With a loud rumble, the train pulls into a grimy subway station. Finally. I check the time on my cell as I leap out of my seat. Seven thirty. Cousin dear is going to murder me. I’m so freaking late.
Zigzagging around a drunk guy who’s swaying in the middle of the doorway, I swing my backpack over my shoulder and bounce down onto the platform.
I trudge along graffiti and tile-covered passages until I climb stairs and exit onto a cracked sidewalk. The scent of piss and misery from Forest Stand Station is replaced by the pleasant aromas of garlic and basil and something else I don’t recognize, reminding me I skipped lunch today because I was feeling out of sorts. Wired and jittery.
Smoothing the purple waitress’s uniform over my jeans and my loudly rumbling stomach, I prepare lame excuses to offer my co-workers.
My singing lesson went over time.
That’s a lie.
Stan, my elderly teacher with the drooping mustache, is as punctual as a sunset, just nowhere near as pretty.
My train was late.
Nope, it had been early.
On the journey to the station, I’d had headphones clamped over my ears. I got lost in a dreamy tune, dawdled, and arrived just in time to watch the train I should have been on pull away from the platform. Darn things, they’re only on time when you don’t want them to be.
Across the road, a green and red neon sign flashing the words ‘Max’s Vinyl City’ blinks a warning on top of the diner where I should have started my shift twenty minutes ago. I hate being late.
Oh, well, there’s no other option but to get in there and face the wrath of Isla and a long, tedious lecture from my boss.
As I dart down the steps and then over the crosswalk, I can’t help noticing how packed the booths are inside the brightly lit interior.
Crap. Max is going to baste me alive, and then stuff me into the pulled-pork sandwiches.
Cheeks flaming with guilt, I trip through the door, greeted by the sounds of clattering dishes, a retro rock and roll song distorting out of the speakers, and the smell of frying bacon. My belly grumbles again.
Shabby art deco is the vibe inside Max’s joint. It’s like a 1940’s movie theater faded several decades past its glory days. The floor is checkered, the booths and barstools ruby red, flashy metal trim decorates most surfaces, and the overhead lighting is garishly bright.
“You’re late, Lara,” calls Max through the kitchen hutch, steam rising around his barrel-shaped body. A Neanderthal brow is framed by messy hair, the dark tips curling around his grin as he works the grill with finesse.
“Hey, you’d better put a hairnet on, or you’ll get busted by the food inspectors again,” I tease, before offering an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Max. I got lost in a song and a dream, dragged my feet and ended up missing the train,” I admit, going with the truth. It’s simpler. “I won’t do it again.”
Across the floor, my cousin, Isla, tucks buttery-blonde hair behind her ears and sets a plate of waffles in front of a customer whose tongue practically lolls out onto his necktie. Not sure if he’s slobbering over his dinner or the pretty waitress who’s serving it. “You’d better not make a habit of this, late-girl,” Isla says. “Remember who got you this job.”
“How can I possibly forget when you remind me so often?” The swing door whacks my butt as I escape into the kitchen, and Isla’s laughter washes over my back like a balm.
“Okay, Princess,” says Max. “Cease the trash talking and take over the fryer. Joe, now Lara’s deigned to join us, you can get your ass back to the sink and wash those pots like your life depends on it.”
I dump my coat and bag and greet our regular kitchen hand, a sixteen-year-old local kid who somehow supports his terminally sick mom and younger sister on his barely minimum wage. “Hi, Joe. I know it’s going to be hard to leave behind the excitement of dangerously sizzling fat and charred animal remains, but I need you to move aside.”
“No problem,” he says, sweeping a regal bow toward the deep fryer. “It’s all yours, Scary Slayer of Burgers. You know I find cooking too stressful anyway.”
“You’ll get a handle on it soon. Sorry for being late.”
“It’s cool.” He plunges his nail-bitten fingers into soapy dishwater and attacks the soup pot with gusto. “But you owe me a song during pack-up. One of those weird ye olde medieval things where you sound like an angel.”
“Okay.” I laugh. “I’ve just learned a spooky new one about crazed lovebirds who go on a gory murder spree. You’ll like it.”
He snickers as our assistant cook, Mandy, strides out of the freezer and dumps a tray of frozen meat on the stainless-steel bench.
“Oh, hey, Lara,” she says, waving a frozen chicken wing in greeting.
“Hi,” I say. “I like your new hair. Are you taking it out partying after your shift tonight?”
Shaking her platinum pixie cut, she says, “I’ve got term papers to work on this weekend, so I can’t—”
“Hey, you two, is this some kind of cheese and wine night or your place of employment?” Max scowls over his shoulder. “Table five’s order needs plating. Now would be a good time to hop to it.”
We quit socializing and start working our butts off.
Busy is great. Busy makes the shift fly by, and in only four hours’ time, I’m wiping down the grill. My back, feet, and head all ache, but I’m so close to going home I don’t mind.
Out of nowhere, warm breath gusts my ear and bony fingers dig into my waist, making me squeak like a trodden-on kid’s toy. “So, tell me about the dream you got lost in on your way here, Lara,” demands Isla, turning me around to face her. “Hope it wasn’t another one about those creepy fairy things again.”
Damn. Isla knows me too well. She's aware I’ve been plagued by those dreams since Mom’s death. They may frighten and unsettle me, but I’ve never admitted to her how much I like them.
“Um…” Stalling, I flip a stack of frozen burger patties into a plastic container. “How can you call them creepy? Those fae boys are hotter than these here ghost peppers.” I flap a bright red example of the pain-inducing chilies under her nose.
Blue eyes narrow at the pepper. “And they’re probably just as fatal.” Cranky frown in place, my cousin folds her arms between us. “Your mother never should have stuffed your head full of all that fantasy land garbage. Babbling incessantly about Elementals this, Court of Five that. No wonder you’re not interested in any normal guys, Lara.”
“Hey, that’s not fair. I go on dates every now and again.”
“True—when I line someone up for you, choose your outfit, and push your disinterested butt out the front door.”
As my mouth opens to remind her I had an actual boyfriend for three whole months last year, my head spins like a pinwheel, and I have to clutch the bench to stay upright.
Isla steadies me. “Lara! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Never better,” I fib. The whole day long, my brain's been in a pressure cooker, and it feels like it's about to explode.
Looking skeptical, Isla raises an eyebrow.
“I promise I’m okay. It’s only hunger. All I ate at break time was a piece of buttered toast, and I skipped lunch.”