Predator

Chapter Eighteen

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So this is the new decade.

If you had asked a six year-old Rachel Berry during Y2K where she saw herself in ten years, I can guarantee that sixteen and pregnant would not be something to cross her little mind. Then again, I also thought we'd be living in some futuristic, science-fiction dystopia with robots and time machines by 2010. Guess I'm lousy at predicting the future.

"You girls remember to wipe down the counters! The key's on the hook when you're done."

I hear the jingling sound of the front door shutting and so vanishes the loud presence of my new boss, Paula Davis. Quinn was right, 'that little diner on the square' was hiring, and I started work the day after Christmas. Paula's is a place that attracts the ever-so lovely crowds of the following: very scary middle-aged men that have most likely been in prison for abusing small children or other ungodly acts, low-income workers from the meat processing plant that opt to wear their hog-feces covered galoshes into the diner, and the specific type of elderly that not only inform you of how your generation is horrible, but also refuse to tip. These three crowds, along with the occasional redneck family, are who I spend my time with from 4 to 8 pm, five days a week. At least the creeps tip well after they smirk at me.

The place is so small that only one other girl works the same shift as me. Kayleigh Henderson. This girl is probably the sole reason why the elderly crowd looks down on my generation. See, Kayleigh is in the particular clique at my school where they cake on trashy looking makeup, pierce their bodies numb, and say 'rawr' is their favorite word. She sits in the kitchen for most of the shift, her high-top sneakers propped up on the deep fryer as she texts a seemingly endless amount of fellow 'emos'. Even with my extensive vocabulary, I have yet to comprehend what that word means. Does Paula care one bit about her slacking? Nope, she's too busy smoking cigarettes and watching reality TV in the back room. Which leaves the rest up to me.

I wet a washrag in the sink; out of the corner of my eye, I see Kayleigh stand up and hoist her Hello Kitty drawstring over her shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going?" I snap, beyond irritated once again. "I'm not cleaning up by myself again."

"Sorry, last time," she fibs, heading out front. "Gotta be on MySpace by 8:15."

"But-"

"Thanks for covering me, you're totes the se-eeex!" Her voice echoes in the emptiness of the place, followed by a frustrated moan that is contributed by me. 

Kayleigh Henderson makes me understand why people don't want to raise the minimum wage.

Begrudgingly, I turn my attention toward the chores that are made to be done. If I work fast I can be out of here before 8:30. I wish I never took my life without responsibilities for granted, I'm constantly thinking now. But maybe these current struggles will help propel my future autobiography to the best-selling list someday. That is, if I have an autobiography.

The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Before I fell pregnant, I knew with 100% certainty that I was destined to be a star. The chances were slim then, but now they're practically nonexistent. How am I supposed to move to New York with a toddler? How am I supposed to juggle college with single-handedly raising a child? How am I suppose to get any kind of job?

These are the things Quinn took into consideration when she decided on adoption. But I can't do that! I could never give away my own child!

The floor and counters are done, so I move on to the few dirty dishes remaining. Well, I still have two years to figure this out. Maybe I can convince my dads to move to New York with me, and the baby could live with them for a little while. Yeah, that sounds reasonable. For me anyway.