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Four evenings a week, from four p.m. to midnight, I flip burgers, make fries, and plate up sandwiches in the diner on Baker Street. Well, four evenings a week right now, but I guess this is going to be a more permanent career path since school is out the window for the foreseeable future.
I chose Brighton U because it’s one of the best premed schools in the country. I got to actually go to Brighton because of their financial aid system. In short, they don’t do merit-based scholarships, only need-based. Nice of them. I suppose, all things considered, it’s way cheaper to support the occasional poor student that accidentally stumbles into their midst than to hand out money to all the well-off high achievers that flock inside their redbrick walls.
My point is, it’s like the system was designed for me. I’m smart enough to get in and poor as fuck, so I can’t afford to attend. It’s the perfect combination.
Until my mom got married to Glen and Glen’s sturdy bank account became a wrecking ball to my financial aid. And maybe, maybe, I’d try to understand her decision to get hitched to fucking Glen of all people, but she and Glen have been on again, off again for the better part of the two years they’ve known each other. He cheats. She cheats. Plates are thrown. Words are yelled. They break up for a bit. They make up for a bit. The cycle begins again. So it’s not like it’s some grand love story. It’s an unhealthy relationship that’ll end in divorce. I give them a year, tops.
As for me?
I suppress a sigh.
Three years. Three years, and then I’ll qualify as an independent student and maybe I can try again.
It’s not ideal. Far from it. But I guess I’ll take it. It’s not like I can afford to be picky.
The job itself is tolerable. I cook the same thing day after day, so after two years of working here, basically it’s muscle memory, and I only need to engage my brain very minimally, which comes in handy seeing that I’m always sleep deprived. I don’t have to interact with the customers. Most of the people I work with are decent. My boss is a dick and cheap as fuck, but he rarely shows up here at night, so I’ll take that deal.
It used to be better, but Sal, the previous owner, died a few months ago and his nephew, Francis, took over.
It’s been a steady downhill slide ever since. Not even a slide. A hurtle. Or a plunge.
I park my bicycle in the alleyway behind the diner and chain it to a handrail on the wall. I can’t afford a car, and if somebody steals the bike, I’ll be relying on my feet for the foreseeable future, so I’d rather nobody got ideas.
Just as I’m about to go inside, my phone rings. I pull it out and roll my eyes at the name on the display. For the past week, Ryker’s been calling me. I have no idea what he wants seeing that I haven’t bothered to actually pick up the phone and ask. Thing is, he tends to always see me at my worst, and since I’ve been in a bit of a foul mood lately, I haven’t been interested in adding more humiliation to the tally.
I silence the call and head inside.
Pretty soon I’m too busy to contemplate Ryker’s sudden determination to talk to me. Fries are on the flattop, buns and burgers on the grill, large sheets of bacon in the oven. My knife flies through tomatoes and onions, slicing them into thin circles.
“The air conditioner is still fucked,” Indy says as she walks past me, fanning herself with one of the laminated menus. “I can already feel my boobs getting sweaty. Also, we’re out of lettuce. I sent what’s-her-name to get some more half an hour ago, and she still isn’t back.”
“What’s-her-name?” I ask distractedly.
“The new waitress.” She snaps her fingers. “Brinleigh? Brittaneigh? Something stupid like that. And Mikey called in sick.”
I roll my eyes. Figures it’s one of those days. Mikey is Francis’s brother, and where Francis is useless, Mikey is the kind of person who’d give more back to society if he was dead. At least then he could be used in a cadaver lab. As it is, right now Mikey shows up to work if he feels like it and lately the days when he feels like it are getting far and few between.
Sometimes Francis finds a replacement for him. Most days he doesn’t give a shit.
I’d find a new job, but if a position comes available there’s guaranteed to be feral competition from the rest of Brighton’s student body because there just aren’t that many options around here. Most people commute to Boston, but that’s a forty-minute drive away from our small college town, and seeing that I don’t have a car, I’d be relying on the train, which inexplicably manages to tack on an extra hour to the ride to Boston.
Although… if I can’t go to school, there’s no point in staying here.
Well, hello, silver lining. Bet you didn’t think our paths would ever cross? I spend a glorious few minutes picturing myself quitting this place.
“Anybody coming in to cover Mikey’s shift?” I ask once Indy stops by the kitchen again.
Indy just raises her brow in a what-do-you-think fashion.
“Great. Any more good news you’re dying to lay on me?”
“I’ll let you know when I think of something,” she calls over her shoulder as she pushes the double doors open and disappears from the kitchen.
I take a deep breath while I mentally prepare myself for hell and rub the tips of my fingers over my forehead. This is the fourth Saturday in a row I’ve been left to my own devices, so I already know the kind of shit that’s waiting for me. Goddamnit.
This is not going to be fun.
For the next few hours, I work through ticket after ticket in a kitchen that’s hotter than Satan’s ball sack. Sweat is running down my back, my T-shirt is soaked, and my hair is plastered to my forehead. A dull headache develops somewhere just above the hollow spot at the back of my neck. Might be because of the inhuman temperature in the kitchen. Might be dehydration because I don’t have a second to spare for anything other than getting those plates ready and out.
