The Employer

Chapter 1

Celeste Peters

"Table thirteen needs another! He said he wanted rare!" Paula flings the plate of hamburger and fries on the metal counter beside me before running back out the swinging door.

Another wave of heat fills my veins and I wipe my brow with the bottom of my stained white apron. "Can someone turn the fuckin' fan on?" I yell over my shoulder to whoever is behind me. I'm not sure if my words travel above the sounds of banging pots, the exhaust hood, and sizzling meat, but if they do, I'm sure my coworkers are choosing to ignore me. I haven't exactly been my most pleasant self today.

Or any other day, really.

I slam another patty on the grill before grabbing the rejected hamburger and ripping it apart to inspect it.

Perfectly pink. It is fucking rare.

Keep it together. Be calm. You need this job.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, I flip the browning patty on the grill over to sear the other side for about a minute. I fix up the plate again, wondering if I'm melting on this grill along with the too-perfect-it-can't-be-real orange cheese I toss on the patty, which probably has cardboard in it.

I must be melting.

And I'm not talking about the mushy, smiling emoji rippling away into a puddle of cuteness type of melt. I'm talking ugly distortion. A pile of congealed material that sticks to surfaces and never comes off. It's like accidentally leaving a pot with a plastic handle in the oven, which as it preheats, wafts a disgusting smell of burnt plastic through the air. Even though you can run to turn off the oven, it's now fucked with cancerous molecules.

This is my life—probably a dream candidate for a powerful scrub brand that wants to use me for advertising, but truly a nightmare when they find out I'm unscrubbable. I'm stuck to the walls of this oven, unable to be useful to anyone around me, no matter how much I try.

But I cannot afford to give up. My family needs me to keep scrubbing. Even if my hands start to bleed out or my back threatens scoliosis, I will be bent over, putting everything I have into cleaning up the mess.

Paula swings in, grabs the new burger plate from beside me, and dips out without a word. I throw a couple of more patties on the grill to start on the incoming orders before taking a large swig of water.

Today these kitchen appliances feel like they're over four hundred degrees, melting away any remaining shred of level headedness I might have. I blink at the crackling foods that close arteries for a living and feel like I'm back on the phone, hearing the poor connection sounds from the call with the courthouse this morning.

My brother Noah's hearing at the courthouse next door got postponed. Again. Apparently, some stupid lawyer forgot a piece of paperwork and the judge ruled to meet in thirty days instead. The dumb fuck lawyer was probably busy swimming in a vault full of gold coins cartoon duck style, or using a hundred dollar bill to wipe his ass while counting the rest of his money.

Meanwhile, for thirty more days Noah has to sit in a prison cell. For thirty more days my nephew Theo can't see his dad. For thirty more days my sister-in-law Louisa has to work over time to care for her son. And for thirty more days, I won't be able to take care of my family like I'm supposed to be doing. Nausea fills me as I think back to the promise I made.

Once I save up enough money from this job, I'll hire a lawyer (a good one) to take on my brother's case and get him out of prison. Then, I'll help Louisa pay for Theo's daycare and whatever else she needs. And then, Lou and I will do things like get our hair and nails done while the boys do boy things. Or whatever. I want us to be doing anything but fighting a broken system, tooth and unpolished nail.