You Are Not Here Read online

  Pizza Boy is behind the counter again.

  “You’re back,” he says.

  “Yeah. I filled out the application.”

  He takes it from me and looks it over.

  “Annaleah. Nice name.

  Looks like you’re good at math, Annaleah.”

  It’s a little weird

  how he keeps repeating my name.

  He says,

  “Let me pass this to my boss.”

  Pizza Boy comes out from behind the counter

  and heads for the kitchen.

  He comes back with an older man and says,

  “Frank, this is my friend Annaleah.

  I think she’d be great

  at working the back tables.”

  Friend? I only met him yesterday.

  I don’t even know his name.

  Frank looks me and my application over.

  “Ever waitressed before?” he asks.

  I attempt a joke,

  “No, but I clear the table at home.”

  “See, Frank. She’s funny.

  Customers will like her,” says Pizza Boy.

  “Do you think you can carry the trays?”

  Frank asks, pointing to a tray

  that’s loaded with dirty plates and cups.

  “Definitely,” I say,

  even though I’m not so sure.

  “Okay, then,” Frank says.

  “Can you do a mix

  of afternoon and evening shifts

  until school starts?

  Then maybe some weekends

  after September?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” I answer,

  wondering what Brian’s gotten me into.

  “All right, then.

  You start in two days.

  Come in at four.

  Wear black pants and a white polo shirt.

  See you then.”

  He shakes my hand

  and then goes back to the kitchen.

  But Pizza Boy is still standing there.

  “Thanks for doing that,” I say.

  “Telling him you know me, I mean.”

  “No problem.”

  “I guess now would be a good time

  for you to tell me your name…

  since we’re friends and all.”

  “It’s Ethan.”

  “Well, Ethan.

  See you in two days.”

  “So I went to Renzo’s,”

  I tell Brian later that afternoon.

  “At first, I wasn’t sure

  why you sent me there.

  But then that guy asked me

  if I was there about the job

  and it all clicked.

  But visiting you,

  talking to you,

  has kept you close.

  Feeling sad

  has kept me busy—

  it’s been my job.

  And if I come here less,

  what will I have?

  But I am going to try,

  because this

  is what you want.”

  Ethan is behind the counter

  when I get to Renzo’s

  for my first day of work.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Ethan tosses me an order pad

  and an apron

  to tie around my waist.

  “Frank’s not here yet.

  So I’m going to show you around.

  This is Lou,” he says.

  He’s pointing to a chubby guy

  who nods in my direction.

  “Lou’s usually on the ovens with me.

  Come on, I’ll introduce you

  to the cooks in back.”

  Ethan leads me into the back

  and through old saloon-type doors.

  “Mike, Frank, Jimmy,

  this is Annaleah.

  She’s the new waitress.”

  They all smile and wave at me

  from behind columns of steam

  and piles of chopped vegetables.

  I push out a smile

  and wave back.

  Smiling is new.

  For the last few weeks,

  none of the muscles in my face

  have been put to much use.

  No smiles.

  No frowns.

  No eyebrows raised.

  No wrinkled brow.

  No nothing.

  It all hung there

  on the bone—

  motionless.

  Ethan grabs a menu

  and we sit down in one of the booths.

  “If someone orders

  pizza or calzones and stuff like that,

  let us know up front.

  If it’s kitchen stuff

  like salad, meat, and pasta,

  let the guys know in the back.”

  Ethan points to the menu and says,

  “If someone orders from this side of the menu,

  they get a salad to start

  and steamed vegetable of the day.”

  He goes on to list

  more dressings than I can remember at once,

  to explain how each booth has a number,

  and that as soon as someone sits down,

  I should give them a breadbasket

  and take their drink orders.

  “You getting all this?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say as I try to repeat

  all those dressings in my head.

  “Ribbit.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, totally confused.

  “R-I-B-B-T.

  Ranch, Italian, blue cheese, balsamic, thousand island.

  It’ll help you remember.”

  “Pretty clever, thanks.”

  “No problem.

  So, if it’s quiet, you can refill

  the salt, pepper, and sugar.

  You can also make napkin wraps

  or just hang out with me and Lou.

  All right, Annaleah,

  that’s pretty much the end of your tutorial.”

