dedicated to @neverrland for athena

05: Such an Idiot

            Dev’s Diner, on a Saturday morning, is buzzing with activity. The squeaky door which offers a divider between the ladies bathroom and main floor brushes heavily against the white linoleum, sensible black pumps stepping through it. Cassandra flies by, hot plates of breakfast in her hands, calling out for a “Table 7 with pancakes, hash browns and a full English breakfast”, to which a family of five raise their hands and signal for the food to be delivered to them. The squeezy bottles of ketchup and mustard are collected from a display against the far wall by a middle aged man, who then returns to his single table, pouring red and yellow all over his fries and burger, his stubby fingers gather the double cheeseburger in his hands, and when he finally takes a bite, his eyes flutter shut, and then he places the burger back on the plate, right next to the crispy fries, leaving remnants of mustard and ketchup around his mouth.

            The girl who has just exited the bathroom moves towards the counter, and moves the front of her foot to rub against the back of her bare leg, leaning against the counter towards the two out of three waitresses, Antonia, who stares back with blank eyes and red lipstick, she nods her head as the girl says something to her, eyes flickering to the door when it opens and Greg and Abel pass through the threshold, heading for a booth at the back where there’s an array of signatures and messages such as “Sexi Lexi spreads her legs” which have admittedly, had a decent attempt of being scribbled over or erased, but someone came back and re-wrote the original message in Sharpie. Antonia, waves her hand dismissively, turning back to the kitchen where plastic sheets which hang vertically are used as a door, as they move with her, the shouts from the kitchen and the movement of pots and pans reaches us.

            The third waitress, Siobhan, stands at our table, slipping a pen from her ear, pushing back her brown hair behind her small ears, and tapping the end against the top of the black notebook which is going to take our orders. “Tracey,” she smiles briefly at my Mom who sits perpendicular to me around the square shaped table. There’s another two empty seats with us, and currently, Mom’s bag is using one of them. “Are you two ready to order?” Her brown eyes flicker between each of us, still managing to keep a friendly smile on her face.

            Mom’s thin lips purse slightly as she scratches the back of her neck. “Actually, Shiv,” she says, glancing at the door behind her shoulder quickly, then turning back around when it’s only Jefferson entering and walking straight to the counter for his morning cup of coffee which he has to order now that his wife left him last summer and he’s useless in the kitchen. “We’re waiting for Fonts, we’ll order later.”

            “Of course,” Siobhan nods immediately, eyes drifting already to another table waiting to be served. “Don’t worry about it.” Once Siobhan has walked away from her table, already being summoned by another who have skimmed the breakfast menu and know what they want to order—especially after watching a table nearby get their food. I yawn into my hand, blinking slowly at my Mom. It’d taken a lot of persuading to get Fonts to actually go somewhere familiar, she’d been driving out of town to go somewhere where no one knew her, for the simple fact that no one would look at her with pity for being the Mom of that Dead Girl. It’s understandable, but Mom had been determined that she wasn’t going to watch her waste away, “God forbid,” she said running a brush through her hair this morning, “if something ever happened to you or your brother, I’d want someone there offering me the support that I needed.” So that’s exactly what she’s doing, in a messed up kind of way, offering Fonts the support she needs, not what is best advised.

            “You didn’t have to come this morning,” Mom says to me, knowing that this is very early for a Saturday morning, and not a time I’m used to actually seeing on the weekend. “I thought you would have been comforting Caggie.” Then she rolls her eyes, “That girl can never find a decent guy, can she?”

            “She doesn’t need comforting,” I tell her, “Caggie’s stronger than that.” In truth, she seemed to have gotten over Neeco like a flick of a switch, between emotionally unstable, and emotionally void, and when the blood pumped throughout her body, it took seconds before she was able to shake out her shoulders, adjust the way her hair sat against her shoulder, and then becoming one with the party, like minutes ago she hadn’t just walked in on her boyfriend about to get a handy from some random that probably went home last night with a very sore wrist and a slack jaw. In the kindest way possible – if that is manageable – the kind of girls that Idris personally requests to attend his parties and offer entertainment to the people he tries to say he doesn’t want to impress but desperately wants approval from, aren’t exactly virgin white in the slightest. I don’t know who the girl is that Idris is throwing the parties to lure ‘back’ to him, but if it was me, I wouldn’t be impressed at all and it wouldn’t lead me to see him in a better light at all.

