by Mari Arden
"You ask." The bold words slip out of my mouth. "You watch." Her eyes narrow in anger. "I promise you I am none of those things," I rush on, terrified she's going to ask me to leave. I decide to be honest. "I'm someone down on her luck right now." I don't pause for a breath. "Have you ever just needed one opportunity to prove yourself? Sometimes life isn't fair. Sometimes no matter how hard you work, you never get the life you see on TV," I say quietly. "But that doesn't mean you stop trying. That doesn't mean you can't overcome what you were given. That's what I'm trying to do," I finish softly. "I'm trying to overcome."
She doesn't say anything. Her face is expressionless, hard like marble. Even her eyes are impassive, gazing at me with a sharpness I'm sure could break a person. In that instant, my stomach decides to growl. I stiffen, mortified by the sound. I pray she didn't hear it, but I have a feeling nothing escapes her. Not even my desperation.
"A trial run," she finally says. Her voice is clear and loud in my ears. "If you are not what you say you are, you will be fired immediately and will not be welcomed at Maddie's or any of our affiliates ever again." The chair creaks as she leans forward. "I will be watching you. Show me that you belong."
"I do." Her eyes flicker to my short nails.
"We'll see." Anna's gaze goes to her laptop and inwardly I breathe a sigh of relief. I stand awkwardly, waiting for further instructions. She types something in her computer for several moments before she speaks again. "Find Alex. He'll give you a tour and get someone to help you with your uniform." She says no more.
I am dismissed.
* * *
I don't think I've ever belonged less in a place than at Maddie's. Usually I'm like camouflage, fading before anyone actually sees me. Here, I stand out like a lantern among lamps. The whispers start immediately. I don't blame them. My ratty sweatshirt has been in my possession for five years because anything new I've owned has been sold to keep me alive. I'm also half a foot shorter than all the women here. I've always known I was petite, but here it's glaringly obvious. Every woman looks down on me, literally bending their necks to look into my eyes when we're introduced.
Alex is blond, and tan, and he looks like how I'd imagine a Ken doll to look like if he ever came to life. "You must be Judy," he says when I finally find him. He stands up, dusting his pants as he does so. He's at the bar stocking more bottles.
"Um, Jules," I correct, shaking his hand. His nails are short like mine.
"I'm sorry. Anna just called down and it sounded like 'Judy'."
I shake my head. "Don't worry about it."
"I'm supposed to give you a tour, and then I'll have one of the girls get you your uniform."
"Do you know if I can start today?" I ask. The sooner I begin the faster I'll get a paycheck.
"Anna said it was up to you."
"I'd like to start today if you don't mind."
"Sure. You'll shadow me. I'll teach you how to work the computers and how we serve our customers to get them to keep coming back." A hand sweeps out to indicate the restaurant. "You'll notice that we draw a variety of people from college kids to business folks. Our food is affordable, and tasty if you can get over the amount of grease we use." He shrugs. "Most people can though, especially if it's slathered with our house sauces. That's our moneymaker, right there. We have very high standards for our employees and for our customers. Even though we're popular with the college crowd, you'll notice we don’t take any bull from them. If they are asked to leave they are never allowed to return again."
My eyebrows shoot up. He flexes and I see the clearly defined muscles on his arms. "I wasn't just hired because of my looks," he jokes. I don't laugh because a joke is only funny if it isn't true. He was hired because of his looks, and that includes his muscles.
A thought crosses my mind: why was I hired?
"Are you under twenty-one?" He breaks into my thoughts.
"I'm sorry. Come again?"
"Are you under twenty-one?" he repeats.
"Yes."
"You'll be able to serve alcoholic beverages, but you may not drink it obviously. The owners have installed many state-of- the- art machines in our restaurant. You're going to find that standards are very high here."
The tour begins with Alex explaining the different machines installed into the bar that includes touch-screens computers for patrons to order their own drinks. There's a beer "station" where customers can swipe their credit card and are then given a cup to select the beer of their choice. Alex shows me how to lift each lever up and the beer selected instantly comes out like a fountain turning on and off.
