Crazy in Love (10 page)

Pretzel Boss pulls out two Santa hats, floppy red numbers with the white ball tassel on the end. “I got these for you two. You can start wearing them next weekend.”

I consider telling him about my moral stand on Christmas-before-Thanksgiving, but he’s already mad at me for being late.

“Cool!” Robbie exclaims. “So we’ll be, like, Mr. and Mrs. Claus!”

“Never going to happen, Robbie my boy,” I whisper, after Pretzel Boss moves out of hearing range.

I’m not sure how much longer I can work here anyway. The rents will shower me with disappointment if I lose another job. But I refuse to work the Friday after Thanksgiving, commonly referred to in the mall biz as THE shopping day. I won’t miss Sandy’s big game. And that’s that. I haven’t asked for the day off yet because I’m pretty sure the only reason Pretzel Boss is keeping me on is that he needs me for THE shopping day of the year. If he can’t have me then, I think he’ll fire me on the spot.

As I take my turn twisting pretzels and sticking trays into the oven, I’m thinking that getting fired on the spot is looking better and better. Maybe I should tell Pretzel Boss right now that I refuse to work on THE day. Might as well get it over with and be rid of this job. Plus, I could tell the rents I did it for my sister Sandy.

On the other hand, maybe I shouldn’t get fired yet.

M.J.
(
who habitually kicks into whine mode the minute I step behind The Twisted Pretzel counter)
: Pretzels are embarrassing. It would be so much cooler if you’d get a job at Abercrombie. Or Hollister. Even the Gap or Banana Republic. Or Bebe! Then your friends would drop in to see you and use your discount!

The first hour we’re open is busier than I’ve ever seen it. All that shopping must make shoppers hungry. They order things like the Egg Pretzel, Bacon-and-Pretzel, and Cinnamon Swirl, with frosting.

“My turn to bake,” Robbie says, which means I have to take a turn at the counter.

People who do Christmas shopping apparently don’t believe in the Christmas spirit. And whoever claimed that the customer is always right certainly never worked at The Twisted Pretzel.

I pull on a fresh, clean pair of my fashionable transparent gloves and prepare to meet the public in my equally fashionable hat. For the next twenty minutes, it’s all I can do to keep our line down to six, which is our unofficial magic number for survival.

Then all of a sudden, there’s nobody. This is the way it always works. It’s almost like the customers huddle around the corner until their numbers increase past six, then rush the counter, like we’re in the Great Depression, and this is the free breadline. Somebody then sounds a silent whistle, and they magically disappear . . . until the next onslaught.

I take advantage of the down time to sprinkle candies on the Sweet-Treat Pretzels and peppermint on the Peppermint Pretzels. If I had to do this during rush hour, I would run the risk of being bodily assaulted by a whacked-out bargain hunter who believed my menial task was keeping her from getting the buy of the century.

I’m shaking those tasteless, multicolored candies onto pretzels when I hear the
chink, chink, chink
of a customer’s keys on the glass pretzel case. It’s a familiar sound, used by customers everywhere to get the peasants’ attention. I have half a mind to pretend I don’t get it.

Again comes the sound of keys rattling glass.

“May I help you?” I ask, in a tone that won’t win me any Employee of the Month awards. I look up at the offending customer.

But what I see are the big brown eyes of Jackson House.

Instinctively, I pull off my white hat, forgetting that I’ve pinned it in place with bobby pins. Pins and hair now stick up, and I slap at them with my plastic gloves.

“Hat, Mary Jane!” Pretzel Boss yells. “You want to get me shut down?”

I do. But I don’t have time to get into it now.

I replace my hat and move to the counter. A woman with at least fourteen shopping bags takes a spot behind Jackson.

“So, what’s good here?” Jackson asks, all kindness and full of niceness, as if I weren’t standing before him in plastic gloves and a triangular hat.

“Do you really want a pretzel?” I ask.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Mary Jane,” he says, “but I think your salesmanship could use a little work.”

The woman behind him clears her throat, as if in agreement.

