Chapter 2 JUNIPER
They sauntered through the door like the diner belonged to them, designer bags slung carelessly over shoulders, laughing at something on one of their phones.
Tracy’s glossy lips curved into that fake-sweet smile she’d perfected in high school.
She tilted her head, eyes flicking over my uniform like she was appraising a clearance-rack dress.
“O.M.G,” she cooed, loud enough for her friends to titter behind her manicured hands.
“How do you even live on what they pay? Like, do they even give you real tips, or is it mostly loose change and pity dollars?”
Her friends smirked, one of them pretending to check her phone while stealing glances at me.
The words landed like little needles—I felt heat flood my face. Part of me wanted to snap back: Better than living off Daddy’s credit card and pretending it’s earned. Part of me wanted to disappear behind the counter and pretend I hadn’t heard.
What Tracy didn’t know—what none of them knew—was that I went to the same college they did.
Tracy had never once connected the dots.
Why would she?
The girl in the diner uniform, hair frizzy from steam tables, apron tied tight over a chest that strained every button, looked nothing like the quiet, hoodie-drowned figure who slipped into lecture halls five minutes early and left five minutes late.
To her, I was just “the waitress.” A townie. A charity case. Not someone who sat three rows behind her in Intro to Sociology, scribbling notes while she scrolled TikTok.
And I preferred it that way.
The less she knew, the less ammunition she had.
“What’ll it be—plain air and a side of nothing, or are we going bold with the garden salad, dressing on the side?” I asked, pen poised over my order pad, pasting on my sweetest customer-service smile.
Tracy’s eyes narrowed into slits, her perfectly glossed lips pressing into a thin line.
“I’ll take the grilled chicken salad,” she said slowly, like she was doing me a favor,
“and a Diet Coke."
Her gaze dropped pointedly to my chest, where the red-and-white striped polo strained against the buttons.
"And looking at how that uniform’s fighting for its life around your chest, maybe skip the free fries they sneak you back there. Wouldn’t want to burst a seam, would we, Porky?”
Her friends erupted into hushed giggles, one covering her mouth like it was all so hilarious.
Heat rushed to my face—anger more than shame this time—and I felt the familiar sting behind my eyes.
Yeah, my breasts were large. Bigger than average, definitely bigger than what fit comfortably in this damn retro uniform.
So what?
The rest of me was perfectly proportioned for my frame—narrow waist, strong legs from endless hours on my feet, hips that curved just enough to remind me my body was built for living, not posing.
I wasn’t some fragile, waif-thin Instagram ideal Tracy and her pack chased with green juices and pilates.
I was solid.
Real.
Curved where it mattered, toned where it counted, and every inch of it earned through double shifts, carrying heavy trays,
Before I could scrape together a response that wouldn’t get me fired, Suzie stepped up beside me, tray balanced on one hip, her voice cutting through the laughter like a knife through butter.
“I got this one,” she said, leaning in toward Tracy with a sweet, dangerous smile.
“Grilled chicken salad, hold the bullshit, and a Diet Coke. That’ll be fifteen ninety-five.”
Tracy blinked, thrown for half a second.
“Excuse me? For a salad?”
Suzie didn’t miss a beat. She tapped the register screen, eyes never leaving Tracy’s face.
“Yeah. Salad’s twelve-fifty. The extra three-forty-five is for the attitude tax.” She muttered the last part under her breath, just loud enough for me—
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Tracy’s glare could’ve melted the fryer baskets, but Suzie just held her stare, unflinching.
Tracy’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. She glared daggers at her, then at me, like we’d coordinated this.
Her friends shifted awkwardly, the giggles dying out.
“Fifteen ninety-five,” Suzie repeated, voice cheerful now, holding out her hand for the card.
“Cash or plastic, hon?”
Tracy slapped her card down harder than necessary.
I rang it through silently, sliding the receipt across the counter without meeting her eyes.
Inside, though, a small, vicious spark of satisfaction flickered.
I turned to start their order, shoulders finally loosening for the first time since those glossy highlights had strutted through the door.
Suzie brushed past, giving my elbow a quick, nudge.
“Don’t let those spoiled little parasites rent space in your skull, babe. Trust-fund Barbie and her pack think the world owes them caviar and blowouts because Daddy’s Amex has no limit. Their balayage appointment probably costs more than your entire month’s rent—and they still tip like it’s an insult to breathe the same air as the help… but here’s the thing: we’re the ones who actually know how to survive without a safety net. We earn every damn dollar, while they’re busy posing for selfies, and when the credit card gets declined? They’ll crumble. We won’t. We’re tougher, we’re realer, and honestly? We’re just better.”
She pulled back just enough to flash a wicked, satisfied grin.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime,” she said,
“Now go feed the creeps before they start tipping in quarters again and we have to start a swear jar for every time one of them says ‘keep the change’ like it’s a favor.”
I grabbed the tray and headed toward Tracy’s booth, chin up, shoulders back, uniform straining but not breaking. Let them giggle. Let them mock. I was ready.