The next day, Marcus, I decided something. I decided to find out how people at school might react if one of the students never came back.
As the song goes, “You are lost and gone forever, oh my darling, Valentine.”
I lean back against a poster locked behind a plastic frame and I close my eyes.
I’m listening to someone give up. Someone I knew. Someone I liked.
I’m listening. But still, I’m too late.
My heart is pounding and I can’t stand still. I walk across the marble floor to the box office. A small sign hangs by a chain and a tiny suction cup. CLOSED-SEE YOU TOMORROW! From out here, it doesn’t look so cramped. But in there, it felt like a fishbowl.
My only interaction came when people slid money over to my side of the glass and I slid back their tickets. Or when a coworker let themselves in through the rear door.
Other than that, if I wasn’t selling tickets, I was reading. Or staring out of the fishbowl, into the lobby, watching Hannah. And some nights were worse than others. Some nights I watched to make sure she buttered the popcorn all the way through. Which seems silly now, and obsessive, but that’s what I did.
Like the night Bryce Walker came. He arrived with his girlfriend-of-the-moment and wanted me to charge her the under-twelve rate.
“She won’t be watching the movie anyway,” he said. “You know what I mean, Clay?” Then he laughed.
I didn’t know her. She might’ve been a student from another school. One thing was clear, she didn’t seem to think it was funny. She placed her purse on the counter. “I’ll pay for my own ticket, then.”
Bryce moved her purse aside and paid the full amount. “Just relax,” he told her. “It was a joke.”
About halfway through the movie, while I sold tickets for the next show, that girl came tearing out of the theater holding her wrist. Maybe crying. And Bryce was nowhere to be seen.
I kept watching the lobby, waiting for him to show. But he never did. He stayed behind to finish watching the movie he had paid for.
But when the movie was over, he leaned against the concession counter, talking Hannah’s ear off as everyone else left. And he stayed there while the new people came in. Hannah filled drink orders, handed out candy, gave back change, and laughed at Bryce. Laughed at whatever he said.
The entire time, I wanted to flip the Closed sign over. I wanted to march into the lobby and ask him to leave. The movie was over and he didn’t need to be here anymore.
But that was Hannah’s job. She should have asked him to leave. No, she should have wanted him to leave.
After selling my last ticket and turning over the sign, I exited through the box office door, locked it behind me, and went into the lobby. To help Hannah clean up. To ask about Bryce.
“Why do you think that girl ran out of here like that?” I asked.
Hannah stopped wiping the counter and looked me straight in the eye. “I know who he is, Clay. I know what he’s like. Believe me.”
“I know,” I said. I looked down and touched a carpet stain with the toe of my shoe. “I was just wondering, then, why’d you keep talking to him?”
She didn’t answer. Not right away.
But I couldn’t raise my eyes to face her. I didn’t want to see a look of disappointment or frustration in her eyes. I didn’t want to see those kinds of emotions directed at me.
Eventually, she said the words that ran through my mind the rest of that night: “You don’t need to watch out for me, Clay.”
But I did, Hannah. And I wanted to. I could have helped you. But when I tried, you pushed me away.
I can almost hear Hannah’s voice speaking my next thought for me. “Then why didn’t you try harder?”
CASSETTE 4: SIDE A
On my way back, the red hand flashes, but I run through the crosswalk anyway. The parking lot holds even fewer cars than before. But still, no Mom’s.
A few doors down from Rosie’s Diner, I stop running. I lean my back against a pet store window, trying to catch my breath. Then I lean forward, hands on my knees, hoping to slow everything down before she arrives.
Impossible. Because even though my legs stopped running, my mind keeps going. I let myself slide down against the cold glass, knees bent, trying so hard to hold back tears.
But time’s running out. She’ll be here soon.
Drawing in a full breath, I push myself up, walk over to Rosie’s, and pull open the door.
Warm air rushes out, smelling like a mixture of hamburger grease and sugar. Inside, three of the five booths along the wall are taken. One with a boy and a girl drinking milkshakes and munching popcorn from the Crestmont. The other two are filled with students studying. Textbooks cover the tabletops, leaving just enough room for drinks and a couple of baskets of fries. Thankfully, the booth farthest back is occupied. It’s not a question I need to consider, whether to sit there or not.
Taped to one of the pinball machines is a hand-scribbled Out of Order sign. A senior I sort of recognize stands in front of the other machine, banging away.
As Hannah suggested, I sit at the empty counter.
Behind the counter, a man in a white apron sorts silverware into two plastic tubs. He gives me a nod. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I slide a menu out from between two silver napkin holders. The front of the menu tells a lengthy story about Rosie’s, with black-and-white photos spanning the last four decades. I flip it over, but nothing on the menu looks good to me. Not now.
Fifteen minutes. That’s how long Hannah said to wait. Fifteen minutes and then I should order.
Something was wrong when Mom called. Something was wrong with me, and I know she heard it in my voice. But on her way over, will she listen to the tapes to find out why?
I am such an idiot. I should have told her I would go get them. But I didn’t do that, so now I have to wait and find out.
The boy who was eating popcorn asks for a key to the bathroom. The man behind the counter points to the wall. Two keys hang from brass hooks. One key has a blue plastic dog attached to it. The other, a pink elephant. He grabs the blue dog and heads down the hall.
After storing the plastic tubs beneath the counter, the man unscrews the tops to a dozen salt and pepper shakers, paying no attention to me. And that’s fine.
“Did you order yet?”
I swivel around. Mom sits on the stool next to me and pulls out a menu. Beside her, on the counter, is Hannah’s shoebox.
“Are you staying?” I ask.
If she stays, we can talk. I don’t mind. It would be nice to free my thoughts for a while. To take a break.
She looks me in the eyes and smiles. Then she places a hand over her stomach and forces her smile into a frown. “That’s a bad idea, I think.”
“You’re not fat, Mom.”
She slides the box of tapes over to me. “Where’s your friend? Weren’t you working with someone?”
Right. A school project. “He had to, you know, he’s in the bathroom.”
Her eyes look past me, over my shoulder, for just a second. And I might be wrong, but I think she checked to see if both keys were hanging on the wall.
Thank God they weren’t.
“Did you bring enough money?” she asks.
“For?”
“For something to eat.” She replaces her menu then taps a fingernail against my menu. “The chocolate malteds are to die for.”
“You’ve eaten here?” I’m a little surprised. I’ve never seen adults in Rosie’s before.
Mom laughs. She places a hand on top of my head and uses her thumb to smooth out the wrinkles on my forehead. “Don’t look so amazed, Clay. This place has been around forever.” She pulls out a ten-dollar bill and lays it on top of the shoebox. “Have what you want, but have a malted shake for me.”
When she stands, the bathroom door squeaks open. I turn my head and watch the guy rehang the blue dog key. He apologizes to his girlfriend for taking so long and kisses her on the forehead before sitting down.