Recruited

by Lynn Mason

  “Just bring me one order of your legs,” he interrupted with a devilish grin. “The honey-barbecue chicken legs. And be quick, doll. I'm a big tipper.”

  Just grin and bear it, she told herself as she retreated to the kitchen window to put in the order. Just ignore his disgusting insinuations and do your job.

  When the food was ready, Sydney loaded up her tray, took a deep breath, and headed back. The man was still sitting there with the same leering expression he'd had when she left. Sydney averted her eyes and leaned across the table, setting out the warm plate and sauce bowl. All of a sudden she felt something brush against her right knee. She froze in horror and looked around. The creep was lazily holding his coffee in one hand and pawing the skirt of her uniform with the other.

  Ugh! That's it! Without thinking, she slapped his hand away, whirled around, and rammed the thick plastic serving tray against him, pushing him upright. Lukewarm coffee splattered everywhere, most of it landing on him. She kept a tight grip on the tray, the rim of it hitting him right below his Adam's apple.

  “Jeezus!” he cried hoarsely. His large meatball of a face had gone pale underneath the drops of coffee. And his bloodshot eyes were darting back and forth. Suddenly he didn't seem so menacing anymore—just utterly pathetic.

  “Now let me give you a tip,” she growled. “Find somewhere else to eat from now on. Or if you do come back, limit yourself to what's on the menu!”

  “Yeah!” cried a woman a couple of tables over. A few others broke into applause, including Francie, who had crept closer for a better look. Robyn was standing near the kitchen, laughing into her hands.

  “What's going on here?” shouted Mr. Terwilliger, barging out of the back office.

  Whoops. Sydney quickly pulled back and set the tray on a nearby table. The man instantly jumped up from the booth, rubbing the thick red mark on his throat. “This waitress threatened me,” he wheezed, waving a finger at Sydney. “I mean it! She's crazy!”

  “Is this true?” Mr. Terwilliger said, glaring at Sydney.

  “Mr. Terwilliger, he was abusive,” Sydney began. “He actually—”

  “Did you threaten one of our customers?” he repeated more loudly. The man was watching, his enraged eyes darting from Sydney to the human ferret.

  Her stomach twisted. “Well, yes, but—”

  “I'm afraid we cannot allow such behavior from a member of our waitstaff,” he said with a pointed nod to the creep, his weasel-like features pinched into a stern frown. “I'd like you to leave.”

  “You mean . . . I'm fired?” Sydney asked, her voice quavering. She had always excelled at everything she did. . . . Was she really getting fired from a waitress position? Now that her anger had been unleashed, she felt shaky and worn out, and the realization of what she'd done was slowly sinking in. What's wrong with you? she cried inwardly. Your friend gets you a job and you blow it in the first few hours? That had to be some sort of record.

  “Mr. Terwilliger, don't do this,” Francie said, stepping forward. She lowered her voice. “This guy has had it coming for a long time.”

  A couple of onlookers shouted their agreement. Robyn looked down at the floor.

  “This is not your decision to make, Francine,” Mr. Terwilliger said, rounding on her. “I am the manager here. Get back to work.”

  “Damn straight,” the asshole said self-righteously, sitting back down hard in his booth. “And somebody better get me my coffee. Pronto.”

  Sydney watched Francie's gaze harden and her hands close into fists. She knew those signs well. Any second now Francie would let loose a round of colorful verbal jabs, gaining power and momentum with each passing second. And although she loved her friend's fierce sense of loyalty, there was no point in their both losing jobs today.

  Just as Francie was drawing a huge breath, Sydney walked over to her and placed her hands on her friend's shoulders. “It's okay,” she said firmly, meeting Francie's gaze. “I'm not cut out for this anyway.” She turned to Terwilliger. “I'll leave my uniform in the back.”

  She walked to the staff room, inhaling deeply to try to still the waves of anxiety crashing through her.

  Great. Not only did she just let down her friend and ruin her first break at a job, she was back in the exact same predicament she had been in earlier. What was she going to do now? She had no experience, no connections, and no useful skills to speak of. Unless some amazing opportunity fell on her head, she had absolutely no leads.

