Song of Summer

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“I just don’t see why you couldn’t make it work,” Violet rasps. She pours Jell-O with the precision of someone measuring liquid explosives. Her long plastic fingernails shine red, white, and blue, the commemorative paint chipping from last week’s holiday.

I smile and sigh. “It wasn’t my call, Vi,” I say. “I was all for making it work. He was not.” I spin the stool around and clunk another roll of silverware into the bucket on the counter, the hi-hat clank deadened by paper napkins. The brunch rush is over—two couples linger over coffee. Both are Violet’s tables. “‘We’re in high school,’ remember? ‘We’re not married.’” I laugh at the end of my bad Trent impression but it still smarts a little. My brain replays the rest of his breakup line. High school is about fun, Robin! I just can’t be tied down for our senior year. You’ll thank me for this later, I promise. I readjust my apron and start on the next silverware roll.

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