The Boy in the Black Suit Read Free Page A

just . . . I just . . .” I struggled to explain why, but I could tell by the way he looked at me that I didn’t really have to.
    â€œNo need to explain, son,” he said, putting his hand up. “Trust me, I get it.”
    I looked down at the application, embarrassed. Even though Mr. Ray said he understood where I was coming from, I still felt a little stupid turning down his offer when the only other option was to work in a grimy chicken spot. But on the other hand, it just didn’t seem like a good idea to take a job somewhere where I’d have to relive my mom’s funeral everyday. Like being paid to replay the worst day of my life over and over again.
    Mr. Ray put his hand on my shoulder. “Just let me know if you change your mind.” I didn’t look up. I just nodded and started filling out the address line, signing myself up for fry-duty. But it was either that or die-duty. Lose-lose.
    As soon as Mr. Ray turned around to walk back toward the counter, the door swung open and a young girl came rushing in, her hand pressed tight to her mouth, her cheeks bulging from her face. And before she could get to the bathroom—hell, before she could even get all the way inside—she spewed red, lumpy slime all over the already sticky floor. It looked like that old-lady pudding. What’s it called? Tapioca? Yeah. It was like tapioca. But red. And if there’s one thing I just can’t deal with, it’s puke. Two things, really—tapioca and puke. I just can’t. Everything about throw-up is gross. The way it looks, the way it smells, the way it sounds. All of it. Straight-up nasty. So when this girl came in chucking her lunch, I sprung from my chair and damn near jumped on Mr. Ray. I literally almost knocked him over.
    â€œWhat the—” Mr. Ray whipped around after hearing the belching and hacking sound of spit-up, along with my chair sliding back from the under the table and my footsteps running up on him. “Clara!” he shouted. “Clara! You got a situation out here!”
    I stood next to Mr. Ray, but faced the opposite way. I looked straight ahead at Renee and the other customers who were also grossed out, while Mr. Ray focused on the sick kid, who I could hear heaving.
    Renee stretched her neck to see what was happening, and once she saw the mess, she just tightened her lips and shook her head. Like this was normal. “Clara, we need a clean-up,” she said in a bored voice.
    â€œClara!” Mr. Ray barked again.
    â€œI’m coming, I’m coming!” Clara yelped. She came through adoor on the side of the kitchen, rolling a yellow mop bucket. A guy followed behind her with what looked like a bag of sand and one of those big orange cones.
    â€œJesus,” Clara said, passing me. I locked my eyes on the chicken. I couldn’t stand to see the puke, because if I had seen it, they’d have had to clean up two tapiocas. “Put that stuff down and go get her some water,” Clara said to the guy with the sand.
    The dude ran back toward the kitchen and in a flash came back with a cup of water.
    â€œSit down,” Clara said to the girl.
    â€œI’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” the girl cried over and over again, and I could tell she was lifting the cup to her mouth because her voice changed. “I’m so sorry. I just . . . couldn’t make it to the bathroom.” She sounded embarrassed, and to be honest, I was pretty embarrassed too. I mean, I was already feeling a way when I turned down the job Mr. Ray offered me, but now I was visibly scared of upchuck and I just knew the girl at the register was looking at me act like a pussy. So, yeah—pretty embarrassed.
    â€œNext in line!” Renee called. Turns out she wasn’t paying me no mind. She wasn’t tripping about anything. For her this was just another day at the job. I didn’t know how anyone could still have an