Wayward Home

Ch. 3 WH

The inside of my mouth was going to be raw before the end of my first shift at Harper's I decided as I again worried a pinch of skin on the inside of my cheek between my teeth. Anxiety was a very real issue, I knew it was inevitable that I was going to mess up, it was just a matter of how and when and would Harper be around to see me? Would he fire me? Groaning internally, I tried to focus on what Summer was instructing me on. Somehow, I'd managed to hang on through her explaining the simple menu, but once she'd moved on to the computerized order and tab system, nerves got the best of me and I found it nearly impossible to pay attention to what she was doing.

Summer was about my age, give or take a few years one way or the other. If I'd thought my complexion was ghostly, Summer's was downright ethereal. Her hair was jet black and cut into a bob so severe one would be able to tell if even a single hair was longer than the others. The skin and hair made her strange eyes practically glow in her face, I was having difficulty remembering the exact word I would have used to describe their hue, the closest I could come without straining was the gold label of one of the whiskey bottles lining the back of the bar. The strange colour had an almost hypnotic quality to it, or so I'd found the few times I'd managed to make eye contact with her. She wore snug fitting jeans and a Harper's t-shirt in a different colour than mine, and athletic shoes so spotless they looked fresh out of the box.

When I'd arrived just before two, she'd been... well, it was hard to describe. It almost looked like she was dancing among the tables, stopping to drop off a drink here, pick up an empty plate there and set someone's tab down as she retreated toward the kitchen. It was strange and beautiful, the lithe and graceful way she moved around. I had instantly felt like an uncoordinated toad. I did, however, later learn that she really was dancing, sort of. As Harper introduced us to each other, I noticed the earbud she had tucked into one ear, the cord going down her back and disappearing into her back pocket.

(Fifteen minutes earlier)

"Summer, this is Kenna. Kenna, this is Summer, she's going to train you," Harper said, getting the introductions out of the way.

I automatically stuck out my hand to shake hers. It was customary when meeting someone for the first time in a business setting to do this or at least, that's what I'd been taught. It was only slightly awkward as my hand hung out in space for thirty, no forty seconds before I realized that Summer wasn't going to shake it. Clearing my throat, I felt heat run up my neck and into my cheeks and I dropped my arm back to my side. At that point, my eyes had already sought the floor, but I could feel the weight of Summer's gaze on me, it made the hair on the back of my neck prickle uncomfortably. Never was I so relieved as when she finished scrutinizing me from head to toe. Her voice was not what I expected at all. It was soft, the way she formed words. Honeyed and gentle in a southern style that I was familiar with.

"This ought to be fun," she murmured, "Boss man says you've never had a job."

Even her sarcasm was sweet. Eyes still locked firmly on the floor, I shrugged and felt myself heat once again with embarrassment.

"You don't look rich," she continued, "Can you read?"

Offended, nearly as red as my hair, I ground out, "I can read just fine," and refused to say anymore to quell her curiosity. I lifted my gaze long enough to see the put-out expression she shot Harper before she turned and headed into the kitchen. Nibbling the inside of my lower lip I dared to glance at Harper, hoping for instruction on what to do now, when Summer stuck her head around the kitchen door and asked, "Well, are you coming?"

(Sometime after 6pm)

The ease in which Summer moved around Harper's made me feel like a slug. I had a mere two of the ten tables in the dining room and she was manning the other eight, plus tending the bar. Occasionally I'd see Harper pitch in at the bar if Summer was busy with a table. I sighed as I bused my own table, normally I'd been told, there were a couple of high school kids that took turns working from 6-9 busing tables and washing dishes, but for one reason or another no one was coming in tonight. Hauling the square tub into the kitchen, I rinsed the plates, glasses and silverware before loading up one of the dishwasher's plastic trays. It wasn't glamourous, I hadn't expected it to be. It was honest work and so far, I hadn't managed to bungle anything badly.