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Pippa shakes her head.
With my controlled life, I don’t have many friends. Pippa and I are as close as I can be to having a good friend. Still, she doesn’t know half of my story. I met her at nursing school back in New York, and we were reunited when she moved to L.A. last year following her meeting with her current boyfriend. She’s three years younger than me, and the world is still her oyster.
“Hey, you finishing up?” She leans on my locker door, tucking her black bob hair behind her ear.
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“Um… can I please ask you for a favor?” Her begging face presents itself. “Pretty please?”
“Fire away.” I owe her for a lot of unexpected babysitting nights, especially when the Reaper dragged me to Kenya. She even had to deal with the trauma of Raffi being taken away following that night at the Giraffe Manor, and I had to lie to my teeth that Don’s man was my uncle and there had been a misunderstanding.
“My honey butter biscuit is leaving for Switzerland this afternoon. I won’t see him again for a month. Would you?” Her cherry lips stay puckered.
“Of course, I’ll cover you. What time does your shift finish?”
“Midday. So, you can still leave in time to pick up Raffi and drive him to basketball.”
I acknowledge her preparedness. She knows my son’s schedule as well as I do.
“Go! I’ll cover you.”
Pippa hugs me. “Thank you, Gizzy Belle.”
I smirk. Sometimes people call me ‘Gizzebelle’ because of my disproportionately long legs—although I’m nowhere as quick a gazelle nor am I graceful.
She’s about to leave but quickly stops. “Oh, this also means I need my car today. Sorry. You should get the garage to hurry up and fix your wheels.”
“Yeah. I’ve been calling them every day!” I fret. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll take the bus.”
I put on a fresh uniform and go back to the floor. My supervisor agrees to Pippa’s shift swap, but she insists I take my break now.
As I make my way out, I receive a call from Thomas. Now, this guy is one that I can call my best friend, although we don’t really spend as much time as besties should. We don’t take road trips together or create troubles in town. Thanks to Don, we limit our interactions to avoid suspicion.
Everything always goes back to Don.
“Hey, you wanna get breakfast?” Thomas proposes.
“Where are you?”
“I’m just around the corner.”
“What happened to being enslaved in Fletcher’s sweatshop?”
“The Don is away. Back in Kenya.”
“Oh? I did not know that.”
“The contract with Nairobi Airport is in jeopardy, so he’s trying to put out fires at the moment.”
I’m hoping this means I’ll get some reprieve.
“Maybe not breakfast. How about coffee?”
“Sure. We can go to the gym together later, too, if you’re up for it.”
“You’re on! I miss kicking your ass,” I chuckle. “I’ll see you soon.”
I’ve been on graveyard shifts for most of my working career, but stepping into the morning sun—after leaving the outside world in the dark of night—is one of life’s little joys that never grows old.
