class of 2013 ✓

20 | flynn effect

"He is such a fucking idiot!" I exclaim, not even bothering to elaborate as I continued to knead the dough rather forcefully. I think Nea can connect the dots. My companion looks at me quizzically, hesitantly handing me a rolling pin. Thankfully, the diner is closed today, so no one can hear my random outbursts. I can't help it, that argument has been replaying in my head ever since. I'm usually a pretty disciplined person, but I can't get him out of my head. I hate that anyone, especially him, has that sort of power over me.

I don't know what I expected. All men do is disappoint me.

"Regardless of whatever that dough did to you, it doesn't deserve to be handled like that," she teases, a hint of a smile forming on her face as she sprays the cupcake tin with oil.

I frown. "Like what?"

"You're literally punching it," she points out, rounding the corner to pull out cupcake molds, "it's gonna deflate in the oven. Take your anger out on something else."

Looking at the dents and air bubbles that have formed, I realize she's right. Crap. I just fucked up these desserts for nothing. "Whoops. Sorry."

"It's alright," she shrugs, running her hand under a stream of water, working the suds between the crevices of her fingers, "he really must have pissed you off, huh?"

"No kidding," I mutter, and she turns off the faucet, drying her hands on her checkered apron. Her shiny nails catch in the light, blinding me in the process.

"What did he do?" she asks, looking a little too eager to hear the answer.

"He got mad at me for quitting and letting him win," I reply dryly, using a sticky hand to prop my chin, "I literally hate him so much." Okay, maybe that's a little extreme, but no one else can make me this riled up, I swear.

"Sounds about right," she murmurs, drumming her fingers on the marble counter, "you guys are so...weird."

Before I can say anything, the Wongs barge in through the double doors, both rushing to the table to put down their heavy bags filled to the brim with groceries. Immediately, the two of us are helping them unload, me and Mr. Wong taking the majority of the product wrapped in plastic bags while Nea and Ms. Wong put back the cans and other containers with various sauces inside. Kneeling in the walk-in fridge, I sort the crops in their respective slots, most of the leafy greens on one side, and the root vegetables on the other. Next to me, Mr. Wong collects all the plastic bags, folding them into small quarters.

In no time, everything is emptied out, and I can get off my knees to push the plastic drawer in the fridge shut. His eyes inspect the condition of the diner—zeroing in on the dirty splotches of flour mud on the tiled floors, the flurry of portion cups just on the counter unstacked, and the boxes that aren't even broken apart so they can be folded compactly—and sighs.

"Jeez, Remi, you really made a mess."

"Hey! There were two people here! Don't assume it's me!"

"Yeah, but Nea's a neat freak," he reminds me, nudging my ribs, "you're the mess."

Can't deny what's true, although I'm miles cleaner than I was as a preteen. Nea's on another level when it comes to cleanliness. Being an assistant manager and second mom to her younger siblings kind of requires that quality. "Every day I begin to wonder more and more why you hired me in the first place."

"Easy answer: desperation. But anyway, so who's weird?" he asks, in reference to the conversation that Nea and I were having right before he interrupted, with a quirked brow as we reenter the kitchen, where Nea is watching us intently.