Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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I can feel the fatigue weighing me down as I close my car door behind me.
My hands are on autopilot as I start the engine and crank the heat, but they fall back to my lap as I lean my head against the headrest.
In the nearly four years that I've been working at Over Easy, I have never experienced a more disastrous and stressful shift. It was a shit show, an absolute shit show. Three of our six scheduled waitresses called out sick tonight, but I couldn't even be mad about it since I was the one who answered the phone when Lacie, Nicole, and Maria called. There wasn't a sliver of a doubt that they were really sick because, mid-conversation, Lacie put the phone down to throw up.
I'm a sympathetic puker—a really attractive trait, I know—which means I had to hold my hand over my mouth as the sounds echoed through the receiver. I stayed on the phone long enough to wish her well before hanging up and running into the back, where I had to cycle through the three deep breathing exercises I know of to keep from upchucking all over the bar top.
So, it was up to me, Josie, and Kelsie, the newest hire who just finished her final training day last week, to manage the Friday night crowd that always flocks to the diner for the basketball games.
Needless to say, we got wrecked.
I take another minute to catch my breath before clicking my seatbelt into place. I'm turning onto the main road that brings me back to my apartment when the display on the dashboard lights up with my mother's name.
I groan inwardly because I know I can't ignore her call again. It's been four days since I've called her back, and if I try to push it to five, she might actually track me down to kill me.
"Hey, Mom." I try to sound upbeat because the last thing I need is for her to ask how much sleep I'm getting or whether or not I'm being wise with my time allocation.
"Abigail, why haven't you called me back in four days?"
I take a deep breath and tighten my hold on the steering wheel as I take the left turn toward my apartment complex. The roads are still pretty busy around campus since everyone is leaving the arena now that the game is over.
I try to focus on relaxing my tense muscles as I reply, "I'm sorry, I've been working a little more than usual since some of my coworkers are sick."
"Right, Jeff mentioned that you were extra busy this week. Nana also said you called her yesterday," she says, though it comes out as more of an accusation—you have time to call your brother and grandmother, but not me?
Technically, I didn't call Jeff; he called me when I was on my way home from work the other night. It was a little out of character since most of our communication is reserved for our random back-and-forth conversations on Snapchat.
"It was on my way to work; I only had ten minutes," I defend, but I know I've already lost the battle because to her, calling Jeff and Nana, and not her, is like a slap to the face.
