Sorry sister

+ t w o

I enter the Cafe from the main entrance. There are already some people inside. I glance at my watch: of course, I am late. Perfect.

The boss comes towards me. Oh no, that face is not a good sign.

"Xavier Thomson", she says, with her nasal and particularly annoying American accent. "Where were you? You're late."

"I am sorry Miss Lawrence. I had to drive my sister to school", I answer, sounding more annoyed than 'sorry'.

"Can't your parents do that?!" she asks me in response.

Her fake long eyelashes are batting fast for anger and she's nervously trying to tie her dyed blond hair up.

"No," I answer, trying to sound as harsh as I can.

I know she doesn't know about my family situation- how could she? -but this is always something hard for me to talk about.

My parents 'can't do that' because they are not here for us. My mum passed away when I was fifteen and Jenny was eleven; cancer. And my dad was too desperate to continue his life. He didn't suicide but he gave everything up and started drinking and probably doing drugs.
When I turned eighteen, I made myself the guardian of my sister, I bought a little apartment and took my sister away from him. We now live in that small cute house from three years and my dad doesn't know the address. I think that even if he knew it, he wouldn't come visit us anyway.

"I am serious. If you're late another time, you're fired," she concludes.

I just nod, knowing that if I open my mouth I would explode, ending up shouting at her and everyone else around me.

She goes away and I sigh. Considering my sister's time to get ready, I have two possibilities: one, wake her up earlier so that she will be on time for school and I for work; two, start looking for another job.

I take a deep breath and then go to the back of the cafe, meeting my waiter colleague and friend Paul.

"Hey, Xave. What's up?"

"Hey. Miss Lawrence just yelled at me for being late."

"Nice."

"I know right?"

He laughs and I follow him. He's got a big and contagious smile. His dark-brown eyes are pointed at me, enlighten with the emotion of happiness, and his hand is running through his dark hair trying to make it look decent, unsuccessfully.

"You'll never deal with your hair, right?", I ask him, while putting on my waiter uniform (which consists in just a little black apron that covers just from my hips to half of my thigh).

"No. I should have a haircut... But hey, look at yours!"

I run a hand through my long brown curls and put a bandana on to keep them away from my face. The boss said I have to put it on while I'm working because I "can't be a mess while I'm working" and then told me that she would have fired me if I didn't put it on. So I just agreed.

"I gave up on this bush ages ago. I don't care anymore", I chuckle.

He laughs and then takes his small notepad out of his pocket and gives it to me, saying "We've got work to do. Let's go," then he walked out of the kitchen, towards the tables.

I puff and follow him.