Page 6 of Harbinger of Destiny

At age ten, she’d given up any hope of ever being adopted. At age sixteen, she’d given up hope of ever being loved. But she wasn’t ready yet to give up hope of making something out of herself. That’s why she worked at an independent coffee shop, taking whatever shifts she could get, while attending classes at a community college to earn a degree so she could better herself.

But it was a daily struggle. She was still trying to navigate the complicated maze of student aid and student loans, and had to rely on her wages at the coffee shop to pay for her basic needs. When the tips were good, she managed to eat better food than just slices of pizza, but many days it was just that or whatever leftovers she could scrounge from the coffee shop. She wasn’t too proud to squirrel away half-eaten muffins customers left on their plates. Pride didn’t fill her belly. Pragmatism did.

Besides, nobody took any notice of her anyway. And when they did, it was only to recoil from her. She preferred it when they didn’t even realize she was there, except for moments like this, when somebody blocked her way.

Amy couldn’t wait any longer. With Jennifer and her friend still blocking the aisle, Amy stepped onto a chair, then from there onto the desk, then descended on the other side.

“Look at the monkey,” somebody said, pointing at her, but she didn’t look in the guy’s direction.

She’d heard it all before. The words didn’t hurt much anymore. They had at first, but she’d grown a stronger armor, and barely heard the insults or the mocking. She just ignored the people who were unkind to her and stepped into the aisle just past Jennifer, then hurried to the door.

“Freak,” another guy called after her. Several others giggled, but Amy was already at the door and rushed outside.

She ran across the courtyard and toward the street. The bus stop was only a block farther. She ran, but the sidewalk was busy, and she had to dodge many people who were just meandering without a destination. When the traffic light turned red just before she reached the pedestrian crossing, she cursed. The blue bus was already at the bus stop and closing its doors. She wanted to cross the lanes of traffic, but couldn’t. It would be suicide.

Frustrated, she looked at her watch. She knew the bus schedule by heart and knew that the next one wouldn’t arrive for another twenty minutes. She couldn’t wait that long, or she would be too late for her shift at the coffee shop. And there was one thing her employer was adamant about: punctuality.

He’d fired one of the other employees for tardiness only two weeks earlier. Amy knew that her fate would be the same if she was late. And she couldn’t afford to lose her job. It meant losing her room too, because she had no money saved up to pay her rent. Whatever she made each month, she spent immediately. There was never anything left over. No chance to save a penny for a rainy day, because her life was one long, rainy day.

Knowing she’d land on the street if she didn’t make it to work on time, Amy took off running. With every block, her backpack felt heavier, and at every intersection she took more chances with her life. Maybe she had a guardian angel who was looking out for her, because despite the angry motorists honking at her, no car hit her. She took that as a good sign. Still, she couldn’t allow herself to slow down. She was already sweat-bathed, despite the cool ocean breeze that started traveling into Santa Monica, providing cool evenings despite the southern California location.

By the time she finally reached the cute coffee shop, which was located only a few blocks from the main shopping area, Third Street Promenade, she was exhausted. She jerked the door open and entered. Her colleague Rosie stood at the counter, looking stressed. When Amy hurried toward her and tossed her backpack into the storage room behind her, Rosie said under her breath, “You’re late!”

“I know, I’m sorry, but I missed the bus. Please don’t tell Mr. Mercola. Is he here?”

Rosie sighed and untied her apron. “You’re lucky. He called an hour ago to say that he won’t be here to close up. You’ll have to do that tonight.” Rosie pressed a set of keys into her hand.

“But—”

“I can’t stay, I’m sorry,” Rosie said. “I have a dentist appointment.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “And I’ll be late if I don’t hurry now. See you tomorrow.” At the door, she cast a last look over her shoulder. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell Mercola that you were late. We’ve got to cover for each other, right?”

Amy nodded. “Right.”

