Gail Konop Baker | Waitress of the Month

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Waitress of the Month
Chapter 1
I tried to tell Mother with my eyes that I knew Susie Morey was lying when she swore to Vicky, who told Jennifer, who told me that the only reason she chose to have her birthday party at The Big Boy was because of the strawberry dessert pies. And that I knew that Susie knew I had to attend and accept the cracked vinyl chair she offered me, wearing my nothing-has-changed-and-I-wanna-be-a-popular-girl-smile, all glowing cheeks and frantic teeth. But Mother didn’t notice me at all. She was busy leaning into her customer, saying, “I brought an extra plate for the little guy.” Her gentle fingers brushed a fringe of bangs away from the boy’s forehead, and he squealed straight up to her in delight. I peeked over, refusing to remember the pressure of those fingers on my forehead. Fingers that once had braided my hair with swift expertise every morning before school, that had twisted pink tissue paper into dozens of flowers to decorate my birthday party. Fingers that could sketch my face to life as I slept, that could manipulate warm dough without tearing it. The smell of her hands cupped over mine was so real that I flipped my head around to give her my don’t-look-at-me-in-front-of-my-friends look. But she was headed to another table with a pot of coffee in one hand, three strawberry pies balanced with the other.

“That’s your mother, isn’t it, Polly?” Susie asked me, and she grinned, then leaned into Vicky. “I remember when she was a regular mother.”

Mother was an amoeba. According to Mr. Hendricks, my science teacher from seventh grade, “Amoebas in transition extend projections called pseudopodia—false feet. Pseudopodia are extended to surround other organisms and draw them into the body.”

The pick-up light shone and dinged and Mother squish-squished her varicose-veined legs to the kitchen to fetch a triple-decker. Vicky fixated on Mother’s rubbery support hose, the cheap dime store kind. I’d told Mother she should wear Hanes because at least they didn’t look like sausage casings—and she said I obviously didn’t understand the financial situation Dad had left us in.