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And then, I’m going to try to find the place JP was killed.
It’s years later, and I’m not expecting to find a shred of evidence, but that’s not my intention. I want to work my way back to the church; the last place JP was seen alive.
Because barring that, the only other thing I can think of, is attending the party the Elite are throwing next weekend. Technically, I’ve not been told I can’t go. I think everyone—Syn—doesn’t think I’d be stupid enough to try to go.
I’m sure I yawn non-stop as I walk to the dining hall. Here, the kitchens are warm too, which I appreciate, as I settle into my routine of preparing the day’s vegetables. My hands seem to move automatically now, quickly washing, peeling, or slicing. One of the meals on the menu tonight is lasagna, and I’m halfway through finely dicing thirty red onions, waiting for today’s chef to arrive.
Every shift, I make a point of trying to make conversation with one person, starting by asking them how long they’ve worked here. There seems to be a high turnover of staff because very few people have been here longer than two years.
And when I find someone who was here back when JP was killed, they either clam up and find a reason to leave the room, or they tell me gossiping well get everyone fired.
The chef working today is one of the few who was here back then. Last time, he conveniently had to take inventory—even though it’s not his job—and didn’t return. I’m hoping to try again, but before he arrives, Doris does.
“Ms. Tori, I need you out front for breakfast,” she tells me. “Ms. Lynette has called in sick. The chefs will have to finish what you’re doing.”
Over the weeks, Doris has been keeping me in the kitchen or dish washing. She’s not said anything since that day Syn announced who I was in the dining hall, but I’m almost certain this was deliberate.
I glance at the clock over the door. There are only ten minutes before the doors open for breakfast. “I’ll clean up now,” I say, already scooping the few uncut onions back into the box.
Before I go out, I hurry to the bathroom to wash the onion oil from my hands, as well as quickly checking my appearance. While I would rather stay in the kitchen, going out front doesn’t fill me with concern like it would have a few weeks ago. I’m too tired to really worry over it, and honestly, at this point, I’m expecting at least one person to complain about something I’m doing anyway.
Doris has me doing the same thing I used to; keeping the breakfast bar stocked. I manage to check the cupboards and heated cabinets so I can refresh my memory on what food is stored where, just before the doors are unlocked.
As usual, the number of students who come to eat start low for the first half hour, and then it picks up. I keep back, out of the way as much as possible, with my attention more on the food than the students.
Until a plate piled with fresh Belgian waffles are thrust in front of me. “Frigid?”
At the far end of my area, there’s a section dedicated to waffles and pancakes. The batter is made fresh every morning, and instead of leaving students to cook their own, there’s always someone assigned to that station to make the food for them. Right now, it’s a lady named Nia.
I look up at the guy who’s asked the question. I’m certain he’s a sophomore named Fitz. I’m also certain his question has nothing to do with the waffles he’s given me as the plate is warm and I can feel the heat radiating from them.
Biting back the response I want to give him, because the last thing I want is for Nia to get in trouble, I give him a fake smile. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Can I get you a fresh plate?”
“So you agree?”
“That’s not my call to make,” I tell him, keeping the smile plastered on my face. “But if they’re clearly not to your liking, I’ll get you some which will hopefully be more suitable for you. Where are you sitting? I can bring them to your table, so you don’t have to wait here.”
Fitz cocks his head and then shrugs. “Don’t make me wait long. And I want bananas, chocolate chips, and strawberry syrup—the syrup separate.”
I don’t wait for him to leave before I hurry over to Nia. She looks at me, then the plate, her eyebrows drawn together. “What’s that boy complaining about?”
“Not hot enough. Can I have a fresh batch?”
“Not hot…? Girl, he took them from me and walked straight over to you.”
That doesn’t surprise me…
While Nia makes me a fresh batch, I dispose of the unwanted food, sighing as I toss it into the trash. The waffles could be as cold as the water in my shower, and I’d still rather eat them than the rice I’ll have later.
As my stomach grumbles, I get a small jug and decant some of the strawberry syrup into it. Normally, students help themselves when they get their food, pouring it on there, rather than taking it to the table, but I don’t want Fitz turning around and complaining that the waffles got too soggy to eat in the thirty seconds it will take me to carry them to his table.
By the time I come back out front, Nia is just serving the waffles up for me. “I hope he burns his tongue,” she mutters quietly.
Same.
After adding sliced bananas and chocolate chips, I take the plate and jug, and walk over to ‘the back’. His table is right next to Syn’s, who is of course there, drinking his coffee. Today he’s joined by Royal and Gemini, for once. Gemini is wearing a hoodie under his blazer, with the hood pulled up over his head as he drinks his coffee, eyes glued to his phone.
If I tried to wear a hoodie under my blazer, I’d—
