Any Way You Slice It (15 page)

An older guy with a receding hairline and a clipboard holds out his hand. “Name's Mark. Mark Wilder. You're the daughter, right?”

My brain is on system overload, I can't remember my own name. I take his hand, and he shakes it vigorously.

“Do my parents know you're here?” My voice cracks with the last word.

“Nope. Troy likes surprises.” He looks down at his clipboard, and jots something in the margin.

I look over his shoulder. Jorge is behind the counter like a deer caught in the headlights. Kindred spirits recognize one another and I immediately know how I must look. It's stage fright. This definitely can't end well. I have to snap out of it or we really will be screwed.

Mark is talking again. “We need to set up a spot for interviews. You know the one-on-ones that Troy is famous for?” He gestures to the archway with his pen. “How about the bar?”

Suddenly Jake is next to me. He puts his hand on my shoulder and whispers, “What can I do?”

I close my eyes, lean into him just a bit, and take a deep breath. I don't think I've ever needed someone to have my back quite this bad. I grab his hand and squeeze it hard. I hope he takes it as the apology it's meant to be.

“The bar would be fine, Mr. Wilder, we don't usually get a crowd in there until after dinner. I'll tell my mother we're using it for your interviews.” I don't want to think about the people he's interviewing or what they are going to say about my family's restaurant. All I'm thinking about right now is circling the wagons.

With what I can only describe as a gleeful expression, Mark goes off to set up the bar for the interviews.

I turn to Jake. “Text the guys. We need supporters here in full force. This thing is going to go sour fast if we don't have all the right people lined up for Troy's interviews. And no one says a word about me playing hockey.”

He pulls his phone out of his back pocket, but before he starts texting, he touches my arm.

I smooth down my frizz-ball hair. “What?”

“Just …” He pauses, looking over my shoulder. He takes my hand again. “It's been a crappy week.”

I bob up and down nervously on the balls of my feet. “Even though we got the sponsorship?”

“You know what I mean.” He glances over at the booth where Troy and Mrs. Ng are sitting, distracted for a second by their laughter.

“Actually, Jake, I think you need to spell it out for me.”

“The last week has been the worst one of my life since sixth grade, when you stopped talking to me.” He drops his gaze and stares at my feet.

And just like that, everything else disappears. “I didn't stop talking to you in the sixth grade. You're the one who chopped off my ponytail. That was a creepy thing for a friend to do. What did you expect?”

“Yeah, about that.” His face pales. “I only meant to cut off a little.” He sees the horrified expression on my face and rushes on. “I just wanted a little bit of your hair—I figured you wouldn't notice. But you shifted in your seat at the wrong time, and I ended up taking off the whole thing. It was such a stupid thing to do.” He blows out a big breath. “I never could figure out how to apologize. And then people started calling me a trouble maker and it was easier to live with a reputation as a bully than to tell people I had a crush on a cute girl.”

I feel like a fish out of water, gulping air.

He's standing there, red faced. Waiting for me to say something.

“I'm really sorry, Pen. I never meant for it to happen. You were my best friend.” He shifts his feet. “I've wondered for years how to take it all back. Then that day at the rink, something made me run into you. I just wanted you to talk to me again.”

My mouth is open; brain stretching for something coherent, brilliant, sexy. Some perfect way to respond, but I have no words. He's gazing at me with his perfect brown eyes and even though the place is full of people, we're all alone. Before I can answer, someone bumps into me from behind, knocking me off balance and into his arms. I feel the soft cotton of his jersey, and the beating of his heart, and I smell his woodsy cologne all at the same time. It's sensory overload and for a second I feel dizzy.

“Oh, excuse me. I didn't see you there.” Warren's voice behind me ruins the moment. “I'm here for our date”—he pauses—“sweet cheeks.
”

Oh. My. God.

There's no time to get angry. Warren's just trying to get a reaction, and I'm not about to give him anything he wants.

I need to rally. “Warren.” Turning my attention to the task at hand, I point to the hallway. “Follow me.”

