Sugar and Spice

Appearance is Everything: Mallory

The drive home was always the hardest part of my day. It was the fifteen minutes where the adrenaline of the lunch rush drained away, leaving nothing but the throb in my feet and the looming weight of what waited for me at the end of the driveway.

I pulled my car into the pristine, paver-stone driveway of my parents’ house. Every lawn in our neighborhood was manicured to the millimeter, but ours was always just a little bit greener, a little bit sharper. My father was a civil engineer; my mother was a high-end realtor. To them, a house wasn’t just a place to live, it was a portfolio.

I took a deep breath, checked my reflection in the rear view mirror, and smoothed a stray hair back into my ponytail. I had to be perfect before I even turned the doorknob.

“I’m home!” I called out, stepping into the foyer.

The house smelled of expensive lemon oil and nothing else. Here, there was no garlic, fried chicken, or sweat. It was a vacuum.

“In the dining room, Mallory,” my mother’s voice carried through the hall.

I found them sitting at the table, though dinner wasn’t served yet. My father was reviewing paperwork, and my mother was scrolling through a tablet. It was one much thinner and more expensive than the one I used at the restaurant.

“You’re ten minutes later than usual,” my father said, not looking up. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose. “I assume the traffic on the Bay Bridge was backed up again?”

“A little,” I lied, thinking of the extra time I’d spent talking to Jay. “And we had a spill in the lobby. I stayed to help clean it.”

My mother finally looked up, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. I felt like a house she was about to list. “You have a stain on your skirt, Mallory. Right by the hem. Is that…is that marinara?”

I looked down. A tiny, dried red spot marred the fabric. A souvenir from Jay’s faceplant. “Yes, like I said, there was a spill.”

“Appearance is everything, dear,” she said, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “If you’re going to insist on working in a…family style bistro, you have to be careful not to let it rub off on you. It would be a shame for your standards to slip before you even get to university.”

“My standards aren’t slipping, mom.”

“Your mother is just concerned,” my father started. “We’ve discussed this, Kingsport is a high-caliber environment. They don’t just look at your grades. They look at the discipline of your lifestyle. This job was supposed to build character, not bad habits.”

I stood there, my hands clasped behind my back so they wouldn’t see them shaking. I thought about Jay’s messy bun and his lopsided grin. I thought about the clink of silverware and the smell of oregano permeating the air inside Stella’s. In this room, those things felt like a different planet. One that was messy and loud, yet somehow, somewhere I could breathe.

“I have my budget updated,” I said, my voice tight. “I’m on track for the fall semester. I’ll have enough for a security deposit on an apartment by the end of next month.”

“We’ll see,” my father murmured. “The economy is shifting. You should bring the folder to me after dinner. I want to look at your projected earnings again. I think your utility estimates might be a bit… optimistic.”

Optimistic. That was his word for “wrong.”

“I’ll go change,” I said, turning away before they could see the frustration in my eyes.

I walked up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. I retreated to my room. White walls, white bedding, everything in its place. It was clean, perfect, sterile, devoid of personality. Everything they expected me to be. I closed the door, and pulled be Kingsport folder out of my bag.

I looked at the sticky note: Don’t look back.

For the first time, the note didn’t feel like a promise. It felt like a warning. If I didn’t get this right, if I wasn’t perfect, if Jay Dawson kept breaking glassware, or my father found a flaw in my math, I’d be stuck here forever. In this lemon-scented vacuum where the only thing that mattered was the absence of stains.

I sat the folder on my desk and looked in the mirror. I touched the stain. It was small, but it was there.

Maybe life doesn’t always have to be a race against the clock, Mallory, Jay’s gravelly voice echoed in my head. Sometimes things just…crash. I closed my eyes. For a split second, I didn’t want to be Mallory Baxter. I just wanted to be a girl sitting in a linen closet, eating greasy chicken while the world continued spinning without me.

I changed into some “sensible” slacks and a cream-colored blouse, then I scrubbed at the stain on my skirt until the fabric was raw. I tossed the skirt in the hamper and looked in the mirror. I looked “appropriate,” like someone who hadn’t spent the afternoon consoling a stoner busser in a closet.