  As Ethan walks back up front,

  he looks over his shoulder and says,

  “If you need anything,

  I’m here.”

  The answer to the question

  of how many slices of pizza

  it takes to make me feel really sick:

  three and a half.

  I am sweeping

  bits of crust, straws,

  gum wrappers,

  and shredded napkins

  into piles,

  into a dustpan,

  and into the garbage can.

  I want to do the same

  with my feelings.

  I want to sweep them together

  into neat piles,

  then toss them out.

  I want them

  away from me.

  I sit with Brian and tell him about work.

  “At Renzo’s, I’m just a waitress.

  I’m not the girl

  whose quasi-boyfriend died.

  To Ethan,

  to Lou,

  to the customers,

  I’m just a regular girl.

  No one asks questions like:

  Are you okay?

  Why don’t you call me back?

  How do you feel?

  Did you eat today?

  Did you sleep last night?

  The only questions I get are:

  Can I get some more bread?

  Do you have root beer?

  Does this have anchovies?

  But when I leave work,

  I go back to being me.

  To being sad.

  To visiting you.”

  I’m wiping down table six

  when I turn around and see Marissa

  and Jessica Bennett giving Ethan

  their order at the front counter.

  This is the first time I’ve seen Marissa

  since she stormed out of my house.

  “What are you doing here?”

  she asks, walking toward me.

&
nbsp; “I started working here a few days ago.”

  “Oh,” she says.

  She looks wounded

  that I didn’t tell her earlier.

  “It happened kind of quick.”

  “Well…how are you?”

  “Okay, I guess.

  I needed to get out of the house,

  you know.”

  But maybe that isn’t the right thing to say.

  Marissa’s been trying to get me

  out of the house since Brian died,

  and I haven’t been willing.

  Marissa looks back toward the counter.

  “So…Jess is waiting.

  I should—”

  “Yeah.

  I’ve gotta get back to work.”

  But that’s not true.

  It’s quiet enough that I could talk to her.

  If I wanted to.

  If she wanted to.

  If it weren’t so weird.

  While Marissa and Jessica

  wait up front for their orders,

  I check on my tables,

  refill some waters,

  get someone a straw.

  Marissa is only a few yards away,

  but she’s never felt so far.

  Seeing Marissa’s shock

  makes me think I should

  tell Parker and Joy

  about getting a job.

  I don’t want to talk,

  so I send a text instead.

  Got job @ renzos pizza

  on richardson & park.

  Come visit if u want.

  Joy texts back immediately.

  OMG! Thurs?

  Im gonna make u work

  4 yr tip!

  Parker texts the next day.

  Waitress? For reals?

  Will try to come by soon.

  On the way to work,

  I see a dead bird

  lying on the sidewalk.

  It isn’t a translucent chick,

  fallen from its nest.

  It isn’t flattened

  from the impact of a car.

  It is perfect.

  Yellow and brown,

  with waxy feathers,

  a full round body,

  and an open eye

  looking right at me.

  I wonder where this bird came from.

  I wonder how it got here.

  It’s not even near a tree.

  I wonder how it died.

  It looks as if it

  were flying one moment.

  Then the next,

  struck down from the sky,

  dead.

  I dream

  my cell phone rings.

  Marissa is calling.

  She tells me

  my mother is dead.

  Suddenly, Marissa

  is in my room.

  Her arms and legs

  are wrapped around me.

  She is holding me.

  Rocking me.

  She is my skin.

  If she lets go,

  my body will fall apart.

  “Who’s that guy?” Joy asks

  as she sits down in a booth.

  “What guy?”

  “The tall one behind the counter.”

  “Oh. That’s Ethan.”

  “He’s hot,” she says as she adjusts

  the absurdly large silk flower in her hair.

  “I guess.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  I lean back

  and take a good look at Ethan.

  “Yeah. I guess he’s cute.”

  “What’s his deal?”

  “I don’t know.

  He just finished his first year

  at Woodson.”

  “Does he have a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know.

  I don’t think so.

  He hasn’t mentioned anyone.”

  “You should totally go out with him.

  He’s looked over here

  like a million times.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  I pause.

  “Because of Brian.”

  Now Joy pauses.