I think I’m smiling, but the voices in my head are making it impossible for me to speak:

Jackson reaches into the pocket of his letter jacket and comes out with his wallet. “Guess you better give me a pretzel before the line stampedes me.”

“Which one?” I ask. “I mean, which pretzel?”

“Your pick.”

“You sure?” I ask, reaching into the case of pretzels.

“Hey, I trust you, Mary Jane.”

“Yeah? You’re the only one at Attila Ill who does.”

“That bad, huh?” he asks. “Is it my fault?”

The question surprises me. Is it? Is all of this Jackson’s fault? I can’t believe I never asked myself this question. I know what locker-room talk is. Was I the topic of conversation in the Attila Ill locker room? I don’t want to believe
my
Jackson House would do a thing like that. Lie. Spread rumors about me to beef up his guy-rep. But he and I are the only two people on earth who know what happened when we left Cassie’s together, that
nothing
happened. He could have made up anything.

“Did you say something about me?” I demand. “Like to the guys at school?” My heart is thumping, and the blood racing through my veins makes me short of breath.

The shopping-bag woman behind Jackson leans forward, listening, frowning.

And I discover I’m angry. At her. And at him. “Well? Did you?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, brow furrowed.

“Do I have to spell it out?” I snap.

His head jerks back as if I’ve slapped him. “No. If you’re asking me if I made up something about you, Mary Jane, the answer is no.”

The blood coursing through my veins comes to an abrupt stop. He’s hurt. I have hurt Jackson House.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he continues, calmly, softly, “especially to you, Mary Jane.”

“Especially to me?” I repeat.

The corners of his lips turn up slightly. “I admire you too much.”

“You do? Admire
me?
” I know. I’m in repeat mode again, but I can’t help myself. I can’t take my eyes off his eyes, his soft, brown, totally truth-telling eyes.

“Hurry it up, will you?” shouts the mad shopper, who obviously considers the show over.

Jackson smiles down at me. “Could I have my pretzel, ma’am?”

I give him my warmest, most admirable smile and select the biggest pretzel from the case, hoping he will accept these gestures as my apology. How could I ever have doubted this man? “I’m giving you our specialty Popcorn Pretzel,” I explain.

“Which would explain the popcorn kernels all over it,” he observes. “How did you stick them on there?”

“Don’t ask.” I place the bumpy pretzel on a wrapper and present it to Jackson. “Specialty of the house.” Forever after, I will call it “The Jackson House,” at least in my head.

“Perfect,” he says. “Popcorn, in honor of our first night together. ” He winks.

I blush, which I know because my cheeks feel hotter than the pretzel oven.

When he takes the pretzel from me, his fingers touch my plastic-wrapped fingers and linger way longer than necessary for the pretzel exchange.

He did that on purpose!
M.J.
screams.

Nuh-uh. You’re such a klutz. He was probably afraid you’d drop the thing,
Plain Jane
insists.

The woman behind Jackson makes a noise that sounds like “Harrumph.”

The line is a dozen people long.

“What do I owe you for this masterpiece?” Jackson asks, grinning, showing a dimple.

“Owe me?” Our fingers are still touching.

“Problem, Mary Jane?” Pretzel Boss asks, looking over my shoulder. His breath smells like the Fire-Eater’s Red-Hot Pretzel.

I tell Jackson how much his pretzel costs, and he counts out the change exactly, forking it over in pennies, nickels, and dimes. I think he’s taking his time on purpose. It’s all I can do not to burst out laughing.

“There,” he says, plopping down the final penny.

I slide the change into my palm. “Nice doing business with you, sir. Come again.”

“Oh, I will,” he promises. “See ya.”

And I totally believe him.

13

The rest of the morning,
I keep making mistakes. I give the woman who orders the Elvis Pretzel the Lawrence Welk instead. I give the Chubby Checker Twist to a kid who asked for Chocolate Dream.

My heart isn’t in my work . . . because it’s with Jackson House.

“You better let me wait on customers,” Robbie says after I mess up three orders in a row.

