Lost Game Notes (Novel)

Chapter 8: Silver Spoon

The bell above the door of The Silver Spoon Diner tinkled as Alex pushed it open. He and Lawrence stepped into the golden light emitted from LED's above, which cast a comfortable glow over the diners. Conversations were held in content murmurs. Clouds had gathered outside, creating a gloomy before-the-rain effect.

Alex drew in the familiar scent of brewing coffee, freshly baked bread and cakes. He had been missing out on more than he realized.

Lawrence steered him to a table where Jude's tall, muscled figure sat slouched, with his chin resting against chest, staring at the screen of his phone. A half cup of coffee sat beside a ring of keys on the table.

Alex dropped into a seat, having no option but to sit beside Jude. The circular tables had it that way. Lawrence walked off to the counter to place an order, and only then Jude looked up, pushing strands of hair out of his eyes.

"Lawrence forced me to come," Alex announced, crossing his arms over his chest.

Jude gulped up the rest of his coffee down and grunted, "You shouldn't have." He set the cup down with a clunk and looked back down at his phone.

"So, Jude Connell," Lawrence said brightly, reappearing at the table and dropping into a chair. "How about—"

"Judy, my baby, there you are!" A voice crooned, and a woman sashayed up to them. A pair of cat-eye sunglasses were perched on a pile of frizzy blonde hair, ruby-red lips pulled back in a smile that revealed tiny white teeth. She swatted Jude upside the head, and Alex couldn't discern whether is was affectionate or scolding.

"Don't you think I didn't see you puttering away on your motorbike this morning. Are these the people that you came to—Oh, Lawrence Brooke! How nice to see you here," The lady drawled, extending a hand tipped with talons longer than that of Mrs Blyton's, talons that were just fit for tearing into skin. "I am Jude's mother, Mrs. Simmons."

Lawrence took her offered hand and shook it, flashing her a charming smile. Alex knew that smile. Lawrence had used it on several occasions, as though to fool his prey. It wasn't genuine.

"How are you finding my diner, dears? Putting in some new features seemed to be just the trick to drag customers in like bees to honey."

"Expert decision," Lawrence praised. "This place is really looking good. Better than any diner I've been too. And bigger."

"Here is your order," A new but familiar, soft voice interjected.

Alex looked up in surprise to see Sky, balancing a tray on the tips of his fingers, dressed in a white button down and black jeans, with an apron tied around his front.

Mrs. Simmons stepped to the side so Sky could set down the tray and begin to unload it, and Alex tried to catch his eye. Sky ducked his head, and white wisps of hair—that had come loose from the bun that gathered at the nape of his neck—hung in front of his face. The scrubbed complexion of his cheeks stood out on his pale skin regardless.

He must be desperate, Alex thought. Sky had mentioned depending on their savings to pay for Mrs. Anton's medical bills. What would happen when that money ran out? Would Sky drop out of school?
Alex straightened, feeling a sense of guilt. He should have been helping out Sky, like he promised himself he would. That's what best friends did, wasn't it?

Alex stood, glancing over at Lawrence. He was preoccupied, answering Mrs. Simmons rapid-fire questions. Jude was engaged in a group chat on his phone, silver ring glistening on his finger as he typed away.

Alex hurried to catch up with Sky and grabbed his arm. "Where are you going? I want to—to help."

Sky was about to pull his arm away but hesitated, then turned, squinting his eyes. "Are you sure?"

"I said I want to help, didn't I?"

Sky looked away. "Alright then, if the chief-chef allows."

Alex gave a little sigh of relief. Sky hadn't changed much. He was still the softie Alex knew him for. He followed Sky around the booth to the back, and through wide, light-weight doors. As soon as they stepped in, the strong sweet and savory smells hit, far more pungent than in the diner itself. Sizzling, scraping, chopping and bubbling sounds filled his ears.

Alex followed Sky, weaving around waiters, waitresses and cooks, through a maze of counters, over to a stocky man with his balding hair slicked back, reading orders scribbled on sticky notes tacked unto a bulletin board. He wrote something on a clipboard ever so often.

"Excuse me, Chef Hans?"

Chef Hans made a sound like a malfunctioning lawn mower and turned, thick eyebrows knotted together. When he spoke, he had a strong rolling accent Alex couldn't detect. "Skyler. Who's your friend?"

"Alexander Brooke," Alex introduced himself.

Chef Hans rubbed a fat finger over his scrubby mustache, his narrowed eyes contemplative. "I see. What do you want?"

Sky filled his cheeks with air, reaching to nudge his glasses up, only to find they weren't there. He dropped his hand and cleared his throat. "Alex wants to help out."

Chef Hans grunted again, and Alex winced at the mucus congested sound. "Good. Business is rolling today—we need all the help we get. Alex can help with washing pots and pans."

"Washing the pots and pans?" Alex echoed, feeling his heart sink. Even though he was no master at cooking, he could cut vegetables and ice cupcakes, right?

"Like I said." Chef Hans muttered, turning away to continue writing.

"We'll do it together," Sky said, adding in a whisper, "I was done with my first shift anyway."

They headed towards the back of the industrial sized kitchen, and Alex groaned. A lumbering tower of greasy pots were stacked beside large basins.

Sky extended a crisp-white apron, offering a smile. "We can talk."

Alex took the apron, stringing it around his waist and looping a clumsy knot in place. "I suppose so."