            Mom sighs, placing her forearms on the table. “Yes, it’s all right knowing that Caggie is a strong person, because she is, a lot stronger than a lot of people her age, but don’t expect her to be able to deal with every bad hand she is given just because she’s strong.” I know she’s right, but Caggie is a prideful person, she’s too proud to request for help, she likes the ability to be able to deal with her own problems, and in her eyes, Neeco isn’t a problem, he’s a flaw that is no longer in her life, ergo, no longer a problem. Mom had been there listening to Caggie go on about how much she seriously liked him, and that it was nice that he was different to all the other guys that she thought were nice too, she was serious, and I know that she won’t be able to turn all those emotions off like she seems to think she can, but I don’t want her to feel like I’m pressuring her to feel emotions that maybe she isn’t ready to allow herself to feel yet.

                        ◦  ▲  ◦  ▲  ◦

            Fonts is a beautiful grief-stricken woman. Regardless of the red eyes, or the downturn of her full lips, or the way her clothes seem to hang a little bit more than how they used to, she’s gorgeous. Even though she’s grieving the loss of her middle child, the way she walks still manages to command authority and power all at once, just as she enters a room, following her until someone sees her exit. When she opens the door of Dev’s Diner, Mom is looking immediately, and there seems to be a simultaneous pause throughout, where for those seconds, all eyes are on Mrs Hill, not because she is the mother of the Dead Girl, but because she looks like she’s coping. That’s all anyone can ask of her now, to cope, to heal, to be there for the rest of her family, and if the only way for her to do that is to stay in the comfort of her own home, shopping done online with brief trips outside to collect mail, then all anyone can do is respect her for her choice.

            The same grey eyes which Devin and her siblings possess, look straight at Mom, and soften immediately. Once she’s gotten close to our table, she’s out of her seat and attacking Fonts in a tight hug. I feel like I am invading a personal moment, maybe I should turn away to give them some privacy. Mom pulls back first, smiling widely, “It’s so good to see you,” she tells her, and I know this is the truth. Mom had gotten so worried that Fonts was about to pull away from the friendship they’d been able to sustain since they were young, but watching the two now, I understand that Fonts needs her right now, as another pillar of support who isn’t related to her, but still cares for her welfare, and not some uninterested punter who knocks on the door of the dead girls’ Mom, wondering if maybe they can learn something which they can then go and tell the Media for some cheap bucks.

            They both sit down again, Fonts shrugging out of her coat, left in only a thin sweater and a pair of jeans. “Kasia,” Fonts smiles at me, “how have you been?”

            “I’ve been alright,” I say, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers.

            “She spoke to Charlie.” Mom tells her, smiling at me then turning back to Fonts with a bashful smile. I don’t know what it is about these two, but they can gossip for absolutely everyone, and Charlie and Archie Allen seem to be their favourite topic for some reason. “What was it you told me, Kas?” I look down at the table once she remembers and relays the information passed on Jogging Day to Fonts, who listens eagerly whilst scanning the breakfast menu.

            They both laugh once Mom has finished the tale to a story I don’t listen to, turning to watch the table near us, and the little boy, no older than five, who plays around with the baked beans on his plate. His Mom pats his knee, telling him to ‘eat up all the beans’, before they go to the park. There’s a fair on today, and Caggie has roped me into helping admissions, in the evening when the teenagers decide to attend, not wanting to be caught with their Mom, buying stuffed animals for their younger siblings. Everything here seems to be based off of reputation and status, the two things which I consider responsible for pushing Devin away and into the arms of Grant Thomas.

            “Morning!” Cassandra is unusually chipper, usually grumpy and bitter about working the morning shift. Her smile widens when she makes eye contact with Fonts, “Charlie and Kasia came in here together on Monday,” she says, catching the tail end of their conversation.

            “You did?”