When I came back downstairs, dinner was being served. Poached salmon, steamed asparagus, and wild rice. It was healthy, balanced, and perfectly portioned.

“Your mother mentioned that the Stevensons are looking for a summer intern at their firm,” my father said, cutting his salmon into perfect, identical squares. “It would pay significantly more than that restaurant, and it would look far better on your resume for Kingsport.”

I kept my eyes on my plate, “I’ve already committed to Geri for the summer. She’s moving me into the server training class in March,” I lied. “My earnings will double with tips.”

“Tips,” my mother sighed. The way she said the word made it sound like it was a dirty secret. “It’s so… inconsistent, Mallory. Relying on the whims of tourists and their generosity? It’s hardly a stable financial foundation.”

“I’ve averaged the shift data for the last six months, mom. Even on slow weeks, I would be making more than I would at an entry-level internship. Plus, I’m learning how to manage a floor. That’s leadership. The fact I’m going into my third year there shows long-term commitment, and I can transfer to the Kingsport location in the fall.”

My father paused, his fork hovering. “Leadership is managing a team of professionals, Mallory. Not making sure Mrs. Gable gets her hot tea. I worry that you’re becoming too comfortable in that environment. You seem… agitated lately.”

“I’m not agitated. I’m just working hard.”

“Is it that new boy?” My mother asked, her eyes suddenly narrowing. “The one you mentioned yesterday, the one who was late?”

My heart did a strange, uncomfortable somersault. “Jay? No. He’s just a trainee. He’s actually trying. He just has a lot to learn about how a professional kitchen operates.”

“He sounds like a distraction,” my father said, finally taking a bite. “Everything in your life right now should be a straight line to Kingsport. Anything that zig-zags, Mallory, is a waste of your momentum.”

I chewed my salmon, but it tasted like cardboard. A straight line. My whole life had been a straight line, drawn with a ruler and checked with a level. But today, in the middle of that lobby, Jay Dawson had zig-zagged so hard he’d ended up on the floor, and for some reason, the memory of it felt more real than this table.

“I’ll bring the folder down after we finish,” I said quietly.

The rest of dinner was spent discussing my father’s new bridge project and my mother’s new listings in Sweetwater. They talked at me, over me, and around me, but never really to me. I was just another project that needed to stay on schedule.

Later, in the study, I stood by while my father went through my budget with a red pen. He didn’t find any math errors, I was too good for that, but he questioned every “miscellaneous” expense.

“You have forty dollars a month allotted for ‘Social/Dining Out,’” he noted, circling it. “Given that you work at a restaurant and receive a shift meal, this seems redundant. That’s nearly five hundred dollars a year you could be putting toward your textbooks.”

“That’s just for coffee or a movie once in a while with Callie or the Hollands.”

“Every cent has a destination, Mallory. If you want to leave this house and survive on your own, you have to be ruthless with your distractions. You have to decide which is more important. School or these restaurant workers.”

I took the folder back, the red circles feeling like wounds on the paper. I retreated to my room and sat on the edge of my bed.

I thought about Jay. He probably didn’t have a budget. He probably didn’t have a map with a sticky note. He probably just woke up, tossed his hair up, and let the day happen to him. And while that terrified me, there was a part of me — a small, rebellious part — that envied him.

I reached for my phone and scrolled to the group chat for the restaurant.

Jay: Does anyone know if industrial degreaser works on tea stains? Asking for a friend.

Riley: omfg Jay! It’ll take out tea and your skin. Just use cold water, man.

Callie: You’re a legend, Jay. Mrs. Gable called to ask about you.

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I wanted to type something. I wanted to say I’m glad you’re okay or don’t worry about the mess. But my father’s voice echoed in my head: Anything that zig-zags is a waste of your momentum.

I turned off the phone, put it on my nightstand, and lay back on my white pillows. I stayed in my straight line. But as I closed my eyes, all I could see was red crayon on a window and a lopsided grin.