"It's one of our most popular attractions at the parties hosted here," Alex explains to me. Next he shows me the dining room. During the daytime the square tables are bare and gleam a metallic color, but at night they're covered up with delicate colored fabrics that elevate the chic atmosphere into something more stylish and intimate. Alex describes the dining space as one large "complicated" rectangle with the ability to section certain areas based on need.
"There have been a few times where we've been able to hold two small parties here at the same time. The designers we work with can turn this place into something completely different at night. That's what's special about Maddie's." He sounds like a salesman trying to pitch me a sale, as if I'm not quite sold on working here. I listen politely, absorbing his words and noting his confident mannerisms. He's been here a while. He sounds like a leader. I wouldn't be surprised if he's promoted soon.
"How fast do the tables need to be decked out to accommodate for the night functions?" he quizzes me.
"Half an hour, tops," I answer quickly, reciting what he told me.
"Which tables are left uncovered?"
"None, unless specified." I don't miss a beat.
"Good. You were listening."
Listening and observing are two things I'm good at. If I were ever to write a handbook about how to survive life, those two things would be at the top of my list. You don't survive by standing out; you survive by blending in.
Alex explains how sections are assigned to waiters, and how to mark it on the floor sheet. The "sheet" is actually another touch screen, neatly hidden on the hostess stand. Tables that are ready for guests are highlighted yellow. Occupied table are unmarked and "special" tables are highlighted red.
"What does a 'special' table mean?"
He shrugs. "You'll find out."
Alex shows me how to put in orders using the new program they recently installed. He shows me how to authorize refunds, how to modify orders, and how to show the cooks when a meal is needed in an especially timely manner.
Customers are trickling in so Alex takes me in the back through the "Employees only" black door I had used to find Anna. We travel further down the hall, and up a flight of stairs. "This is the employee floor," he informs me. The first thing I see are windows, several rectangular and circular windows decorating the walls like large chunks of glass on a mosaic. I see the view of the city. There must be an impressed look on my face because Alex says, "Happy employees make for better profit. Apparently sun light and a great view help with that."
"It does," I reply instantly. I've worked in dingy basements before where the only sunlight seen is from the memory in our minds. Those were the worst places to be.
I walk a few steps from Alex and tentatively touch one of the many rectangular sofas littering the wide space. To the left of me is a small kitchen space complete with a stovetop, microwave, and refrigerator. "This is the break room. That's the bathroom," he points across. "That's the changing room." It's on the opposite end from where the kitchen is, and he makes a sound for me to follow. We go through a plain brown door marked "Changing Room". Once inside there are a few rows of lockers. He shows me where the women go to change into their uniform and where the men go.
"Oh, there's Alaina." I turn around and gasp. It's the redhead from earlier, but I'm gaping because she's in black work pants, and a black bra with nothing else on. Her chest jiggles i
n her push up bra when she moves, and if Alex notices he doesn't comment on it. "Alaina, this is our new waitress Jules," he introduces me.
"Hi," I say, pretending she isn't half-naked.
"Hey."
There is silence as her gaze roams over me. In that moment, I realize she reminds me of Anna, sharp and calculated, missing nothing.
"She needs her uniform. She's starting right now," Alex informs her.
"All right." A pause as her eyes linger on my… chest? "We don't have anything small enough for her," Alaina nods toward my chest area. "Maybe we can order something from the kids section."
I don't know what to say. I don't know if I should be offended; I'm not that small.
"I'm sure it'll be okay," Alex replies coolly.
She shrugs. "I hope you know I'm not a miracle worker. I'll try my best. Personally, I'm not even sure why Anna hired her. She's not one of us." I blink twice, unsure if I heard correctly, uncertain about why there's venom behind her words.
"Cut it out, Alaina."
"What?" Her green eyes are innocent. "Last I checked this is a free country, and we can give our opinions when we want."
Alex looks annoyed. "Just get her a uniform, and send her down to me when you're done," he manages a stiff reply. Suddenly, I don't want him to leave. Alaina's green eyes remind me of a snake.
"Fine," she grounds out.
I don't watch Alex leave because Alaina is moving toward the back. There are several metallic colored cabinets attached to a wall. She opens a drawer and pulls out a white top. "Here," she doesn't bother to look at me as she hands it over. I catch it before it hits the ground. She moves to the right, and pulls out another drawer. This time she takes out black pants. Silently, she hands them over. I take it from her and fold the fabric in my arms.