He flips his middle finger in Jake's face. “'Bout time.”

I squeeze Jake's hand before he decides to pummel Warren, and whisper, “Go call the team. Get everyone down here. We'll talk later.”

The crew, finished shooting the conversation at the booth, has shifted their attention to setting up in the kitchen. It's clear they've done this a thousand times. Jorge is a delicate shade of green, looking as though he might faint at any minute. Troy stands next to him, his arm around his shoulder like they're old pals.

“Jorge, tell me how you make your signature pizza. What makes the sauce so unique?” Troy's laying it on thick, but I have to give him credit. He sounds genuinely interested.

At the request of sharing his cooking secrets, Jorge perks up. “I make the sauce from scratch every morning,” he proclaims. “But the secret ingredient is locked in a safe in the back; you won't get it out of me.”

“Every morning, really? Show us,” Troy says, gesturing for the camera to come closer.

The kitchen itself is spotless thanks to Grams's efforts last week. Troy's bound to love Jorge's pizza. I fleetingly wonder if this might not be bad after all. Maybe this will be good for business, just like Dad thinks.

And maybe pigs will fly this afternoon.

“Okay,” I say to no one in particular. I turn to Warren and throw him an apron from under the front counter. “I don't have time to talk about our date right now. Put this on and go wipe down the tables in the dining room.”

“Are you crazy? I'm not wiping down shit.” He throws the apron onto the counter and steps into my personal space. “I'll spill what I know to the producer.”

“I didn't say I wouldn't go out with you. Just not right now.” I grab the apron off the counter and throw it back at him. “I need to be here, so you can make yourself useful.”

He scowls. “I'm sure they'll be interested in knowing how the daughter of the owner is sneaking around playing hockey with the derelict. That would make better reality TV than rolling pizza dough.”

“Really? Will it really?” I stop short of stomping my feet. “Does anyone actually care that I play hockey?”

No one, except my parents.

“Reality television. It's a wonderful thing. People are going to want to see your life fall apart.”

“Right.” I close my eyes. “Cash register it is.”

Oddly, even though there are a ton of people in the restaurant, no one is eating. Or ordering. They must instinctively realize that Jorge can't cook while he's got the camera crew in the kitchen. Dad pushes his way through the crowd as I'm showing Warren the price list we keep under the cash register.

“What the—” He sounds out of breath, but he stops short as he sees the setup in the kitchen. “I didn't expect them until the end of next week.” He turns to look at me, like it's my fault. “When did they get here?”

“About half an hour ago.” I point to the bar. “The producer is setting up a second shoot for personal interviews. You might want to go talk to him. I think Jorge has it under control in there.” Jorge and Troy are laughing like middle school girls in the kitchen. So much for stage fright; I guess Troy's reputation of soothing his subjects isn't just a rumor.

Dad rushes into the other room to try to salvage some element of control over the situation. I glance at Warren to see if he has any questions about the register. He's ripping open a bag of chips. “What?” he says, crunching. “As long as you're making me work, I get the employee discount.”

“Fine,” I grumble.

An hour later, Troy and Jorge are BFFs, trading recipes. I think Jorge might have even given away his secret ingredient, but I can't be sure. I'm hearing a lot of belly laughs and the smell of the signature pizza wafts through the building. The restaurant is full of regulars and people I've never seen before. A crowd has formed on the sidewalk out front, some of them wearing T-shirts with “I love
Local Flavor
,” hoping to get a glimpse of Troy. Mr. McClellan from the hardware store is selling Troy Depalma bobbleheads out of a briefcase perched on the back of his pickup.

We've officially just entered crazy town.

And if we don't produce some food soon; we're going to have a full-on mutiny on our hands.

Surprisingly, Warren actually seems to have the register down and he hasn't complained. Since we started, he's correctly charged a dozen people for sodas and bags of chips. When the phone rings, he answers, “Slice Pizza, how may I help you?” He jots down the order and flashes me a thumbs-up. And then I remember I'm really going to have to go out with him.

