Wonder When You’ll Miss Me by Amanda Davis

out.
    â€œYou have to empty the trash periodically,” Chuck was saying. “Otherwise the wait staff can’t scrape for the dishwasher and he’ll get mad and callyou a son of a bitch and the chefs can’t toss their shit and they get mad and you don’t eat, right? So here’s the fresh bags and out there’s the Dumpster.”
    He had a way of talking and moving at the same time, illustrating things with his hands by slicing the air in big circles or, now, hoisting a huge garbage bag over one shoulder.
    I followed him to the Dumpster. “We can smoke out here,” he said. “Provided it’s not too busy. If it’s busy they’ll kill you. Or if they’re just in a bad mood.” He laughed. “Whichever.”
    â€œAre they too busy now?” I asked, but he ignored me.
    â€œMake no mistake. You’re the fall guy around here. Someone needs a scapegoat, you’re it. It’s always the bus. Waitress gets a bad tip, her first reaction is Chuck, did you take money off twenty-six? ”
    He said this in a high squeaky voice with a hand on either hip, his lips squeezed like he tasted something sour. He shook a finger at me. “Because they were nice people and I know for a FACT they wouldn’t leave me such a shit-ass tip.”
    He fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered me one, then leaned back against the Dumpster. “Now you listen to me, girl. Everyone’ll leave a shit-ass tip now and again. Some more than others, but everyone’s capable, and”—he hit his chest—“Charlie Yates doesn’t swipe tips.” He grinned, then struck a match and inhaled. He leaned his head back and blew smoke at the sky while handing me the matches on his open palm.
    But I didn’t take them, or even hear what he said next, because I was too busy hearing what he’d just said: Yates. Charlie Yates was Starling’s twenty-year-old brother, I was almost positive. He was from Yander and he’d visited her in the hospital once, though I’d only seen him from a distance. She’d told me so much about him. I didn’t know what to say.
    â€œâ€”fucking dishes, too. I mean it isn’t like they don’t break a glass here or there through the course of the night, right, but who do they look to when the count is low? Bus. That’s your answer—”
    The door opened and a pissed-looking blonde stuck her head outside. It seemed like it pained her to speak to us.
    â€œHel- lo, Chuck,” she said. “I need water on four, twelve, and sixteen, and Marcy has two tables that need to be cleared.”
    She turned and went back inside.
    Charlie sighed, dropped his cigarette, and ground it into the pavement. He mumbled something under his breath and shook his head. I still couldn’t think of what to say, only that this was Charlie who Starling hadwhispered about; Charlie who had a boyfriend in the circus; Charlie who she’d thought could save her. This was Charlie who’d done all those things she’d told me and here I was set to work with him every night.
    I dropped my unlit cigarette and tried to grind it like he had. Then I followed him back inside.
    Â 
    We refilled water and cleared dirty dishes. We brought clean forks and warm bread to people who didn’t even notice us. All the while we were careful to keep our white aprons pristine and our expressions polite. We emptied garbage. We fetched clean napkins. And at the end of the evening we sat down to eat.
    For the first time in almost a year I was starving.
    We had chicken and corn bread, black-eyed peas and greens. When Emily, the night manager, wasn’t looking, Charlie poured half of his beer into a glass and stuck a straw in it for me. “Your ginger ale,” he said loudly when he set it down in front of me. I thought I saw a waitress roll her eyes but kept myself from double-checking.
    Instead, I watched