Behind My Smile // Luke Hemmings

Chapter 4

L U K E

When we got home from Fratelli's pizza café, I went straight to my room and sat on my bed, thinking about what happened at Fratelli's.

What was wrong with her? How can her mood change so fast? I couldn't help but think to myself. Maybe she is just bipolar. Or what if we said something that offended her? I thought back to everything we said but couldn't think of anything that could possibly offend her. Maybe she just thought of something that made her mood change from happy to sad in the blink of an eye. But what if something happened to her?

Another question: Why do I care?

I don't even know the girl. Just a waitress at Fratelli's. I've never seen her in my life.

But she looked so familiar. Have I seen her before? I don't think so, I can't remember. But my mind says otherwise.

I don't even know why I care.

Maybe I have seen her. But it's not like I know her enough for it to bother me this much. Or at all, really. Maybe I'm just curious. But I want to know. I need to know. This is eating me alive. Maybe I can go back to Fratelli's and ask her.

But why would she tell you? She don't even know you. Your a complete stranger to her, and vise versa. You can't just get into her personal business like that.

My conscience is right. I don't want to invade. It's her personal business. But what if she is hurt? What if something is wrong?

But I already knew that. Something is wrong. She is hurt. But mentally or physically, it is none of my business.

Maybe I can talk to her, get to know her. Then maybe she will tell me what's wrong.

But it's none of you business!

I really hate my conscience.

It's Saturday, so she doesn't have school. Maybe she is still at work? I don't know. I wonder if she works on Sundays.........

I will talk to her tomorrow. If she is at work. I don't know what my plan is. I'll just walk in and and talk to her. I don't know why I think she'll tell me, but I need to know.

Or maybe I'm just being stupid.

E M I L Y

This is the longest shift I've ever had.

Well, it felt like it. I can barely stand up. My legs hurt so bad. And my side is killing me. I keep staring at the clock, waiting for the little hand to strike 9. But it seems like that is making it go by slower. It was only 8:30.

There is only a few people here, so I bring the last pizza to the last costumer and switch the open sign to close.

"Emily, you can head home now. I'll clean the place up." My co-worker, Tyler, said from behind the counter. He has always been nice to me, though I wouldn't say that we were exactly friends.

"Thanks, Ty." I turned and smiled at him.

I took off my apron and hung it on a hook. Then, clocked out and headed to my car.

*

When I got home, I went straight to my room and changed into track shorts and and a long T-shirt. I went downstairs and looked in the fridge for leftovers. I decided not to cook dinner tonight because my dad doesn't stay home on the weekends. He's always out partying and getting drunk.

I am not looking forward to Sunday.

Sunday is always the worst. Even worse than yesterday. That's why I try to stay at work late on Sundays. Because when he gets home, he is really drunk. Not stumbling on the street at midnight or passed out on someone's floor drunk, he is an angry drunk. Really angry.