One (7 page)

"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 in 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.

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.