Bottom Dollar

I stared at the hundred-dollar tip on the table, wondering if this was a mistake. I'd been known to flash a smile and remember orders with the best of them, but even I knew my waitressing skills weren't deserving of that Ben Franklin.59

"Sweet baby Jesus," Stacy said, her tone a few octaves higher than usual. "What'd you do, give him a kiss?"8

He had been the guy in the black motorcycle jacket, who'd strode in and ordered only an orange juice and yogurt, the two cheapest things on the Barney's Diner menu.17

"It must have been my stellar service," I said, pocketing the note before the other waitresses caught wind of it. We were supposed to pool our tips together at the end of a shift, only we made a pact early on to keep the tips we earned for ourselves.5

"Oh, sure," Stacy said, getting out her washcloth before wiping down the table. "Must be that award-winning sarcasm you dish out to everyone."

"Hey," I said touchily. "I don't see you with a hundred-dollar tip."10

"That's because I don't have that cute, girl next door thing going on."

I scoffed at that. Stacy might not have been cute, but she was the definition of sexy: small and curvy with curly black hair, brown skin, and a jaw so defined it could probably cut glass.1

She paused her strenuous scrubbing to examine my face. "So, what are you going to do with the money? Hit the casino? Treat me to dinner? Treat me to—"

"Pay the bills." I grabbed my car keys from my pocket before swiping my employee card through the clock-out machine.1

"Wow, dream big, Meg."37

I rolled my eyes, giving her a quick hug before making my way out of the cracked double doors. It was early September, but seasons didn't matter in the small town of Pinewood. It was either hot or cold, no in-between.

I flicked up the hood of my black leather jacket, about to head on over to my dinosaur of a truck, when I saw him in the distance—the guy who'd left me the tip. He was leaning against his motorcycle with a cigarette in his hand, staring out into the bleak unknown. Before I could stop myself, I grabbed the hundred-dollar bill from my pocket and marched on up to him, tapping him on the shoulder.

Slowly, he turned to face me. Recognition flashed across his handsome features. He opened his mouth, but I was already waving the note in his face.2

"Thank you," I said, "but I can't accept this."

The corner of his mouth twitched. He cocked an eyebrow, his eyes flitting to the bill in my hand before finding their way back to my own. "Why?" he said, his tone laced with amusement. "It's a tip."

I'd barely looked at him in the diner, where I usually got through my shifts on autopilot, but up close I could see he was closer to my age than I'd thought, around nineteen or twenty, with the kind of rugged handsomeness only boys who broke your heart possessed.

"I brought out apple juice instead of orange juice and I nearly spilled your yogurt on your jacket," I said. "Not exactly the kind of service that warrants such a hefty tip."

4

It felt wrong taking a tip I didn't deserve, a tip I hadn't worked for. I'd grown up knowing I had to work hard for the things I wanted, and taking that tip–no matter how much the money would have come in handy–felt like taking the easy way out. So, you're telling me you don't want it?" the stranger clarified.1

I looked at the note again, thinking about all of the things I could do with it. I could buy the weekly groceries, or pay the bills on time for once, or stow it away in my secret college fund, but no matter how appealing those things seemed right then, I couldn't silence the voice in my head, telling me to do the right thing.

"I like tips I work for," I said, my gaze unfaltering, "and I don't deserve this one."72

The stranger looked at me for a moment, his dark eyes quizzical as though trying to figure me out. "If you say so." He took the note back, causing our hands to brush. I pulled away as he slipped it into his back pocket and slid on his shiny black helmet.1

I stepped back as he hoisted a leg over his bike. For a second, he looked at me through the gap in his visor, his brown eyes almost honey-colored under the glare of the street lamp. Then, without another word, he kicked up his bike stand and revved the engine, tearing down the street before disappearing under a cloak of night.

The house was dark by the time I got home, save for the bright orange glow of a half-burnt cigarette, which smoked gently in the ashtray on the coffee table. Behind it, I could just about make out my mother's silhouette on the sofa. I grabbed the patchwork quilt from the armchair, draping it across her body before getting to work.5

I started with the living room first, clearing away the empty bottles and placing them with the others out back. This had become a regular occurrence for me over the last few months. I'd grown used to finding my mother passed out on the sofa, an empty wine glass on the floor and an even emptier bottle beside it.

I'd spent months running to the store in the early hours of the morning, searching for items that would cure her hangover in time for her shift at Bob's Bargains, the local–and only–convenience store in Pinewood. Months of waking up to the sound of her keys fumbling in the door, where she'd stumble through the threshold reeking of alcohol and the cologne of strange men. And I knew with each month that passed what it meant.

My mother was an alcoholic. My mother was no longer a mother, but a woman I was forced to care for. Forced to check in with each night not for my safety, but for hers, because there were times when she didn't come home at all. Where she'd be gone for days while I went about my day with a feeling of dread, wondering if that last time I saw her was going to be the last time.

She always came back in the end, once she'd overstayed her welcome wherever it was she went, and I was back to trying to care for the both of us, juggling school and work while trying to keep our problems a secret. I figured if people didn't know the truth then they wouldn't ask questions, and if they didn't ask questions, they wouldn't try to take me away from her.

Sometimes, I wondered if that would really be the worst thing. It would certainly make life easier only having to care for myself, but I knew my mother couldn't survive without me, and that thought alone was enough to keep me quiet. Just as I had once needed her, she now needed me—at least until I'd saved up enough money to leave her with before I headed to college. As much as I loved her, there was no way I could stay in this dead-end town forever.3

After tidying the house as best as I could, I headed into the bathroom, grabbing my toothbrush before staring into the blurry cabinet mirror. I always looked significantly better at the start of a shift than I did at the end of one, and my reflection in front of me was proof of this.

I took in my dark circles and Welcome To Barney's name badge with distaste. Sometimes, I liked to imagine what kind of girl I would be if I didn't have to try so hard. If I'd be more free-spirited like Stacy, whose own mother forced Stacy to get a job at Barney's, not because they wouldn't make rent otherwise, but to teach her daughter the importance of money. To build character. Or maybe I'd have ended up exactly like my own mother, wanting everything to fall in my lap without putting in any of the effort. Maybe, just maybe, the girl I was now was already miles better than the girl I could have been. 7

***

"You start at three, remember," I reminded my mother the next morning, where she lay strewn in the same position I'd found her in last night. Her green eyes were steadily fixed on the tv, but she managed to grunt in response. "I've watered down what's left of the milk if you want some cereal," I said, "and I already washed and ironed your uniform last night." When she didn't respond, I grabbed my blue pom-poms from the kitchen counter and stuffed them into my bag. "I know you can hear me. Please, please don't turn up late. If you lose this job, we won't make rent."2

"Give it a rest, Meg," she finally snapped, her voice worn and raspy from all her years of smoking. She used to be beautiful once, or so I was told, but by the time I was born, my beautiful mother was already gone, a ghost of her former self. According to the people of Pinewood, it was all my father's fault. "I can get myself to work on time." 2

I clenched my jaw and grabbed my bag from the breakfast stool, swinging it over my shoulder. "Fine." I gave her one last disapproving look. "I'm going to school." I walked over to the front door, pausing once my hand reached the handle. I didn't exactly know what I was waiting for. Maybe a, Have a good day at school, Meg, or even a, Bye, honey, but my mother's eyes remained glassy and glued to the screen, as though she'd forgotten I was there.