The Big Dream by Rebecca Rosenblum Page B

through crumbs, “I . . . I guess I could do that. You don’t have to lift them yourself, right? They let you use a . . . a . . .”
    Margaret coughed, then spat.
    â€œNo.” Sarah sat down on the bench beside the door to do up her sneakers. They had once been white, but now they were gravy-coloured. “Just Kate.”
    â€œAt this hour?” Her mother reached into the bag. “Forklift, probably.” She handed a slice of bread to Sarah. It crumpled in her hand like a Kleenex.
    â€œGood morning, Sarah,” Margaret said in a wavering voice. “I – I’m sorry, sorry, about all this.”
    Jeremy put the paper down and patted Margaret’s knee without looking at her. “Yeah, morning, Sar.”
    Margaret looked so pathetic, sad and fat and clutching her sack of vomit, Sarah couldn’t even answer.
    Margaret wiped her mouth and tried to smile, but it went wobbly straightaway. Jeremy kept looking at the paper. Sarah’s
mother raised her mug and tipped it against her lips before realizing it was empty. Sarah squashed the damp bread in her palm and fled.
    Sarah had never seen Margaret’s parents’ house, but she was sure it had a lawn, two stories, shutters and eavestroughs painted to match. She was sure Margaret’s family didn’t eat dry bread for breakfast, not even the week before payday. When Margaret started dating Jeremy, she would tell Sarah about horses and manicures, and Sarah was happy enough to nod and smile and imagine. Now that Margaret had gotten pregnant and kicked out, nobody really talked to her anymore, barely even Jeremy.

    Two blocks hot walk to the bus stop and a half-hour’s ride west, until the roadside was mainly blank and the bus almost empty. The back of the cafeteria was still under construction though the place had been open a month. Staff had to pick their way through mud to the door, then down the long employees-only corridor where the lights were always shorting out. Between the walk-in fridge and freezer were the punch clock and a mirror hanging from a nail. Sarah stopped there, took a hairnet from her back pocket and started trying to push her hair in. She had a lot, and every time she seemed to get a good bunch in, she’d go to tuck in the last couple curls, and the whole fro would spring back out again. She could feel tears starting her throat.
    â€œIf you won’t shave it, at least put it up in a bun. This is torture.”
    Everything startled Sarah, but not Kate’s voice. “I don’t have the skull shape. I wouldn’t look like you. I would look like a tall toddler.”
    â€œOnly hotter,” Kate said reflexively. It was what she always said when Sarah made fun of herself. “How you doing?”

    â€œOh, you know, bursting into tears every twenty minutes. You?”
    Kate did look good, all cheekbone and jaw, just fuzz on her skull. She punched herself In, then Sarah.
    â€œI’m not ready.” Sarah turned and more hair tumbled free. “Leave it.”
    â€œKeif just notices what’s on the card, not what you actually do. You gotta be on time on paper.”
    â€œThat’s lying.” Sarah’s voice was thin; she found it hard to even hear herself over the hum of the fridge and freezer. The hairnet slipped out of her hands, onto the onion-skin-strewn floor.
    Kate sighed so deeply her belly puffed under the chef shirt. “C’mere, I’ll do it.”
    Sarah scrabbled on the floor. “I can do it, I just need – ”
    Kate snatched the net and shook off the gunge with one hand. With the other, she took Sarah’s hair and twisted it roughly into a bun. A few strands stretched, broke, but Sarah didn’t say anything. The hairnet went on smoothly, more or less. Kate tapped Sarah on her spine. “You’re done. You’re on the clock. Get to work.”

    Breakfast sandwiches sold out early, and the customers stuck with toast and