  Nope, Terwilliger was wrong. I definitely wasn't born to do this job. She took a big gulp of air as she pulled on her shirt and hung the wilted uniform on a white plastic hanger. But was I born to do anything?

  3

  “SYDNEY! HEY, BRISTOW! YOU can stop already!”

  Todd de Rossi's husky voice rang out from the other side of the track, snapping Sydney from her thoughts. She slowed to a gradual stop and leaned over, resting her hands on her knees. “Did you say something, Todd?” she called breathlessly. Todd was on the men's track team, and sometimes their practices overlapped.

  He raised his arm and pointed at his watch. “Women's practice was over ten minutes ago, just like men's,” he shouted back. “I'm all for showing dedication, but I don't think your coach wants you to wear grooves in the running surface. Besides, don't you have classes today?”

  “Yup.” Sydney checked her metal-banded Bugs Bunny wristwatch. Damn. Her government seminar started in thirty-five minutes. This afternoon had flown by.

  She'd really pushed herself today. Whenever she had something on her mind, running was the best way to purge the stress from her system. The rhythm of her footsteps and breathing always put her in a semi-hypnotized state, letting her sort through her thoughts and occasionally bringing about some clarity. But today she had a larger load than usual. After three-quarters of an hour, she was no closer to figuring out what to do about her job situation, and the wounds of the past couple of days were aching as much as ever.

  She walked over to where Todd stood next to the bleachers, shaking out her legs as she approached. “I guess I just spaced.”

  Todd cocked his head at her, his darkly handsome features knitted with concern. “Is everything all right?”

  Sydney stared at him, somewhat startled. Was she that obvious? She'd only known Todd a few weeks, so it didn't seem possible that he had her figured out yet. She studied Todd's face for a moment, wondering if she could confide in him. After all, she'd liked him from the start. Todd was one of those nutty theater/dance-major types, but he wasn't a phony. Sydney loved his deep, musical laugh, and the way his smile crinkled up his face, adding a starburst to his hazel eyes. But she didn't really know him. And Sydney didn't like moaning about her problems—even, sometimes, to Francie. It only made her feel weak.

  “No. Everything's fine. Really,” she said, flashing him a wide grin. “I just ate a whole pint of Ben & Jerry's last night and wanted to be sure and work it off.”

  “Oh, I hear you,” he said, shaking his head sympathetically. “I love Chunky Monkey so much, my ex-boyfriend threatened to hold an intervention.”

  Sydney laughed.

  “Anyway, I'm glad you're okay,” he said, smiling warmly. “Well, I better hit the showers. See you tomorrow,” he added, turning to head to the gaping steel door of the nearby locker rooms.

  “See ya,” Sydney called after him.

  She walked around the track awhile, rotating her head and shoulders a few times. Then she stopped and stood on her right leg, holding the heel of her left sneaker against the back of her running shorts. Once she felt a warm tug down the front of her left thigh, she straightened up and repeated the move on the other leg.

  You have got to snap out of it, Syd, she told herself, bending over and resting her hands on a patch of grass. All this worry isn't helping, and you're starting to freak people out. She pressed her forehead against her right knee, stood up straight, bent to the other knee. Just push it out of your brain for a while. Relax. Enjoy the beautiful weather.
>
  She could feel her mood lightening a little as she took a deep breath and gazed around the track. It was one of those vivid cloudless days everyone took for granted in southern California. The sunlight was almost palpable, warming her body. On the other side of the chain-link fence, oak branches swayed in the light breeze. A mockingbird was chattering, hidden among the dense branches.

  Why was she wasting time feeling sorry for herself? Sure, she had some heavy stuff to deal with. But maybe she should take some time to enjoy the beauty of the world around her.