For the first time in an hour, I have a minute to take a breath. I have no idea what happened to Jake and the team. They should have been here by now. And just at that moment, a cheer erupts from the front door. All twelve guys burst in at the same time wearing their Slice jerseys. Lori, Caroline, and a bunch of girls from school stream in right behind them; totally bypassing the waiting crowd.

“The Rink Rats are in the house! Let the party begin!” Ethan Carter turns up the sound on the TV. Figures.

Warren grumbles under his breath words I wouldn't repeat near Grams.

“Please tell me this cretin hasn't stolen my job.” Jules squeezes between me and Warren. She must have sneaked in with the kids from school.

Before I have a chance to explain, Mark Wilder—who turns out to be the producer of the series—pulls the plug on the fun. Literally. He grabs the cable and yanks it out of the wall. The screen goes blank.

“Can I have your attention?” He has the deep voice of a man who might do voice-over narration as side work. “When the camera crew is done in the kitchen”—he points at me—“feel free to start serving! We want you to enjoy yourselves!”

I hear a big “but” coming.

“But … ,” he says, “with one-on-one interviews happening in the bar, we can't have more noise than necessary.” He makes a hand gesture that I think must mean we should go back to normal, but he shakes his head when Carter makes a move for the plug. “I'll remove you from the building, kid. You want a chance to be on television? You'll leave that cord alone.”

“Mr. Spaulding.” Wilder gestures to Dad in that over-the-top motion he used before. “You're up first.” I swear an evil grin flashes across the man's face, but it could just be the light.

I have no idea what they say, but Dad emerges from the bar a half hour later with sweat dripping down his face. He looks like he did after that triathlon last summer—spent and ready to sleep for a week.

One by one, we're led to slaughter. Jorge gets called after Dad. Grams goes next. They're going to ask for me eventually, but for some reason they call Warren first. He walks past me with a smirk, and I die a little inside. I'm not sure what story he promised the producer to get a spot in the lineup before me.

Now I know he doesn't care a bit about the date. He's going to ruin my life.

Wilder emerges from the bar at seven o'clock. “Time for a fifteen break,” he announces. Troy Depalma dives headlong into the crowd and starts signing autographs. A line appears at the bathroom door.

“You're up next, Penelope,” Wilder says, following the camera guy outside with a cigarette between his fingers.

A bead of sweat trickles down my back, and it's not because of the heat from the kitchen.

Out of nowhere, Dad grabs a pencil off the counter, startling me. “Don't worry about it, honey. It's just all part of the show. You've got nothing to be nervous about.” He squeezes my shoulder.

If he only knew.

Twenty minutes later, I'm in the hot seat. The makeup lady whisks a brush across my face, but that's all the attention I get. Someone else pins a microphone to the front of my shirt. Jules had tried to help me spruce up a little, but I still look like I've been cleaning toilets.

I stare into a bright light and the interrogation begins. Wilder stands to one side of the camera while Troy Depalma sits in front of me, just offscreen.

“Just act naturally. Pretend the camera isn't there. Talk to me about the restaurant,” he says.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can do this. Dad is counting on this to boost business. I just need to stay calm—and not worry about Warren.

“First question.” Depalma looks down at his clipboard. “Your family has owned Slice since before you were born. What's it been like growing up here?”

The questions go on like this and I start to relax. Wilder nods and smiles at every answer, so I know I'm giving them the right stuff. Maybe I was nervous for no reason. They just want me to confirm the small town feeling of this place. They aren't trying to wreck anyone.

“So a couple of the boys tell me that you're quite the hockey player,” Depalma says, shocking me out of my complacency. “Tell me what it's like playing on a boys' team?”

I almost expected it, so I don't know why it shocks me or why I didn't think about preparing my answer in advance. I do my best to answer calmly. The show won't air for weeks. There's plenty of time to tell Dad. “Honestly, I love it. I've always been a skater, but when they asked me to join the team, it was like something in me opened up. Something I never knew I had.”