Washed Up

Turbulence

Riley

Turbulence. Noun. [tur-byuh-luh-ns]. The haphazard secondary motion caused by eddies within a moving fluid.

"Riley!"

I bury my nose deeper in my book, hoping Merry Gene will leave me in peace.

"Riley, honey, can you hear me?"

Why does she have to be so nice? I lay my book down on the front counter next to the cash register and turn around with a sigh.

"Loud and clear. What's up?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your reading! What book is it?" She approaches the counter and picks up my paperback, examining the cover. "The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Hmm, what a strange title. I've never heard of a wallflower, but then again, I've never been much of a gardener." I bite my lip to stifle a giggle. "Do you like to read? I'm quite a reader myself. I like a good romance once in awhile to heat things up with Ronald and me. I don't like to let our marriage get old and stale, if you know what I mean?"

Merry Gene gives me an angelic smile and I shudder. I know exactly what she means; I mentally calculate the distance from the bedroom I share with Lucy to their bedroom. Too close. Far too close. I back away from the counter and tell myself to never ask to borrow a book from her.

"Did you need me to help with something?" I say, willing to scrub the floors with my toothbrush if that means I can avoid this conversation.

"You don't mind? I know things are slow here today, so I wanted to restock and clean a little bit."
I try to give her give her one of Lucy's trademark smiles, something to convince her I'm excited to be here, but we all know I'm terrible at pretending. "Sure. What can I do?"

"Would you mind refilling the ketchup and mustard bottles and then the salt and pepper shakers? The refills are on the bottom shelf in the storage room."

"Sure."

Merry Gene gives me a graceful smile as I trudge to the back room and I know she wants me to feel at home here, but I'm still slave labor. I can't get my conversation with Mom out of my head. No matter how many ways she tries to disguise it, Mom and Dad don't want me around. If I'm honest with myself, I know that they've never wanted me at all. I'm accidental baggage that they've shoved off on someone else.

I glance over the shelves in the back room and find the mustard and ketchup dispensers and haul them out to the restaurant part of the pizza shop. The bottles sit on the trash can next to the napkins and I trudge over, unscrew the lid on the mustard bottle, and refill it.

I guess I shouldn't complain about living here for the summer. I get to stay in the same place for three months, which by my standards is a pretty long time. And now I have endless hours of refilling ketchup dispensers and washing dishes to spend thinking about my very uncertain future. The thing is, I don't want to think about my plans. Any money I have is from my parents, so I don't have the funds to do what I want--whatever that is. They'll support me if I choose to return to Cornell in the fall, but I feel like it's too late for that. Maybe if I studied something other than business I'd like it, but I have no idea what my passion is. I hate the idea of working a monotonous nine to five job. If I ever settled into a job, it would have to be something I cared a lot about.

The only job I've ever really enjoyed was the summer I spent teaching kids to swim at the YMCA. There was an adorable, bespectacled kid named Bartholomew who I became friends with. He was an Army brat just like me, and I worked one-on-one with him for hours. It was more than just teaching him swimming; we talked about life, and how hard it is to make friends. Is it weird that an eight year old Army brat was one of the best friends I ever had?