            “Why didn’t you tell me? Are you back together now?” I’m bombarded with questions that I don’t know how to answer correctly. I’m not entirely sure what they want to hear, the truth: “No, we’re not together and I don’t think we ever will go back there, because I can’t trust him, and he resents me. The only reason I actually spoke to him was because we got locked in the store cupboard and then found Devin’s Diary”, or a lie: “Charlie and I are working on some stuff, we’ve realised that we still care about each other and then we’ll get back together.” There’s no answer to appease either of them, so I opt to stay silent, and instead, tell Cassandra that I’d just like my regular, even though the chefs are cooking from the breakfast menu.

            “You’re going to get me into trouble,” Cassandra shakes her head, scribbling down my order in the black notebook which she holds between her hands with blue nail polish. “You know how Dev feels about having to cook something that isn’t on the breakfast meal when it’s breakfast.”

            Fonts flips her hand, “Don’t worry, Cass. If Dev has a problem just send him out here.” Dev is absolutely terrified of Fonts, and rushes to get her plate out of the kitchen straight away, piping hot, as soon as the ticket is placed in the kitchen, and read out by him, the head chef. “Two coffees, for Tracey and me, and two cream cheese bagels with a large plate of fried bacon.”

                        ◦  ▲  ◦  ▲  ◦

            Charlie: Have you still got it?

            Before I can form a reply to his ever impersonal text messages, Mom smirks at the phone in my hands. Now on her second cup of coffee, and another serving of bacon which both her and Fonts are sharing between the two of them, I’m more than ready to leave, but I feel as though I can’t leave until Mom does herself, or until Fonts excuses herself, the stares piercing her back becoming too much. It’s a lot closer to Noon now, the last customers ordering off the breakfast menu, before Dev closes kitchen, then opens it up strictly for the Lunch Menu. I know he’d been less than impressed when my order came through, I heard him shouting that it was Breakfast for a reason, and I couldn’t just come in here every weekend and ruin the routine he’d implemented for years. Nevertheless, I still got my regular on a piping hot plate of white china, and it tasted delicious, just like I’d expected.

            “Who are you texting?” Mom’s lip tilt slightly, having a vague idea who I may be talking to already. I consider telling her that it’s Charlie, but I don’t feel like going into all of the drama, because she’s a very expressive person—in the sense that her humour is crude as anything, and her jokes are so goddamn funny to her, that she’ll cackle away like nobody’s business, not caring that she’s disrupting other people. She’s been told one too many times that she should just quiet down a little bit so as not to cause any further complaints from people she doesn’t really care about. “It’s so good that you and Charlie are getting closer again. Get you out of that dry spot you’ve been in for a while.”

            She and Fonts both laugh rather obnoxiously, leaving me to shove my phone back into my pocket in a flustered hurry. I wish I’d kept my hair down for the simple fact I could cover my startling pink cheeks. “Leave the poor girl alone,” Font sympathises with me slightly, even though she’s still struggling to stop smiling, and the remnants of laughter still leave her lips. “Oh god,” she sighs, “it’s just like how I used to tease Devin all the time about Grant.” There’s a wince once the words have left her mouth, she’s just understood the heavy weight behind her words, delivering the final blow to herself, and whatever happiness there had been diminishes. Mom holds onto her cup of coffee, looking incredibly sombre, whilst I shift in my seat.

            “How’re you holding up with that?” Mom has been able to successfully avoid addressing the elephant in the room: Devin. It seems like it can be done no longer when Fonts looks straight down at the table, refusing to make eye contact with either of us. She reaches her hand out across the table, covering Fonts’ hand with her own. “I can’t believe it.” Mom continues voice heavy. “I feel like such an idiot for ever inviting that woman inside of my house, especially when her son is capable of such things.”

            “No, no, don’t blame yourself, Tracey.” Fonts says hurriedly, finally looking up and moving closer to the table. She shakes her head, corkscrew curls flying around her before settling down again, “No one could have ever known.”

            “Have you heard anything else?” I ask unsurely.

