I’m grateful, suddenly, Ethan busted into the account and kept ribbing Big League Burger all day. So grateful I’m willing to skip into the deli and take the blame with a big fat smile on my face. It’ll be worth it. Hell, I’ll keep on doing it. Just one more thing to tack to the laundry list of things Ethan has started that I’ve had to finish.
There are at least six texts from Pepper by the time I emerge out of the subway, and another few from my dad and from Ethan that I’ve also pointedly ignored. I’m turning the corner when my phone starts to buzz in my pocket — my mom’s calling. I brace myself. I can ignore 99 percent of the people who have my phone number, but I can’t ignore her.
“Where are you?”
“Down the street, why?”
The words come out in a rush, as if I’ve been running. And granted, I have basically been power walking like I’m on fire, but it’s more than that — I’m terrified in that moment that the shoe we’ve been ignoring just dropped. That something happened to Grandma Belly, and not only was I not there, but I was cavorting with the enemy when it happened.
“Get here. Now.”
Okay, scratch that. I’m just in a volcanic amount of trouble. And the only thing worse than my dad being upset with me is my mom being upset with me.
I’m about to open my mouth and tattle on Ethan like the total yellowbelly I apparently am, but my mom beats me to the punch.
“The place is packed. We have customers out the door and not enough hands in the world to serve them. Wherever you are, Jack, RUN.”
For a moment I’m certain it’s a prank. And then I round the corner and see it with my own eyes: a sea of people, so far down the block they’re waiting past the old bookstore, past the bodega and the locksmith and the hole-in-the-wall sex toy shop that doesn’t open until eight o’clock. People of all ages, with backpacks and briefcases and strollers, all of them craning to get a glimpse at the door and how many people are in front of them.
I haven’t seen this many people clustered outside of a shop since the damn cronut.
I take off at a sprint, the anger completely stunned out of me. Some people grumble about me cutting the line—“I work here,” I mutter, which perks a few impatient customers up — and by the time I get up to the counter, I see my mom beaming an almost-manic grin at the register, and we’ve even opened the second one, which is something I don’t think we ever do outside of big events like Pride spilling in more customers, or that summer a Groupon tour ended on our block.
“What happened?” I demand, diving for an extra apron. If Ethan and Mom are already up front, that means I’ll be joining Dad in the back for prep. Thank god this insanity will spare me from parental wrath for at least as long as it takes to get all these people fed.
“Ethan’s tweets!” Mom chirps. Before I even feel my face start to pinch, she adds quickly, “Both of your tweets. After they went viral, I guess…”
I blink. “Wait, so — I do one shady tweet and get in trouble, and Ethan tweets a whole bunch of wildly rude things and—”
My mom leans forward, grabs my chin, and steps on her tiptoes to kiss me on the cheek. “We’ll talk disciplining later. Sandwiches now. Go, go, go.”
For the next three hours until closing, I am barely able to come up for air. I can make any of our sandwiches with my eyes closed, and by the time eight o’clock finally rolls around, I practically am. The line only seems to get longer, and the shenanigans more absurd — there are bloggers taking pictures, a man dressed in a shirt with printed grilled cheeses on it who calls himself a “grilled cheese authority,” teens much trendier than I am taking side-by-side pictures of our Grandma’s Special with Big League Burger’s for their Instagram stories.
And more importantly, a shit ton of cash going into the register.
At the end of the day, when we finally close the door on the last customer and lock it, we all collapse in the Time-Out Booth, wheezing as though we’ve just run the New York marathon.
“I can’t feel my feet,” my mom groans.
I lay my head down on the table. “My entire body is covered in brie and honey mustard.”
I can hear the smirk in Ethan’s voice even with my arm covering my eyes. “Two girls asked for my number.”
“You already have a boyfriend,” I remind him, poking one eye out to glare.
“And I told them that.”
“But you didn’t think to mention you have an identical twin?”
“Okay, we need to strategize,” says my dad, clapping his hands together. “If the rest of the week is going to be anything like this, we need to have all hands on deck. Hannah, if you want to check on stock, I’ll start calling all the day shifters to see if anyone wants overtime. Boys, if you could scrub down and close up shop for the night—”
“Wait. That’s it?”
My dad pauses, halfway up from his seat. “What’s it?”
My face is volcanically warm. I’m not a narc. I’m really not. If I were, Ethan’s golden-child status would have been knocked down more than a few notches years ago — he’s been sneaking beer out with friends in the park and even smoking the occasional joint since we were fourteen.
But the double standard has never been more unfair than it is right now.
My mom gets it before my dad does because she is all too aware of the quiet way I keep score. She puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Your father already had a talking-to with Ethan before the huge rush of people. No more tweeting. At least, no more like the ones you sent today.”
I have to bite my cheek to stop myself from saying anything else.
“Agreed,” says my dad. He hovers at the edge of the table, for some reason fixing a look at me instead of Ethan. After a moment, he sighs. “You have my permission to tweet from the account again. But I need it reined in. Ethan, if you’re going to tweet from it, you have to run it past Jack first. Understand?”
I blink up at him, not sure I’ve heard correctly.
“Run it past Jack?” Ethan protests.
“Jack managed to keep it somewhat tone-appropriate. Besides, he’s on the Twitter account more than you and spends more time on the floor. I trust his judgment.”
Dad claps me on the back as he walks away, and Mom smirks as she gets up to follow him. I can’t help but feel a little smug about the whole thing — at least until I look up and see Ethan’s face, and the flicker of hurt on it that passes so fast, I almost miss it.
“Okay, then,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “It’s all you, bro.”
I lean back in the booth, trying to dial down my satisfaction.
“We’ll do it together,” I offer.
Ethan shakes his head. “You heard Dad. You’re the one they trust.” He says the words like they’re only the edge of something he really wants to say. But before I can press him, he says, “Just make sure to give ’em hell.”
And then, like someone dropping a hammer into my stomach, the afternoon comes rushing back. “About that.”
Ethan leans forward. “What is it?”
Ethan’s my brother and I love him and all, but we don’t have one of those psychic twin vibes. When he sprains his ankle in soccer practice, I don’t feel some phantom twinge across the field, and when one of us is upset about something, the other one usually doesn’t notice until we say something point-blank. Which is how I know my face must look like a real mess if Ethan’s asking me that.