Sky rolled his sleeves up and turned the taps on, as if to fill a bathtub. "Chef Hans doesn't like it when we talk too much, so we've got to keep it quiet."

Alex plunged his hands into the water, barely giving a thought to the steam rising off the surface. Scalding water scorched his skin and he yelped, jerking back and yanking his hands out.

"Oops, I should have warned you." Sky barely suppressed a grin and grabbed Alex's wrists, thrusting them underneath the spattering stream of icy water.

Alex laughed in spite of himself. "I'm stupid."

Sky's delicate features frowned. "Don't say that."

"It's true." Alex's sobered. "I made a stupid deal—" He caught himself just in time. "You know what? That's not important."

Sky looked up, but Alex continued on, donning a pair of gloves. "I'm not important. How's your mother?"

Sky turned to face the speckled titles, metal sponge poised over a blackened pan. He began to scour the base, the scratching sound too loud to speak over, buying himself some time.

He finally spoke, resting his arms on the edge of the basin. "I suppose I should be grateful. She's been responding well to treatment so far, but..." Sky paused, and when he spoke again, his voice held a slight tremor. "I'm scared of loosing her, Alex."

Alex was silent for a second. Then two. Then three. His jaw twitched, and he turned away, so Sky wouldn't see the tears building in his own eyes. He had been scared of the exact same thing several years ago. Loosing his dear, beloved mother, and not being able to do anything about it. That's how he had felt—helpless, and that's what he felt now.

Sky seemed to realize the connection, and sputtered, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

Alex wanted to tell him otherwise, but his throat clamped up and he squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't cry. He just couldn't. There was nothing worse than being vulnerable.

So they worked in agonizing silence for several minutes, both too lost in their own world of pain to comfort the other. Finally, every pot and pan was scrubbed to a shiny finish. One would think they were brand new.

Alex was all too eager to pull off the gloves and untie the apron, silently swearing never to wash another pot in his life. Alex noticed Sky kept his apron on.

"Skyler!" Chef Hans's voice bellowed. "Where are you? Your lunch break is long time over."

"That's my cue," Sky said with an apologetic smile, and Alex felt a stab of guilt, realizing Sky had sacrificed his lunch break to work alongside Alex. To talk.

Alex attempted to scrape up a bit of courage. "Look, Sky, it's just—"

"It's okay," Sky interrupted, his voice devoid of emotion, the brightness in his face zapped. A sigh left his lips. "We all love a little silence sometimes."

He tried to smile, but his face remained rigid. As he turned and headed away, his shoulders slumped. Typical Sky, always excusing others for their faults, never selfish in the least way. Alex felt an impulse to give Sky a hug, the faint memory of the comfort he had felt in his mother's arms surfacing.

Another memory overlapped the first, mush more recent. Lawrence's words, in fact: "Don't ever put yourself in such a vulnerable position."

Alex steeled himself, heading to the swinging doors and pushing them open. He stepped to the side to allow a waiter with a large tray by, and bumped his head against the sharp corner of something.

Scowling, he stepped back to get a better look. He felt his eyes widen as he took in the silver strokes. It was about the most obvious things if you ever looked towards the booth, something he would have noticed sooner or later.

A huge, silver spoon.

Could Dawn have been right about him? That he didn't see what was right in front of him. No doubt the third note referred to the painting: the spoon in silver spoon.

Of course. He should have known.

A secret ain't no fun when there's no tension to it. Alex, you really got to do some digging.

Dawn's words again. Perhaps he should do some digging for himself, plant his own damn garden, even. It would certainly make finding the notes easier.

A pink, glittery smudge on wall beside the lower half of the frame caught his attention. Drawing closer, he saw it was a number four, in that crooked but neat scrawl.

Alex gritted his teeth. Of all the easily accessible places in the diner, she had to choose the painting, which was behind the counter.

If Alex stood beside the painting, he could discreetly stick his hand in the gap. He would look casual enough, sort off. He ran his fingers over the frame, soon discovering the painting wasn't hanging on the wall. It was fixed to it, with an inch wide gap running down the sides.

His fingers connected with an object wedged between the corner of the frame and gave a tug. A small piece of neatly folded paper came back with his hand. Though his curiosity spiked, he didn't open it to read it—yet. A question was crouched in the depths of his mind. He pocketed the paper, waiting until the bob of white hair had approached the booth.

"Was Dawn a regular customer here?" Alex asked, putting a hand on Sky's shoulder to get him to turn around. Alex didn't think Dawn had enough money saved up to splurge on treats at a high-end diner, nor did he think she was old enough to, but the question didn't cost.

"She works here, actually, as a volunteer, after school. She just loves to help out." A faint smile crossed Sky's face at the thought. "But she never buys anything. Just helps. I've been meaning to ask, where is she?"

"School trip," Alex said in a clipped tone, turning away towards his father's voice calling. He felt a twinge of a feeling he wouldn't care to admit, even to himself. But it was about time.

Jealously.

He had always been jealous of his little sister, younger by four years. She was the smarter one, in her words, decisions and choices, even in maths. And this stupid game of lost notes which was proving complex.

Dawn had been the one to live the rest of the precious years of their mother's life with her. Alex was stuck in a bubble with Lawrence. He hadn't even gotten a chance to see Olivia a last time before she died some months back. When Conan killed her.

A rush of anger burned, fueling Alex's craving to discover more of what Dawn held back. Could she be hiding more than she let on?