            Fonts nods her head, pursing her lips. “The police were round this morning, Charlie’s brother is leading the case along with his colleague, and they told me that Grant was bailed out last night. They said as there is no substantial evidence, and no date for trial, he was allowed to be bailed.”

            “How much was it?”

            “They said something like twenty-thousand; they had the intent of not letting him out, that’s why they set it so high.”

            “Do you know who would do that?” Mom asks, barely able to cover her disgust that someone would actually be willing to pay so much money for a murderer to be out on the streets again, able to take anyone for a picking and end their life.

            “No,” Fonts denies, “apparently it was liquidated into their accounts. Anonymous.”

                        ◦  ▲  ◦  ▲  ◦

            The County Fair is a ridiculous attempt at stealing everyone’s money to fund for the Mayor’s liking for whores. He stands up on stage, every year, at exactly 7PM, greeting everyone, and wishing them a good time and that they enjoy themselves. Even with his wife standing to his left, looking prim and proper in a business suit, he still has the time to scope out any pretty girls which he hasn’t tried it on with. Then, when the crowd applauds, dispersing to the now more adult-themed and thrill-seeking rides, he adjusts his tie, turns to his assistant, asks if his half-seven is at his office and immediately leaves, not stopping to talk to any other important members of the community, or address the growing problem with litter, or even that a girl died on a College Campus.

            It’s safe to say, the Mayor’s priorities are royally fúcked. He’d much rather get it in whilst it’s up, than deal with much more important issues. When I arrive at the park, at two-o’clock, and Caggie is nowhere to be seen, I assume that she’s bailed out on me. I don’t mind, because I’m getting paid at least seventy bucks just for wrapping wristbands on people, accepting money and giving them change. I’m not expected to do much else, and with the ‘STAFF’ vest, I can go on rides for free and get free grub from the numerous food trucks.

            “God, you’re such an idiot.” Athena Montgomery is the poster child of what went wrong with parenting. I’m surprised to see her lips free of a cigarette, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the moment the front desk is clear, she’ll take one right out of her leather jacket and light it up with her constant purple BIC lighter. “Listen kid,” she spits to the teenager who is trying to wage his way in with a quarter, even though it costs one dollar to get inside. “I’m not stupid, and I don’t care if last year, you got let in with a quarter because I’m telling you right now, I’m not a ditzy idiot like Louisa Von-Slut. Get out of my sight.” She flicks her wrist at him, shooing him away.

            “Terrorising everyone already?” I ask lightly, slipping on the loose vest which has STAFF printed on the back in white letters, against the black vest which is loose fitting and has a Velcro patch in the middle, which I don’t secure.

            Athena rolls her eyes, “Goddamn right I am, Kasia. My Mom signed me up for this shìt, so I’m gonna have some fun with it whilst I’m here.” Compared to her Mom, Athena is the Devil, and I’m surprised she hasn’t been kicked out on her ass with everything she gets up to. She curls her foot underneath her, flicking her finger against the back of her worn down combat boots. “I thought you’d stop wearing such ridiculous clothes by now,” she looks at my attire, her nose turning up.

            I see nothing wrong with the comic-book-print tank top I wear, and the bright red, velvet leggings which are rolled up at the bottom. Simple white TOMS don my feet, and I honestly think this is honestly one of my casual outfits for it being the weekend. “Says the girl that’s been rolling around in the same pair of combat boots since freshman year.”

            “Nothing wrong with that,” Athena shrugs her shoulders, throwing money into the tin box where it’s required, and grabbing the wrist of the guy standing in front of her and tugging him forward forcefully.”

            “Athena! Are you trying to rip his hand off?” I laugh, doing all the apologising for her. Athena shrugs her shoulders again, barely sparing him a second glance once she’s secured the paper wristband by sticking the two ends together and shoos him away. There’s a sudden rush, and I guess that a film has just finished as the movie theatre is literally minutes away from here. Athena groans in what I guess is happiness once they’ve all gone. “Who was on this shift before I got here?” I ask her.

            “This one guy called Declan. He was such a douchebag, kept blagging that I should be kissing his feet and shìt because his cousins coming back soon, and apparently, I should be scared of his cousin.”