The Brightest Star in a Constellation

8: Loose Threads

☽ Peter ☽

After school, I head to the hotel. Typically, in September, the guests are minimal, so my shifts are often spent doing my homework and reading. The building is as familiar to me as my house—some of my oldest memories come from spending my time at the front desk with my father as I spun in circles in his office chair and watched him diligently keep track of each guest by hand.

The outside of the hotel is marked by the neon vacancy sign; I pull into my designated spot before grabbing my keys and hopping out. My boots crunch into the gravel. It might not have snowed yet, but soon enough the town will be covered in a blanket of it.

Ducking into the lobby, I spot my father behind the crescent-shaped reception desk. The dark wood is the same shade as the wall, making the whole room look like a rustic cottage. The painting on the wall in front of me is a rendition of Northwood from a couple of decades ago, if not longer. The town consisted of mostly trees encircling it, and a strip of road for the downtown area. Train tracks connect it to the big cities, which still cut through the back roads and bring traffic to a halt. The ocean rests in the distance, a vibrant shade of cerulean that sometimes acts as the only reminder that there is life outside of Northwood.

"Salut, Pierre," my dad greets, standing to let me pass. I place my backpack against the desk and nod in return. "How was your day?"

He doesn't know yet. I consider whether I should tell him, but I don't particularly want to lose the sense of normalcy. He isn't looking at me with pity. I haven't been apologized to in a few hours. "It was fine. The usual. I have a physics test to study for."

"Ah, well, if you've got a question about that, I can't help you." He chuckles a little. "Ask your mother."

"Where is she, anyway?" I ask.

"She got paged. Some transplant for that patient she was telling us about," he tells me, moving to tap his book of records. We have a computer that tracks the reservations, but he is nothing if not committed to the habit. "You've got five guests to take care of. Two have reserved a table at the restaurant, so do the turndowns while they're out. Take fresh towels to the guest in room 105. That's about it."

"Got it." I flash him a smile and pin my name tag to my lapel. The moon in the corner of the tag shines with reflective silver; at the right angle, I can see my distorted reflection in the logo.

"You sure you'll be okay?" Dad asks. "You know that if you need anything, just call me. Don't let it be a repeat of what happened—"

I nod again and cut him off. "I can do it."

As he heads to the door, I breathe a sigh of relief. I set out my worksheets and tackle the problems, my pencil scratching against the page. I'm not like Nicole—she never studies, yet somehow manages to coast through school as though perfect grades are easy. We used to be competitive about it, although now I've accepted that I can never beat her at mathematics and computer technology. She could text me to tell me she'd hacked into the government files, and I wouldn't even question her.

As I finish reading over my notes for physics, two hotel guests appear from the elevator to ask for directions. I point them past the ballroom to the Lotus restaurant that takes care of our catering.

I wait a few minutes before grabbing my cleaning supplies from the back room. The elevator is stuffy, but reliable enough that it doesn't bother me anymore.