  Sydney gazed out at the fall foliage, waving her arms back and forth to loosen them up. All of a sudden, a flash of light caught her eye. Sydney squinted in the direction it came from. Parked cars lined the street. She remembered seeing one of them—a nondescript black sedan—when she had arrived at the track that morning. It was just the sort of car her father would drive: basic, drab, and sensible. Now that she looked more closely, she realized that the dark-tinted front passenger window was partially lowered, and the sun behind her was glinting off something inside the car. A pair of binoculars, maybe? Was someone sitting in there, watching her?

  Sydney whirled around and marched toward the locker room. Any sense of calm that had come over her had instantly evaporated. It wasn't fair. She couldn't even have a good run without something bad happening. First the restaurant and now this. Was the world suddenly full of perverts?

  Sydney propped her government textbook on its end to block out the scene in front of her.

  “Open wide,” cooed Francie from behind the book.

  “Mmmm,” came Baxter's deep murmur.

  Sydney tried to concentrate on her reading. Let's see. . . . Democrats believed in social reform and internationalism. Republicans believed in a restricted government role, primarily in business and commerce. And Libertarians believed in—

  “Crackers!” Baxter cried. “That's what we need.” A series of kissing noises and indecipherable sounds followed.

  Francie giggled slightly. “Aw, look. See what you made me do? Now you've got ranch dressing all over your mouth.”

  Sydney sighed in exasperation. It didn't bother her so much that Baxter was now joining them for lunch every day. He was cool enough. And his fun-with-food flirtfests with Francie really weren't the problem either. The problem was Sydney. She felt almost irrelevant. A useless lump with no life who had glommed on to Francie.

  Francie could make friends with anyone. Whether she was standing in line at the grocery store, waiting at a city bus stop, or even sorting her unmentionables in the dorm laundry room, the girl could chat with strangers as if they were long-lost siblings. It was because of Francie that they'd met in the first place. Sydney, however, was shy. Not the kind of shy that implied she was scared of people—she just had a healthy respect for the space that separated individuals.

  Some people misread her as being snotty just because she preferred to spend her breaks reading instead of gossiping. But it wasn't that she felt she was better than everyone. She just didn't feel the need to voice all of her opinions to everyone at any given moment. She had her long, giddy girl talks with Francie, and that was enough.

  Wasn't it?

  “Hey, Syd.” Francie's head suddenly appeared over the top of Sydney's book as she stood up, Baxter following. “Want to go over to Westwood with us? There's a new coffee shop that has live jazz in the afternoons.”

  “I don't think so,” Sydney replied, pushing the thought of a frothy cappuccino and a cool instrumental from her mind. “I've got a lot of studying to do for this test.”

  “You sure?” Francie asked.

  “Really, Francie. I'm swamped,” she said, gesturing to the books and papers spread out on the picnic table in front of her. “You guys go on.”

  “Okay,” Francie said with a shrug. “Good luck with your exam. I'll see you back at the room.”

  “Bye, Syd,” Baxter said, lifting his hand in a wave. Sydney noticed a small smudge of salad dressing on his upper lip.

  Sydney watched them walk off hand in hand. For some reason she thought of Dean, and the old, familiar humiliation crept back into place. She quickly looked away, pushed up the sleeves of her pale blue button-down, and bent back over her notes, trying to ignore the churning inside her.

  “Excuse me. Ms. Bristow? Are you Sydney Bristow?”

  Sydney glanced up. A man in a black suit had materialized next to her. He looked around fifty, with thinning reddish blond hair that was already almost halfway gray. His broad shoulders and chest suggested an athletic background, perhaps an ex-football player.

  “Yes . . . I am. I'm Sydney Bristow,” she said, momentarily taken aback. She wasn't used to having men approach her on campus, especially ones with such proud posture—or ones wearing such official-looking clothes.

  “My name is Wilson. I'm a recruiter for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  His face was blank as he handed her a gray business card. Sydney squinted down at it. The logo read Credit Dauphine Bank and Trust. Below that was the name Reginald Wilson along with an address and a phone number. There was no other information, and no mention of the CIA.

  Sydney looked up into his face. Bright sunlight spilled on his shoulders. Was this some kind of fraternity stunt? “Really,” she said, not bothering to hide the skepticism in her voice. “Didn't they do this gag already on one of those hidden-camera shows?”

