Page 7 of Catching Camila

No guy would ever come to her trailer park if she could help it.

“I mean,” Fer said, picking up the conversation where they'd left off, “your mom gets knocked up when she's, what, seventeen, not even married? And she expects you to keep it in your pants?”

“Stop,” Camila said, keeping her eyes on the cracked sidewalk as they veered past the sign that read Hidden Woods Mobile Homes and out of the park. The main road shimmered in the summer heat. Cars rushed past in a steady stream.

“Not your fault your ma got knocked up. I mean look at my dumb-ass mother. How many dudes has she brought home this month?”

“Fer,” Camila said, her voice as taut as a wire, “Just drop it, okay?”

Fer shrugged. “Okay. Sorry.” She sped out onto the street and they went silent for a while.

Why did it bother her so much when Fer talked about Mama? Everything she said was true. And Fer had it bad with her mother's alcoholic boyfriends. But at least Fer knew her father and saw him on holidays and long weekends. Fer had her brother, Shaun, and loads of aunts and cousins. Sure, they didn't get along, but at least she had them. Camila didn't even have a photo of her father. Mama needed help. She was only getting worse.

Her thoughts fell away as they pulled into Lizzy’s Ice Cream parking lot and a sick unease took hold. Fer called this job a no-brainer. The owner was a sad divorcée who was never around. The assistant manager was a twenty-one-year-old, pot-smoking, community college student. Piece of cake, Fer had said. Then why did Camila's stomach flip when they pulled in and parked in the back?

The ice cream shop was the most rectangular, dumpy building on this crappy two-lane road. The cinder-block exterior, once lemon yellow, had faded to dirty lard. The large block letters above the ordering window read Lizzy’s. Very creative. The landscaping had run amok and weeds sprouted out of the flowerbeds in brown, wispy strands. A few mismatched chairs and picnic tables sat on the cement slab, filling up with customers on a hot day. Channel 4 News said it was going to be eighty-eight degrees today, hot fo sho, as Fer would say.

Michigan in July was uncomfortable, but the inside of Lizzy’s Ice Cream felt like an Easy Bake Oven cranked to high. She spied the open screen windows, the fans oscillating in the corners. No A.C.

As they stepped in, a woman in her forties blocked their path. Her manicured red nails tapped on the counter as she frowned at them.

“Jennifer, you are twenty minutes late.” The woman, who had to be Lizzy, set her painted mouth in a disapproving scowl. Her bleach-blond hair, going gray at the roots, was teased and sprayed until it flared out like an eighties rock star. She was wearing a Rolling Stones tank top over acid-washed jean shorts. Camila didn’t look directly at them, but she was certain Lizzy’s boobs could not be real.

“Well,” Lizzy said, waving an arm at Fer, “what you got to say for yourself?”

Fer shot a glance at Camila. “Lizzy, I—”

“It’s my fault,” Camila said. “I made her late.”

Lizzy’s scowl tracked from Fer to Camila. “Camila, Jennifer runs her mouth all day about how great you are, but I gotta tell ya, late on the first day ain’t cuttin’ it, sweetheart.” Lizzy pointed a finger at Fer. “What’s Lizzy’s number one rule?”

Fer blew out her breath. “Always be loyal.”

“That’s right!” Lizzy said, smacking her hand on the counter hard enough to make Camila jump. “And being late ain’t loyal. Ask my peach of an ex-husband.”

Fer’s eyebrows drew up and a little smirk curled on her lips. “Tell Camila about your peach of an ex-husband, Liz.”

Lizzy’s eyes lit up. “That smarmy bastard. He lives in Tahoe now with his new screw-buddy-turned-wife, Darcy. What kinda dumbasses name their daughter Darcy? A couple of inbred, idiot pig farmers, that’s who.”

Camila tried not to make any sudden movements. Fer, standing behind Lizzy, gave a wicked smile and waggled her eyebrows.

“Lizzy,” Fer said, filling a metal cup with warm water and plunking a battered ice cream scoop into it, “tell her what that bastard sent you for Christmas.”

“Ah, God,” Lizzy said, throwing her hands up in disgust. A single leopard-print bra strap dislodged and slid down her shoulder. “You know what that slimy bastard sent me for Christmas?”

Camila took a step back from Lizzy’s flailing arms. “I don't kno—”

“A Goddamned Christmas card!” Lizzy shrieked, striking her hand on the counter. “And do you know what was on that Goddamned Christmas card?”

“Tell her.” Fer stuck her tongue to the side of her mouth as if to say Get a load of this one. Camila made a mental note to kill Fer.

“A picture of the two of them at a chapel in Vegas. Had himself a friggin’ Elvis weddin’. I coulda spit nails.” Lizzy clutched the counter and rocked back and forth. “Darcy. Like I give a crap if they get married or screw or whatever. I got his daddy’s ice cream shop, hell hole that it is.”

Camila twisted her hands together. A question burned in her brain, but she was afraid to ask. “Um, Lizzy? When do I get my first pay check?”

Lizzy’s eyes flicked to Camila. “Two weeks. No advances.”

Camila nodded politely, but felt her stomach twist. They needed the money now.

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