She walks away, her heels hard on the floor.
I've done many things; worked on farms in hundred-degree weather, slaved in baking hot basements, survived in sweat shops… but I've never been around a place or people like this before.
My stomach drops.
CHAPTER 7
The clothes don't fit.
They don't fit. It's not because they're too tight. It's worse. They're too big. I don't have a belt so I improvise and stick thick wads of paper towels around my waist. It helps a little, but not much. It's obvious the pants are made for a woman much taller than I. Bending down I fold both ends multiple times, unsuccessfully trying to convert the trousers into capris. The white top hangs on me. I check the piece of cloth hanging inside the collar. The size is medium. For the fiftieth time that day I despair at being so small. Why can't I have been even an inch taller? Then the shirt would fall higher on my thigh. I try to stick the blouse ends underneath the pants, but it makes my waist bulky and abnormal looking to the point of distraction. The best idea is to have the shirt fall over my waist so no one would be able to tell that the pants were too wide for my skinny frame.
I look like an idiot. Staring at the mirror, I look like a kid trying to play grown up. I take a few calming breaths before forcing my wooden legs to take the stair steps down to the main dining area. I stay near the walls, hoping to hide in the shadows. I make my way toward Alex who is back at the bar.
A comic look of terror crosses his face when he sees me approaching. "Seriously?" he says.
I shrug nervously. "There wasn't anything else."
He shakes his head. "You've got to be kidding me. You're drowning in the clothes! Everyone will lose their appetite looking at you."
I can't stop the hurt I know flashes across my face.
"I'll talk to Anna about this," he mutters to himself. He stares at my legs. "Unwind the ends," he instructs me. "You look ridiculous."
"I can't. I'll trip," I confess.
He just shakes his head. "You look like your clothes are eating you alive." I don't deny it. He sighs. "Come on then."
I help Alex restock a lower shelf. He hands me the first bottle. "Careful. We just took it out of the freezer so it's going to be a little slippery and cold." I nod. I can handle cold. I can handle anything, I tell myself. So when the bottle slips from my hand and crashes onto the floor like an egg breaking, I can't disguise the sound of shock that escapes me. Alex stares at the broken glass and the rush of brown liquid that pools faster than a horde of ants at a picnic.
I gasp. "I'm so sorry. Truly, I-" I'm mortified. There's an unfamiliar sting in my eye. I blink it away, but it won't leave. "I'm so sorry," I whisper.
Alex's hand touches my shoulder. "It's okay." He doesn't sound happy, but he doesn't sound mad either. "Maybe we should go to the other room," he sighs. I help him clean up the mess, mopping the shiny floor until it gleams brighter than before.
"I'm sorry," I tell him again when we're done. "I'm usually not so clumsy."
He looks over his shoulder at me doubtfully. He doesn't know me well enough to know that I'm telling the truth. I'm not clumsy. Growing up, I couldn't afford to be.
"Let's go to the dining table," he tells me. I nod, determined to prove how fast of a learner I can be.
I don't mess up any orders, which brings me a step up in Alex's eyes.
"You're quick," he admits. A modicum of confidence is restored in me, and I feel rejuvenated enough to walk faster to get a particularly crabby customer's orders out. The tray I'm carrying is piled high with pasta and gourmet sandwiches. Suddenly, my foot catches at the hem of my pants and I scream as I start toppling down. A strong arm catches me, pulling me up until I regain balance. The tray is still in my hands, but some of the sauce has spilled out from a bowl to the tray underneath it. I breathe a small sigh of relief. I'm sure half the restaurant saw me almost fall flat on my bottom. With a burning face, I bring the food to the table, and murmur a hasty "Enjoy." I quickly retreat back, trying not to trip over the ends of my pants that had come undone during the course of the hour.
Alex watches me. "You're not doing very well today," he tells me glumly.
"I know. I'm sorry. This- this isn't normal for me." Normally, I'm very efficient. But then again, normally I'm usually in clothes that fit. I pull my pants higher up, careful to pull the paper towel with me.
Alex's hands stop me. "Are those paper towels in your pants?" he asks, incredulous.