Rosie, who was one or two years older than Amy, had always been kind to her. Or perhaps Rosie pitied her. No matter. As long as she wasn’t cruel, Amy considered it a win. The two other employees, Sandra and Gavin, were also comparatively young and could be obnoxious. Luckily, Amy rarely worked the same shifts as those two. She was fortunate that she was often paired up with Rosie. In a way, they’d even become friends in the last six months, even if they didn’t hang out outside of work.

Mercola always employed young people without any experience so he could get away with paying only the bare minimum. No wonder there was a huge turnover of employees. Those who were able to find a better job left as soon as they could. Only Amy was a constant at the coffee shop. She had no other options. Most prospective employers took one look at her and rejected her application.

Amy tied the black apron around her waist and checked the display case of pastries and ready-made snacks. The glass-front refrigerator where the cold drinks were stored was almost empty. Rosie hadn’t refilled it, even though it was part of her job. Amy sighed. Since Rosie wasn’t lazy, it probably meant that her shift had been a busy one.

There were only a few customers at present, and they’d already been served and were nursing their coffees and pastries or whatever else they had ordered.

Amy restocked the fridge and display cases and tidied up behind the counter, before the early evening rush started. She preferred the café when it was busy. It meant that time passed quickly, and she didn’t think too much about her lot in life. This day was no different. The café had its fair share of regulars but, because of its location close to Third Street Promenade, also a good amount of tourists. She preferred the regulars. They knew her, and by now didn’t stare anymore. It was the tourists who stared, and kids that pointed at her, or worse, little kids that were scared at the sight of her and started crying. The embarrassment of the parents was often followed by a hasty retreat.

Amy tried everything to make her appearance less conspicuous. She’d stopped wearing her hair in a ponytail though it would be more sanitary in the coffee shop. Instead, she’d learned to tilt her head to one side so her long hair fell into her face, covering what she herself had stopped looking at in the mirror.

When it got quieter, and the few customers left in the shop were sitting at the few small tables, Amy pulled out her sketchpad and started drawing. She’d always loved drawing, even as a child, but in the last three years, drawing had become an escape for her. Her sketchpad was filled with pencil drawings depicting other worlds. When she drew the pictures that she saw before her mental eye, she imagined living in another place, another world, where life was easier, where someone loved her, where she could be happy. And for a while she was transported away to her fantasy world.

One day, she would take the pictures in her sketchpad and spin a story around them, perhaps make a graphic novel out of it. And perhaps the graphic novel would help others in the same situation as hers gain hope that one day things would turn out all right. She’d never shown the drawings to anyone. This was her world, her secret, the one thing nobody could take away from her. Nobody could criticize it or destroy it. This was what got her through her lonely days and nights.

At nine o’clock, closing time, the last customer finally left, and Amy locked the door behind him, then cleared the tables and cleaned up. During her shift, she’d put leftovers that looked almost untouched into a container. There was one half of a tuna sandwich, a muffin that the customer had only taken one bite of, and a cup of fruit. This would be her lunch the next day. She’d rarely ever taken any of the food from the display cases or the refrigerator, other than a slice of bread or cheese. One of the previous employees had warned her that Mercola kept a close eye on all supplies. Pilfering them would get her fired.

Once she’d cleaned up, she went back to the counter and emptied the tip jar. She counted the money, and then exchanged the coins for banknotes. It wasn’t much. The tourists hadn’t been very generous, knowing they’d never come back. The regulars tipped better, but Monday was always a slow afternoon and evening. It would have to do. At least she didn’t have to buy any food today or tomorrow. She still had some leftover pizza in the fridge at home, which she’d eat tonight. And the doggie bag she’d made for herself would be her lunch tomorrow.

It was a little past nine o’clock when she turned off the lights and locked the door behind her. Tired, she walked toward the bus stop. Before she reached it, she noticed a man sitting on the ground, leaning against the door to a small boutique. She’d seen him many times before. He was homeless.

“Evening, young lady,” he greeted her like always.

She smiled at him. “Evening.” She caught his gaze zero in on the food container in her hand.