Page 1 of Hunger

Chapter One

Jenny

The grill fights me every night. I scrape the flattop with the long-handled spatula, dragging it through carbonized grease and charred onion. The spatula catches on a ridge of burned cheese and I have to lean my weight into it until it gives with a wet pop. Underneath, the steel is almost silver. Close enough. Dale won't leave a note.

"You missed a spot."

I glance over my shoulder. Tammy's leaning against the register counter, arms crossed, watching me with the look she gets right before she says something she thinks is funny.

"Where?" I look back at the grill.

"Everywhere." She pushes off the counter and starts wiping down the soda fountain. "That grill has been cursed since before I started here. You could scrape it with a blowtorch and it'd still look like that in the morning."

I dump the grease trap into the waste bin. The smell hits me fresh. Hot fat and old meat and the chemical sweetness of industrial degreaser. Above us, the fluorescent lights buzz their flat sixty-cycle hum. One of the tubes in the far corner has been flickering for three weeks.

"Did you put in another request about that light?" I ask, nodding toward it.

Tammy doesn't even look up. "Twice. Jerry from maintenance said he'd get to it." She pauses to give me a meaningful look. "Jerry's been getting to it since Thanksgiving."

"Last Thanksgiving?"

"The one before that."

I snort and turn back to the grill. The food court is empty. Has been for over an hour. The Orange Julius across the way is dark. So is the Corn Dog Factory. Mr. Burger always closes last because we're closest to the movie theater corridor. Dale's theory is that people leaving late shows will want burgers. They walk past with their eyes straight ahead every single night, moving toward the parking structure, in a hurry to be anywhere else.

Tammy finishes the soda fountain and moves on to restocking the napkin dispensers. She's got a system. Soda fountain, napkins, condiment station, then the front counter. I've watched her do it in the same order every closing shift for eight months.

"Kayla called in again," she says, stuffing napkins into the metal holder with more force than necessary.

"That's the third time this month."

"Fourth." Tammy shakes her head. "Girl's going to get herself fired, and then Dale's going to make one of us cover her shifts." She glances at me. "Guess which one of us it'll be."

I don't answer, because we both know it'll be me. Tammy's got a six-year-old at home and a babysitter she can only afford three nights a week. I've got nothing but free time and a willingness to say yes to things I should say no to.

"You want the rest of this?" Tammy holds up a paper cup of Coke she poured herself an hour ago. The ice has long since melted.

"No, thanks."

She dumps it in the sink and rinses the cup. "You eat today?"

I think about it. A granola bar from the vending machine in the break room around two. "Sort of."

Tammy gives me a look. It's the same look she gives her son when he tells her he brushed his teeth and she knows he didn't. "Jenny."

"I'll eat when I get home."

"You always say that."

"And I always do." I eat. Just not much, and not with any real interest. Food is fuel and I'm a car running on fumes most days. But Tammy worries, and I don't want to give her another reason.

She lets it go, which is one of the things I like about her. We finish closing in comfortable silence, moving around each other in the cramped space behind the counter with the ease of two people who've done this hundreds of times.

I mop the floor while Tammy counts the register. The mop water turns gray immediately. I wring it out and go again, slow passes until the tiles look passable.

"Forty-seven dollars," Tammy announces, closing the register drawer with a click.

"Big night."