her. Dan had to practically drag him to the door.
Sally stood there with her hands on her hips. “Wow,” she said when they had gone. “What a couple of tools. You okay, honey?”
“I’m fine.”
Sally patted her shoulder. “They’re morons. Don’t listen to a word they say.”
Sally helped Amber clean up the mess. The two businessmen sneaked glances whenever they could, and Amber couldn’t blame them. Even mopping the floor, Sally was pretty. She didn’t get red-faced with the exertion like Amber did, and her hair didn’t fall out of its ponytail, like Amber’s did. She even looked good in the Firebird T-shirt.
Amber tried her very best not to look at her own reflection in the mirrors, though. She was in a bad enough mood already.
The rest of her shift dragged by. When it ended, she pulled on a fresh T-shirt and shorts that weren’t yellow, said goodbye to the cook and to Sally, and stepped out on to the sidewalk. It was already getting dark, but the heat was waiting for her, and her forehead prickled with sweat as her lungs filled with warm air. She’d spent her whole life in Florida, been born and raised in Orlando, and she still reacted to the heat like a tourist. It was why, despite having a big, two-storey house to call home, her bedroom was on the first floor, where the air was fractionally cooler, especially on a day like today, when the clouds were gathering. Rain was on its way. Lightning, too, most likely.
Amber had a fifteen-minute walk home. Other kids would probably have been able to call Mom or Dad for a ride, but Bill and Betty had very firm ideas about what independence meant. Amber was used to it by now. If she was lucky, she’d get to the front door before she got drenched.
She crossed the street and slipped down the narrow lane that led to the dance studio she had hated as a child. Too uncoordinated, that was her problem. That and the fact that the dance teacher had hated her with startling venom. Amber was never going to be as pretty as the pretty girls or as graceful as the graceful girls, and she had come to terms with that, even as a kid. Her dance teacher, however, seemed to take issue with it.
Amber got to the badly painted sign of the