j a k e
"What if I cut myself?" I say, holding the kitchen knife a good distance away from me. The head cook laughs and gives me a wink.
"Just avoid your fingers."
"Wow, thanks," I say, going back to cutting the carrot pieces. When I'm done with one carrot, I move the cut pieces aside, letting another cook take them and place them on the trays. I lean forward and take another carrot, slowly cutting, trying not to chop off my finger in the process.
The head cook, Mitch, moves onto another big bowl of potatoes, beginning to mash them. "How's the summer holidays?" Mitch asks me. I look up at him- he practically towers over me.
"Pretty good," I say, looking back down to cut the carrots.
"You getting to hang out with friends?" Mitch uses a strong hand to mash the potatoes more forcefully as another bowl is slid over to him.
"Yeah," I say, shoving aside the cut up pieces and grabbing another carrot from the pile in front of me. "It's kind of hard to balance the mental hospital and a social life, though."
Mitch chuckles, pushing aside a finished bowl and reaching for the next one. "I can imagine." His voice sobers and he averts his gaze, suddenly. "How are you feeling? I heard some of the workers didn't want you volunteering at first."
I stiffen, "When did you hear that?"
"Back when you first got out. A month after you got released, right? Either way, it's being brought up again."
I drop the knife onto the cutting board. Mitch flinches at the noise, but stays focused on the potatoes, "What have they been saying?"
Mitch's eyebrows furrow, "It's nothing bad, Jake. Just that you..."
"I what?"
"You seemed to be having a hard time lately," Mitch shrugs, like it's not big deal. It is a big deal though. I feel like my heart just dropped, way past my stomach. No; more like I want to vomit, and then cry, and then vomit again.
"They... They think I'm going bad again," I mutter, my hands shaking. "Oh my God."
Mitch realizes what he's just suggested and forgets the potatoes, turning to me and grabbing me by the shoulders. A couple of the kitchen workers begin to look at us. Mitch bends down to my level and says quickly, "No, God, no Jake, that's not what I was saying. You're not going bad again, okay? It was probably just because of the whole thing with Andrew. Jake, c'mon, you know I didn't mean it like that. You're fine, you're okay."
The words barely register. This was everything I've been terrified of for ages. What's George going to do this time? Send me away for good? He probably doesn't want me around anyway; I'm way too much effort. I know how much stress I put on him the first time around; there's no way he can handle it the second time. I shudder; I don't want to go through that again. Anything but that.
"Jake, do you want me to take you to George?" Mitch asks, studying my blank expression.
A cook from another station turns around as says, "What's wrong with him?"
That question snaps me out of my trance. I pull away from Mitch, taking deep breaths to make my hands steady, and say, "Nothing's wrong. I'll finish up the carrots, don't worry. I'm fine."
Mitch frowns, slowly turning back to the potatoes, "You sure?"
I nod lightly, giving him a forced smile. I turn back to the carrots, continuing to cut, not saying a word for the rest of the time. When lunch rolls around and I'm done helping with the preparations, I exit the cafeteria, all appetite lost. I make my way downstairs, where George is at the main desk, filling out some papers. He smiles at me when I come down.
