The lunch lady of hollow ridge playthrough

Turn 30 of 32

Go out to the gravel lot and look at the bus. the man sees yall and says get on, yall do as he talks about how the ladies are ready, everything is the same from the outfit to the hair to the body to the voice to the movement to the hairnet to the yellow gloves. everyone is the same 60 year old southern woman with a drawl accient named tammy.

The twelve of you go out through the loading door and down into the gravel lot together, blue dresses and white aprons bright in the morning cold, hairnets catching the light, yellow gloves tucked under arms because a lady doesn't greet company in her work gloves. The bus sits at the bottom of the lot, yellow as a school pencil, red lights blinking slow, engine idling, and its folded doors open before anybody knocks. The man behind the wheel is small and grey and ordinary, a cap on his head, and he looks at the twelve of you coming down the gravel the way a man looks at a delivery he expected. 'Y'all the ladies?' he calls. 'Then get on. We're late enough as it is.'

And you get on. There is no question in any of you, twelve pairs of black flats climbing the bus steps in the same rhythm, twelve soft bodies filling the first six rows two by two, and the doors fold shut behind the last of you with a sigh of air. The man pulls out slow, grinding up the mountain road, and he talks the way drivers talk, half to the mirror. 'Been a while since they sent us a full crew. Usually it's fewer.' He glances back at the twelve of you and something in his face eases, like he's pleased with the order. 'But look at y'all. Ready. That's how it ought to be.'

'Everything's the same,' he says, eyes on the road. 'The dress, the apron, the stockings. The bun under the net. The gloves. The way you move — you all move like one woman, you know that? And the voice. Every one of you with that same drawl.' He chuckles low. 'Same face, same build, same name, I expect. The ladies are ready when the ladies are all one lady.'

'Supposed to be that way, hon,' Tammy says from beside you, patting your gloved hand, and the bus rocks easy down the mountain, past the spot where the trees swallowed the taillights a week ago, heading down toward the valley and the school you can already see at the bottom, low and brick, its cafeteria windows glowing. Twelve women ride together in the yellow bus, identical from bun to flats, and the clock's tick is far behind you now, and it is very good.