Caramel Syrup

• Lara Wrightson, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2022

I mindlessly hum along to the lyrics of a Def Leppard song, ‘Oh Billy, never give him an even break,’ as my boss shoots me a smile from behind his desk. I dump my belongings in the hallway behind his office, turning the radio up on my way down. Michael sighs heavily, his computer screen a bright blue.

“You gotta restart it, Michael.” I laugh, repeating the same thing I tell him everyday.

“You’ve always been better at this technology stuff, Gracie.” I smile sadly at Michaels frown. He’s always trying his best to keep the diner in touch with its retro heritage, but with the world constantly developing new gadgets and tools, Michael’s finding it harder and harder to maintain that nostalgia without being left behind.

I begin brewing the coffee as the cooks exit out the back for their hourly ‘coffee’ break. I take note of the time as I go to get everything set up. Soon the diner is filled with its usual coffee smell, with underlining notes of tobacco and rum.

My hand reaches for the caramel syrup hiding behind the flour, my body steadying itself against the counter, when the bell jingles in recognition. I internally curse the chefs for making my life difficult with their constant teasing as my ears twitch at the sound of heavy boots scuffing against the recently polished floor.

With my back still turned, I call out to the stranger, “Sorry sir, we aren’t open for another half an hour.” My fingers glide against the syrups label, my face reddening from my efforts.

The stranger doesn’t answer, as I huff in defeat. Wiping my dusty hands against my pale blue apron, I turn. I meet the eye of the muzzle first, then the bright green eyes of a precarious man. My throat swells, my hands instantly rush into the air as my eyes dart from the metallic armour to the man's red face. I try to keep my mind from memorizing his features, to try and ignore the freckle below his left ear, his blonde sandy hair and the moustache which conceals his upper lip.

“Give me all the money ya got or I’ll shoot ya!” His southern accent noticeable as he waves the gun carelessly in my face.

My feet shuffle to the till as I hear Michael wander in, “Grace! Where did I put the remote for the-” His soft voice filters in, faltering slightly at the sight of me with handfuls of cash and a gun to my head.

I look at him pleadingly, tears blurring my vision as Michael hesitates; then he runs.

The smoke flares out the end of the barrel as my knees buckle, trying to swallow my screams as my eyes burn. I hear the sound of coins rustling and bags zipping, followed by the soft jingle of the bell. My chest heaves as I call out for help, ‘America the beautiful’ playing faintly in the background.