I hesitate, debating whether I should lie or not. "Yes," I answer. His eyes go round, almost filling half his face. He stares at me. I stare back, trying not to let my embarrassment show through.
His lips quiver. Then he bites his lower lip.
Then he laughs.
There's nothing else to do. I laugh too.
* * *
I don't come home until well past dinnertime. I would have stayed longer if they let me, but Alex couldn't find anything else for me to do. There were a few near mishaps I managed to avoid because we rolled up each pant leg and I made a pivotal decision to staple the folds together. They didn't unwind for the remainder of my shift.
Sticking my keys into the rusty dorm lock, I push in hard before the lock gives, allowing me to thrust the door open. Stepping inside, I say, "I'm home." I don't expect an answer; Nat's probably out. Tomorrow is Labor Day, which means this is the last night she can party before the new school year officially begins on Tuesday. I'm used to a quiet place. Grandma and I usually only ever came home to sleep. Even when we were in Minnesota our small house wasn't filled with noise. We didn't try to overcompensate for what wasn't there. We learned to enjoy the silence, to appreciate it even. The silence was the only serenity in our lives.
I'd left the uniform in my locker and changed back into my jeans and hoodie. I take both off in exchange for something more comfortable, sweats and a little gray t-shirt. Our dorm room is small, but it's very obvious which side belongs to whom. My side is more bare looking, neat, with very little extra trimmings. Nat's side is an explosion of colors. Her friend came to visit once, and described Nat's living space as "something a clown gave birth to". Her small twin bed is covered with a bright neon pink comforter complete with
neon green pillow casings. She has several hanging pictures decorated with silver and orange frames that glow in the dark. Her desk is cluttered with a tie-dye lava lamp, a blood red Betty Boop desk light, and a take-home box of last night's dinner. With a sigh, I pick up the take home box and throw it out for her. I've beening it ever since she moved in. I doubt she's even noticed it.
I take out my last granola bar, debating whether I should eat it now or save it for breakfast tomorrow. The familiar pang of hunger is sitting in the bottom of my stomach, but I decide to ignore it. Pain is only a reminder that I'm still alive, I repeat Grandma's mantra. The power of these words has lessened somewhat over the years, but the familiar saying is enough to make me feel like she's almost here.
Bending down, I reach under my bed to pull out a cardboard box. Setting the box in my lap, I carefully open the flaps. Gently, I touch a tray of acrylic paint. It's dirty and well-used. I smile because when I touch the outside, it reminds me of Grandma and Mom. It reminds me of a time that passed too quickly.
Setting it aside, I find a few paintbrushes. They're worn as well. I try my best to keep it clean, but signs of use can't be hidden. Next there's a tray of watercolor paints. I place it beside me so I can take out the sketchpad inside. My stomach growls as I lift the packet of paper out, reminding me of my choice to forgo eating. Ignoring my body's plea, I place everything back in the box with careful calm.
Using my pillows to prop my back up, I take out a pencil. I lift the sketchpad onto my thighs until it's eye-level. After flipping to an unused page, I touch the textured paper, feeling the soft roughness like a balm. My stomach rumbles again. The residual tingle that follows isn't pleasant. Taking a deep breath to calm my insides, I begin to sketch.
First, I trace small, curvy lines for a petite form. I keep her faceless, instead focusing on the lines of her body, letting them flow continuously, interconnected like threads of fiber. I stretch out each strand of hair on her head until it becomes entangled in a bed of vines and grass beneath and around her. The vines and soil are a part of her. The black grains are engraved beneath her cuticles. I almost smell it, and that echo of a memory spurs me further, tracing harder. I don't stop until lines and mounds of grass and vines surround her small form, reaching out like hands to take her under. The only part left is her body. Flipping the pencil over, I erase the middle part of her. I draw a circle in the center. The outline is clear, but I want it darker until it's the first and last thing I see. When I'm finally done, I straighten my legs, letting the picture fall with them. From this short distance, I see the perfect shape of a circle surrounded by thorny vines. I see braids that become hair, and hair that attaches to a sinuous body. Further, my eyes roam down and I see the form of a woman, and the faint arch of her feet as she lies solemnly on top of a mound. The circle is her stomach. Instead of a hand of stars reaching down to fill the emptiness inside her, there is nothing but a black hole.