  “Really? But Brian—”

  “I better get your pizza,”

  I say as I get up.

  I don’t need her

  to finish her sentence.

  I don’t need her

  to remind me

  what Brian and I were

  or weren’t.

  “I wonder

  how long grief lasts.

  Will there be a day

  when I don’t feel like this?

  When I don’t think about you?

  I wonder

  how long that will be from now.

  Weeks?

  Months?

  Years?

  Will I be thirty and still miss you?

  Will I always wonder

  what our life

  could have been?

  Maybe we would have

  only lasted another few weeks.

  Maybe I would have

  gotten angry enough

  to demand that I be

  your actual girlfriend.

  Or maybe you would have

  ended things with me,

  found someone else

  you’d rather be with.

  There are so many endings

  that our story could have had.

  But I will never know

  any ending besides this one.”

  The death book wants me

  to create an obituary for Brian.

  It says to focus on positive things

  like his talents and pastimes.

  Brian Dennis was seventeen.

  He was kind

  when he wanted to be.

  Funny

  without even trying.

  He loved music,

  especially hearing it live.

  He liked to draw.

  He was a great kisser.

  I stop.

  I’d like to be able to

  write about his relationship

  to his parents or his friends,

  but I can’t.

  I’d like to be able to

  write what was really important to Brian.

  But I don’t know that either.

  Apparently, I don’t know much.

  Here we go again.

  9:00 a.m.: Alarm goes off.

  9:15 a.m.: Get out of bed.

  9:18 a.m.: Shower.

  9:25 a.m.: Pull wet hair into ponytail.

  9:29 a.m.: Put on white shirt, black pants, and sneakers.

  9:33 a.m.: Dab on concealer, brush on mascara.

  9:40 a.m.: Eat bowl of cereal.

  9:50 a.m.: Walk out front door.

  10:00 a.m.: Arrive at Renzo’s.

  This is a new sort of routine.

  Somewhere in between

  the late lunch and early dinner crowd,

  I ask Ethan about college.

  He says,

  “I might major in sociology or anthro.

  Not sure which yet,

  but definitely something

  that involves studying people.

  Have you thought about college?

  It’s about that time, right?”

  “Yeah, it is.

  I should be thinking

  about it this summer,

  but I’ve been distracted.

  I might just apply to some state schools.

  Or maybe take another year to decide.”

  “Aren’t your parents on your ass about it?”

  “Nah. My mom’s not too bad.

  But she does keep leaving college catalogs around.

  I think she hopes they’ll inspire me.”

  “And what about your dad?”

  “He’s not around…

  So I never asked.

  Where are you from?”

  “Michigan.”

  “How come you didn’t go home for the

&nb
sp; summer?”

  “And miss the chance

  to work with you at Renzo’s?

  Just kidding.”

  As he says that,

  he knocks his shoulder into mine.

  “I’m taking a summer class

  and renting a house with some guys.

  Besides, home is not a good place

  to be right now.”

  “Oh,” I say as I neaten a stack of napkins.

  I’m curious about what he means,

  but I don’t want to ask—

  especially since I changed the subject

  when he asked about my dad.

  But to my surprise,

  he keeps going.

  “My parents are getting divorced.”

  “Oh.

  I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.

  I’m just glad they’re doing something

  besides fighting.

  I get it.

  It took a while,

  but I get it now.

  They’re not meant to be together.

  Or maybe they were,

  but only for twentysomething years.

  Like their marriage had an expiration date.”

  I can’t believe

  Ethan’s telling me this stuff.

  Brian never talked about his family.

  The most he ever said was:

  “My dad’ll be home soon,

  you better go.”

  “Whoa. Look at you,”

  Parker says when he walks into Renzo’s.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In all the years I’ve known you,

  I’ve never, ever

  seen you in a polo shirt.

  And it’s white.

  And tucked in!”

  Parker is laughing so hard

  that his face is turning red.

  “Come on.

  It’s not that bad.”

  “You’re right.

  I suppose it could be worse.

  It could be a poncho,”

  he says, wiping tears from his eyes.

  I shake my head and laugh with him.

  It is a real laugh.

  Not one I am trying on.

  I am too tired

  to visit Brian tonight.

  After seven hours at Renzo’s,