But I turn out to be as lousy making the pretzels as I was serving them. I put salt on the Sweet Cinnamon Pretzel and red hots in the Tangerine Twist. Since the pretzels have to be thrown out, Pretzel Boss bans me from kitchen duty, and I end up back behind the counter.

“Mary Jane!” Cassie calls. She’s wearing her new knee-high boots with a leather skirt. No triangle hat. She walks up to the front, ignoring the glares from real customers. “When do you get off?”

“Five!” I shout over to her.

“When you’re done, meet me at Mahoney’s!” she shouts back.

I nod, and she waves and walks off. Sometimes, if we’re both dateless, we meet at the mall and get a hamburger at Mahoney’s, then check out the movies or go to the game together. If Cassie knew Jackson’s fingers had been touching mine, she’d never invite me to anything again.

I’m counting the minutes until five o’clock when I glance down the line and see Jackson House at the very end of the line.

I process orders faster than any server has ever processed orders at The Twisted Pretzel. Finally, I call the next customer with “Next.” And it’s Jackson.

He stands in front of me, on the other side of the counter. Smiling, dimpling, if there is such a word.

Pretzel Boss stops what he’s doing and frowns at us.

“Do you have any pretzels?” Jackson asks, without a trace of amusement.

“Yes, we do,” I answer, equally serious.

“That’s great!” he exclaims, as if I’ve just informed him we’re running a special on the secret to life.

“What kind of pretzel do you want?” I ask, using every ounce of willpower to keep this looking serious, professional.

He scratches his chin and narrows his brown eyes. “Well, what kinds of pretzels do you have?” He waits for my answer.

So I begin. “Apple Pretzel, A La Mode Pretzel, Blueberry Pretzel, Berry Berry Pretzel, Candy-Coated Pretzel, Charlie Chaplin Pretzel, Chocolate Dream Pretzel, Chubby Checker Twist Pretzel, Davy Crockett Pretzel, Elvis Pretzel ...” And I keep going until I’ve listed all fifty varieties, as the line grows and grows.

“I believe I’ll take the regular pretzel with salt,” Jackson says when I’m all done.

I give him the pretzel, and he leaves.

But an hour later he’s back for more. The crowd has thinned, and Robbie and I are both waiting on customers until we need to bake more pretzels.

This time Jackson chooses the Romeo, a handsome garlic pretzel with red hearts all over it. As far as I know, nobody has ever ordered it before.

“You must really love pretzels,” Robbie observes, ringing up the Romeo.

Instead of directing his answer at Robbie, Jackson turns to me with a long, slow smile. “Nope. I hate the things. Never touch ’em.”

Finally, the clock admits it’s five o’clock. I whip off my hat and gloves and try to smooth down my hair. Then I grab my coat off the rack in back. “When are you going home, Robbie?” I ask.

“Closing. I need the extra hours.”

“Well, thanks for covering for me today. I know I was even worse than usual.”

Robbie inches toward me, his eyes big as Ping-Pong balls, looking where they always look. “Mary Jane, do you want to go out with me after closing?”

I smile down on him. “Not going to happen, Robbie. But thanks anyway.” You have to hand it to the kid for persistence.

I make a pit stop, brush my hair, apply lipstick, and head out to Mahoney’s. I would rather go straight home and lie on my bed, stare at the black ceiling, and dream of Jackson House. But I promised Cassie I’d meet her. I’ll just hope I can act normal. As I’ve thought so many times before, it was very smart of God not to let us read one another’s minds. If we could read other people’s thoughts, I’ll bet nobody would have friends.

I round the corner to Mahoney’s and stop. Cassie’s sitting at a table out front. And with her are Samantha, Nicole . . .

And Star.

At first,
Plain Jane
is so overcome that she doesn’t know what to say about this new development. So she falls back on the old standbys:
Your hair looks horrible. You’re wearing the wrong clothes. You’re fat.
Then Star looks directly at me with a glare that would terrify an ax murderer.
Flee the building!
Plain Jane
shouts.
Step away from the mall!