45 Days to Save the Bad Boy

Twenty-Nine

“Here you go, one strawberry for the handsome young man, and a chocolate for the lady who wants to work here.”

Breton and I said thanks, and then I inquired again about a job.

“Well, there’s not much people here,” she said, indicating the rest of the parlor, which sat empty.

“But I could help you think of ways to bring in customers!” I insisted.

“And there’s a lot of jobs to do,” she continued.  “Cleaning, cooking, making the drinks, serving, waitressing, and a bit more too.”

“I can do almost everything, except cook,” I told her.  

Breton backed me on this.  “She can’t cook.”

“Well,” the lady said, “I could do the cooking.  And it’d be nice to get a break from the chores around here…  Tell you what.  You come back in a few weeks, and we’ll get you set up for a trial day, okay?”

“Really?” I asked.  “You’re sure?  A trial week?  I might be able to work here!”

The lady grinned and nodded, and began to walk away, saying, “I’ll see you in a few weeks, girl.”

“Shouldn’t you know my name before hiring me?” I wondered.

She cautioned, “You’re not hired yet.”

“Right. But if I do get hired, you should know my name.  I’m Georgie Talbot.”

“Her full name is Georgia,” Breton blurted.  “She prefers Georgie.”

“I like it.  I’m Pat.  My full name’s Patricia,” the woman, Patricia, told us.  “I’ve got paperwork to do in the back.  Enjoy your meal, kids.”

“Thank you,” Breton and I said in unison.

“Don’t mention it!” she called in return.

We gratefully dug into our food, enjoying the greasy fries.  I dipped a few onion rings into some mustard on my plate, and Breton reached over to do the same.

“Get your own plate!” I playfully scolded.

“I have a plate,” he informed me.  “But it doesn’t have mustard on it.  This is good, by the way.”  He dipped another onion ring in the condiment, eating the whole thing in one bite.  

“Pig,” I laughed.

“Growing boy!” he corrected, eating more food.  “How’s your malt?”

I took a sip, and nearly died of joy.  “Oh my gosh, this is delicious.  It’s the perfect amount of chocolate and malt powder, and this must be magic ice cream!  Let me taste yours.”

“No way!” Breton gently slapped my hand away from his large cup.  I pouted, crossing my arms and avoiding his eyes.  “Fine,” the boy groaned.  “But let me try it first, at least.”

Instantly, I brightened.  “Thanks, Breton!”

He sipped his drink, then his eye lit up and he began spooning the thick malt into his mouth.

“Hey!” I protested when half the cup was gone.  “Save some for me!”

“These are magic malts,” he insisted, sitting back and swapping our cups, so that I had his strawberry and he could taste the chocolate.  I sipped the malt through the straw, once again tasting heaven.

‘Which, I’ve decided, no longer tastes like cookie dough, or chocolate.  It’s these malts.  Yummy,’ I thought.

“This is really good,” Breton mumbled, dipping a few fries in my malt and eating them.