A Sisterly Shakedown

At this point you might be wondering just how I got this restaurant job to begin with. After all, what kind of establishment would be willing to hire a lazy and experienceless 16 year old like me? A self-respecting one, that’s what kind. Hence why I didn’t get a job at one of those and instead landed a spot manning the, ironically, filthy sinks at Stench of the Sea. That was the name of Al’s restaurant, by the way. Sometimes I still wonder why, considering we didn’t serve seafood as far as I could tell.

You might also be wondering why I had gone and gotten myself a job in the first place, so I should probably go ahead and explain that too. You see, at the time, I stunk. Bad. To high heaven and halfway back. I’m talking BO of the highest order. It was more than bad. It was really bad. And the worst part was it wasn’t my fault at all. It all went back to the ketchup/catsup debacle. After getting dunked into a vat of the stuff from who-knows-how-many stories up like a french fry in freefall, I just couldn’t seem to get the smell off no matter how hard I tried. Smell of what, you ask? Lycopene. Lycopene and shame. But mostly lycopene. That’s why I started going through deodorant and other hygiene products by the truckload — literally. I ordered them in bulk on ACMEzon — you couldn’t find the super high strength versions I was after in stores — and had them delivered by garbage truck. It was quite the expense, to say the least. One my mom eventually got fed up with paying for.

“What?” My jaw dropped when she told me she wasn’t going to be paying for my deodorant, cologne, shampoo, conditioner, post-conditioner, toothpaste, toothbrushes, floss, mouthwash, handsoap, bath soap, bath salts, lotion, moisturizer, exfoliator, exfoliating moisturizer, moisturizing exfoliator, and luxury scented candles anymore, confusion written blatantly on my face. “But I don’t have any money. And you don’t give me an allowance. How am I supposed to afford my deodorant, cologne, shampoo, conditioner, post-conditioner, toothpaste, toothbrushes, floss, mouthwash, handsoap, bath soap, bath salts, lotion, moisturizer, exfoliator, exfoliating moisturizer, moisturizing exfoliator, and luxury scented candles anymore?”

She blinked a few times. “Well, you’re 16 now, aren’t you? You could always get a job.”

And that was that. Washing dishes at Stench of the Sea put an end to my financial woes. But unfortunately, my BO problem was just beginning. After all, Stench of the Sea was named thusly for a reason. A reason I soon started experiencing — and smelling like — firsthand. Meaning I had to start using even more odor-eliminating products than I already had been. Around double, actually. A fact that made me sigh whenever it rose to mind. But hey, at least my sighs all smelled minty fresh.

#

“Sigh,” I said instead of actually sighing for some reason as I swung by the kitchen for a cold drink after reading Al’s text about fixing up the restaurant in time for the inspection. My sister, Replica, was in the kitchen too. She was leaning over the counter, phone in hand, looking like she had just eaten something sour. But that couldn’t have been it. She hated sour stuff.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “Besides the usual, I mean.” I smirked, proud of myself for having thought of that one on the fly.

“Oh, shut up,” she said, puffing her cheeks out in frustration and letting her chin fall into cupped hands. She leaned on the counter, deep in thought. Curious, I pressed her for details. It turned out she was in deep trouble.

Deep boy trouble.

“Ugghhhhhhhhhh!!!” she groaned, with like three exclamation marks. Which, personally, between you and me, I thought was overkill, but hey. “He’s so deep! And mysterious! How am I ever going to get his attention, let alone get him to like me?”

Yes, that’s right. You guessed it, just as did I the second the words left her big, annoying mouth: Replica was in love. My little sister was finally growing up. As a big brother, it almost brought a tear to my eye. Almost. What it actually brought was a spicy bolt of stomach acid straight up my throat. I mimed gagging.

“Quit it, you loser! This is serious! It’s beyond serious! It’s the biggest crisis of my life!” With zero warning, she threw her phone at me and I dived to catch it before it hit kitchen tile and shattered into a million pieces. I just knew if it broke I would be blamed for it and have to get her a replacement, and with all my money going to personal hygiene, I couldn’t afford that.

Somehow, I actually managed to grab the thing before impact. Go me, I guess.

I stood up and brushed myself off. Thankfully I had avoided getting my skin skidded as I slid. Maybe all those years of baseball really did pay off, I thought, though I couldn’t see exactly how, considering the only sliding I’d ever done was down the bench as I waited for my next strikeout at bat.

I was about to hand the phone back when I caught a glimpse of the screen. It was opened to someone’s social media page. “Wait. This is who you’re pining over?”

“Give it back, dummy!” She swiped her phone back. “And yeah, so what? What’s wrong with that?”

“That’s Donald McRonald, man. A literal clown. He comes from a whole family of them.” Just a single picture was enough for me to recognize the guy she’d apparently been stalking online. That’s how recognizable the guy was in his clown makeup and stupid-looking suspenders jumpsuit thing. Not to mention his size-probably-like-56 goofy red shoes and ridiculous rainbow wig. He was in my grade, so I saw him just about every day at school. Admittedly he was pretty popular, with girls and guys alike — way higher up on the social ladder than me, sad as it is to admit. But he was still a clown. I couldn’t believe my sister had fallen for him.

“You just like him cause he’s rich, don’t you?” Don’s family owned that one multibillion-dollar, international fast food chain. Y’know, the one famous for selling those milkshakes made with leprechaun blood every St. Patrick’s Day. The way I saw it, the money was definitely the most appealing thing about the guy, and I was sure that was all Replica was really interested in getting her miserly mitts on. Was I being accusatory? Yeah. But was I also being right? Of course I was…

…n’t, apparently. Go figure.

“As if. I like him for who he is — not for his bank account. Though that certainly doesn't hurt.”

Oh, brother, I thought. Er… wait. Oh, sister?

She went on. “If there are three words to describe Don,” she explained, “they would have to be ‘deep,’ ‘mysterious,’ and ‘totally cool.’”

“That’s four words,” I said, slightly concerned that my sister had made it to the eighth grade without being able to count.

“Semantics.” Well, at least she knew her SAT words. I was pretty sure she was using that one wrong though. “Don is just the best, and he’s the best for me. I just know I’m the best for him too. If only I could make him see it…”

“Well, good luck with that,” I said as I began my tactical retreat. My gut told me if I stuck around any longer, I’d be the one getting stuck smack in the middle of some hairbrained situation or other. And not just any hairbrained situation. A hairbrained situation involving clowns. “Doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

God, I hope that’s true. Please don’t let this have anything to do with me.

But before I could escape, me and my sister locked eyes. I didn’t like what I saw. Replica had a smile on, a big, evil, twisted grin practically eating up half her face. I gulped. I knew that whatever came out of that crooked mouth next was going to spell bad news for me.

“You can do it,” she said.

“What?” My mouth was dry all of a sudden, and I had to force the word out my throat.

“You know Don, right? He goes to your school. You can ask him to go on a date with me.”

“What? Why would I do that? Ask him out yourself,” I snapped back, trying to sound as confident about it as possible. I had a really bad feeling about this. I knew she wouldn’t have even brought it up if she didn’t have a way to make me do it. A way to force my back into a corner and then force my hand. Bend me to her cruel, clown-hungry will. That’s just the kind of person my little sister was — is, actually.

“If you don’t ask Don out for me,” she said through her twisted smile, “I’ll tell Mom you were smoking with your boss after work!”

To be continued!