  “I assure you I'm not joking,” he went on in his flat, unemotional voice. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a leather billfold. Then he flipped it open, revealing an identification card with an official CIA emblem at the top.

  Sydney blinked. Maybe he was for real. Despite the warm afternoon, goose bumps tickled her arms. What could the CIA possibly want with her? Had she spoken up too much in government class? Forgotten to pay an old parking ticket? Stupid explanations barraged her brain.

  The barest hint of a smile sneaked across Mr. Wilson's face as he pocketed his ID. “There's no reason to be alarmed,” he said, as if reading her mind. “We are looking for worthy students to train for positions within the agency. We feel you would be a perfect candidate.”

  Sydney's mind capsized. “Me?” she asked, more breath than voice. “Work for the CIA?”

  “If you decide you are interested, call the number on the card,” he went on, paying no attention to her shocked expression. “And please don't lose it. We aren't listed and we won't be approaching you again.”

  Sydney stared at him, then at the card, then back at him.

  “But whatever you decide to do,” he added, his voice becoming even more serious, “you must not tell anyone about this conversation—ever. I cannot stress that enough.”

  “Okay,” she said feebly, a sense of panic brewing inside her. “I—I won't.”

  “Good,” he said, the sternness disappearing from his voice. “I hope to hear from you soon.” Then, with a nod good-bye, he abruptly turned and headed down the sidewalk.

  Sydney's eyebrows scrunched as she watched him go. As if they'd believe me anyway, she thought in a trance, tucking the card safely into the front pocket of her backpack.

  The next morning between classes, Sydney went to her special hideaway in the College Library in the Powell Library building. She'd scoped out a secluded back corner of the reference section during her first week at school. The spot was quiet and cozy, and Sydney felt at home among the big dusty volumes. This was where she went when she needed to do some serious studying—or thinking.

  She sat on the hardwood floor, her feet propped against the side of the oak bookcase in front of her, her lap serving as a desk. She tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from her ponytail back behind her ear and frowned down at her biology textbook. She had a major exam that afternoon, and she was supposed to be reviewing the differences between plant and animal cells. Instead, all she could think about was the card in her backpack.

  For the rest of the afternoon the day before and all through the night, she'd mentally
reviewed her conversation with Reginald Wilson. He had seemed honest enough, and his ID appeared to be real, although she imagined that sort of thing could be faked. And yet when she came to the part where he said the CIA wanted to recruit her, her brain always shut down. The thought itself was just too slippery to grasp. Not only slippery—bizarre.

  The CIA was interested in her? She'd sooner believe that she'd won the ten-million-dollar Publishers Clearing House prize, that Francie was becoming a nun, or that a spaceship full of aliens wanted to take her for a joyride.

  A person who worked in top-level government would have to be practically superhuman, wouldn't she? Strong and capable and afraid of absolutely nothing. Not a girl who got turned down flat for dates and couldn't even hold a waitressing job. The very idea warped her sense of reality. After all, if they would take her, they'd take anyone.

  Forget about it, she told herself, lifting her textbook closer to her face. Obviously this was someone's idea of a joke. And right now, she really didn't need the stress. Wilson was probably just an actor some fraternity had hired to go around pulling pranks.

  But what if he wasn't? said a voice in her head. Her eyes wandered back to her bag's front pocket. What if he was real, and so was his offer?

  Sydney closed her textbook and reached for her backpack She unzipped the front compartment and pulled out Wilson's stiff gray card. The thing was, she wanted to call. She wanted it to be real. If he hadn't given her the card, it would have been much easier to dismiss the whole thing as a hoax. A product of her overactive imagination. But the card lent it credence, like a souvenir or an invitation—something small and tangible that brought new, exciting visions to her mind.

  She sighed heavily and stared out the large picture window at the far end of the room. The students outside were all moving along the sidewalk singly or in neat little clusters, their eyes focused, their strides steady and unwavering. Some were laughing; others were deep in thought. All of them seemed to know where they were going.

  And what about me? Sydney asked herself. Where am I going?