YesterWorld (Book 2 of the Down World Series)

Original Edition: Chapter Thirty-Six

The owner of the restaurant was giving me the stink-eye as I sat alone at a large table, one of every dish on the menu splayed out before me. Maybe he thought I was going to dine and dash. Maybe he didn't like my skin color. He stood with arms folded over his stout little body, twitching his moustache in my direction and tapping his fat foot.

I didn't care. I was starving and annoyed, and I ripped off a huge chunk of bread and dipped it into a bowl of tomato soup, then started twirling my fork into a towering plate of spaghetti.

"What the hell did you order?" I heard Adam ask, and I looked up to see him standing with an open mouth of dismay over the table.

"Everything," I answered, hovering the fork over the plate en route to my mouth. "You can get an entire steak here for only eighty-five cents."

"These people are on rations," Adam whispered, embarrassed, as he sat down opposite me. "You just ordered enough food for ten people."

I hesitated before bringing the fork to my mouth. I hadn't thought of that. Okay, so maybe the owner had good reason to be gaping at me. Whatever. Nothing to do now but eat it all.

Whatever judgement Adam had about the food also dissipated as he sat down and started shoveling bites of steak into his mouth, all dripping in a thick, brown gravy.

"You sold the ring?" he noticed.

"Pawned it. The man said he'd hold it for us... for me. Until I could pay him back."

Adam watched me eat for a moment, devouring the forkfuls of food like they owed me a favor. "I have no idea where you put all this food."

"It's feeding my rage."

He laughed, adding a large portion of chicken parmesan to his plate. "Did you learn anything today?"

"Oh, I learned lots of things today," I answered between bites. "I learned that the career options for a Mexican woman in nineteen forty-four range from cleaning lady to maid. Can't be a stripper, unfortunately. Not white enough. But if I bleach my skin with the lilac tonic stuff that Rita Hay-something uses, I can pass for white and then I can watch needles spin around a gauge at the base, so long as I don't ask what they're for."

Adam chuckled into a bite of steak, washing it down with a gulp of water. But he was also looking over his shoulder, making sure no one was listening.

"And basically," I continued, "the only way I'm ever getting into that lab now is if I wake up tomorrow morning looking like you."

At this, Adam's fork froze in midair for a moment, his eyes questioning, thinking.

"What?"

"It's not a bad idea."

"What isn't?"

"Go in as a cleaning lady, you can sneak in and steal me a badge."

I dropped my fork, which made a louder clunking sound than I had intended, catching the attention of the already suspicious owner. I offered him an apologetic wave, and he eventually went back to staring indignantly at the other diners.

"I can't do that, Adam."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't pass as a cleaning lady."

But he simply held out his hands, as if to ask, Why not? The anger that had been brewing inside me all day was starting to work its way up into my throat again, and I swallowed it down with a cold sip of water before continuing.

"There are no mixed people here, Adam. I'm too white to be Mexican. I'm too Mexican to be white. The other ladies would know. Also... my Spanish sucks."