7
First thing Monday morning, I make the call I’ve been dreading to Flannagan’s. When Mrs. Flannagan answers the phone, I clamp my eyes closed. It’s reality, now. My failure. It’s unavoidable.
“Flannagan’s, this is Josie, how can I help you?” Her raspy voice fills my ear, and I force a smile, thinking maybe she’ll hear it over the phone.
“Hi, Mrs. Flannagan. It’s Bailey Barnes.”
“Ah, Bailey. How’s school?”
“Oh, um, it’s good. I was actually calling because—”
“Hon, you need me to grab Michael?”
I sigh and nod slightly. “Yes, please.”
I know I sound meek. Tired and quiet. I can’t muster enthusiasm today. Not when I have to own up to yet another failure. I zone out in self-pity while on hold, the dulcet jazz music lulling me into a false sense of calm. A murky, sad calm, but calm, nonetheless.
“Bailey, what can I do ya for?” Mr. Flannagan says by way of greeting. He seems chipper, but he knows. I know he knows.
“Hey, Mr. Flannagan. I was just calling to let you know I’m gonna have to put a hold on my order again. It’s just...well, some things fell through, and...”
“It’s not a problem, Bailey,” he says, voice soft and tinged with something I hate. “You don’t need to explain. We’ll hold it as long as you need.”
I blow out a breath and squeeze my eyes shut again. “Thanks, Mr. Flannagan. I appreciate it.”
“You just call and let us know when you’re ready, alright? We won’t set a date. We’ll just wait till you say go.”
I know it’s for the best, but I wilt some more at the idea of not having an official deadline. What can I do, though? It’s not like I can keep having them put me on their schedule only to shove it back again. They’ve got a business to run, after all.
“Sure thing, Mr. Flannagan. Thanks again.”
“You take care of yourself, Bailey. No getting into trouble with them Hoosiers. Don’t get comfortable there.”
I snort a laugh. As if my Podunk hometown in central Illinois is more desirable. “No worries, Mr. Flannagan. Bye.”
I hang up with Mr. Flannagan and then make a call to Jada, my manager at Bar 31. She’s been wanting me to pick up serving shifts at Cheap Seats, the campus sports bar. It’s owned by the same guy that owns Bar 31 and sometimes we trade staff. I’ve always turned her down because: a) serving requires way more schmoozing than bartending, and b) I freaking loathe sports. Too loud, too many people, too much shit I don’t care to understand.
Sure, we get customers in to watch games on our bar televisions, but it’s nothing compared to Cheap Seats. That’s where the fanatics go. I just...ugh.
I’m desperate. There’s no other way around it. So, I bite the bullet and pull up her contact, the very action sending a pang of surrender through me.
The call is short, and when I hang up, I’ve agreed to pick up a serving shift this Wednesday.
As in, Wing Wednesday.
Fifty-cent wings draw almost as big of a crowd as football.
Fuck me.
* * *
I hate Wing Wednesday.
Not only do I have to wear this ugly blue Cheap Seats t-shirt that’s two sizes too big, but I’ve only been here two hours and I’ve already had half a pint spilled on my jeans and ketchup dropped onto my shoe. And, of fucking course, I forgot my non-slips, so the ketchup is on my checker-board Vans. No way I’ll be lucky enough to find another pair of those at the thrift store, so that ketchup better come out or I will riot.
“Bailey,” Sarah shouts from the hostess stand. I can barely hear her over the buzz of conversations and the drone of the music, but I see her wave me over, so I weave through the crowd and high-top tables until I’m in front of her.
“What’s up?” I fidget with the loopy bow of my apron strings.