Chapter 12. Liam
One month in, and I’m standing in front of Griff's office for a solid minute, hands shoved in the pockets of my gray sweats, staring at the door.
This is stupid. I'm about to voluntarily ask a man who could have me scrubbing toilets with my bare hands for permission to do more work.
More work! Me! A month ago, I was sleeping until noon in whatever apartment I'd crashed in, eating gas station chips for dinner, and now here I am, about to beg for kitchen duty.
But the thing is, I miss the kitchen crew, and I'm bored out of my mind during Quiet Time. Ethan is often away doing admin work, and he suggested I get into some activity like that.
So yeah. I'm going to knock on this door and ask Griff if I can, please, sir, chop vegetables in my free time, thank you, sir. What has become of me?!
I knock before I can talk myself out of it. There's a pause, then Griff's voice, and my stomach churns a bit. It's crazy I'm about to do this. "Enter."
Everything is in its place in the office, and Griff sits behind the desk, reading glasses perched on his nose. Classes are just over, and we have half an hour before lunch time. His green eyes lift from whatever paperwork he's reviewing, and his eyebrow rises about a millimeter.
"Marsal."
"Hey. Hi, sir." Smooth. Really smooth. I'm standing in the doorway like I need a formal invitation to cross the threshold, which, knowing this place, I probably do. "Can I… do you have a minute?"
He sets his pen down, removes his glasses, folds them, places them on the desk. "Come in. Sit down."
I sit, and I resist the urge to bounce my leg, I resist the urge to pick at my cuticles, and, especially, resist the urge to say stupid shit that I’ll regret. I do want to vomit, though.
"I wanted to ask about something…” I say, like I forgot how to behave like a human being for a second.
“Go on…” he says, one eyebrow definitely raised now. He thinks I’m acting suspicious and I haven’t even opened my mouth yet. Way to go, Liam, way to go.
“Um, do you think they would want an extra pair of hands in the kitchen? I was wondering if I could like, maybe, volunteer there? Like, regularly."
Griff doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he studies me with those eyes. I'm pretty sure he wants to detect the bullshit, and his brain must be screaming ‘what on Earth is this kid trying to pull?’ I don't blame him. I’m a fuck up.
"Volunteer," he repeats.
"Yeah. Yes, sir. I mean, during my detention shifts, I was helping with prep and dishes, and the staff there said I was, you know." I trail off because saying 'they liked me' feels pathetic. I like being pathetic, but only sometimes. "Useful. They said I was useful."
Griff leans back in his chair. The leather creaks. He crosses his arms, and I notice the faded military tattoos on his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up. I think for a second that he’s fucking cool, and I want to be cool like him when I get old.
"You're telling me you want to spend the time you could be sleeping or relaxing working in the kitchen. Voluntarily."
"I know it sounds… look, it's not a scheme. I'm not trying to pocket knives or whatever you're thinking."
"I wasn't thinking that." His expression doesn't change. Damn, now he is thinking it. That’s all Lu’s fault. She’s the one who told me kids tried to do that. "I was thinking it's the first time you've asked me for something productive like that."
I open my mouth, close it. He's not wrong. I think about apologizing, but it wouldn't change anything.
Griff pulls a form from a drawer, because there's a form for everything here, probably a form for requesting additional forms, and begins writing.
"You can do it on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 1 p.m. to 3 p.m." He doesn't look up as he writes.
"You miss a shift without prior approval, the privilege is revoked.
You cause any disruption, revoked. You use the kitchen to hide contraband or engage in any behavior inconsistent with facility rules… "
"Revoked. Got it."
His pen stops. He looks up, and I grin, raising my hands up as if I were caught by the police. He eyes me for another second and starts writing again.
"Good initiative, Marsal. Showing some responsibility might help your case here. I'll let your leader know he's doing a pretty good job with you."
“Hell yeah!” I celebrate. “Thank you, sir!”
“You're welcome.”
I take the permission slip from his outstretched hand.
"Those ladies took a liking to you during your detention," Griff adds as I stand. "Don't disappoint them."
"I won't." And I mean it. I like them too much to let them down.
The following day, I show up in the kitchen, and there's steam from three massive pots, the smell of onions and beans, and someone is singing. It's the opposite of every other room in this place because everybody’s happy here, and not maniacally happy, which is common, but just normal happy.
Lu spots me. She's at a prep table, hair pulled back in a bun with the net, her black skin glistening with sweat from the heavy work, and when she sees me, her face cracks into a grin that shows the gap between her front teeth.
"They sent you back?!" she says, waving a knife.
"This time, not because I punched someone!" I exclaim. I hold up the permission slip. "I'm official now. Volunteer."
Margarete appears from behind a shelf of industrial-sized cans. She's taller than me and her dyed ginger hair is more fluorescent now than I remember. She takes the slip, reads it, and nods approvingly. "You must have impressed old Griff. Welcome back, sweetheart!"
"Miracles happen," I say. “On very rare occasions I can be really good.”
Dora is already clearing a space for me at the cutting board nearest the window, the good station, the one that catches natural light, and I can feel the sun, even there. She sets down a colander overflowing with apples, oranges, and pears like she's been expecting me.
"Fruit salad for dessert tonight," Margarete announces, coming over to us. "Think you can handle that, or do we need to supervise?"
"For sure, I can do it! I’m a fruit salad cutting specialist," I tell her, pointing at myself with my thumb. She laughs.
I wash my hands, tie on the apron that Margarete tosses me: it's plastic and blue, too big, makes me look like a kid playing chef; put on the hair net, which I hate, and start on the apples.
The knife is sharp, and I'm actually impressed for a second they'd let me play with it like that. So maybe they do trust me somewhat.
Lu hums while she works, something Creole maybe. Margarete starts telling me that her grandson lost his first tooth.
"The youngest one, Rafael, he put the cat in the washing machine," she says, shaking her head while dicing celery. "Not to hurt him, he wanted to give him a bath. The cat survived. Rafael did not survive his mother's slipper."
I laugh, loud.
"Smaller pieces, sweetheart," Lu instructs, appearing at my elbow.
She takes the knife from my hand, demonstrates three quick cuts that turn a chunky apple slice into thin, even crescents, and hands it back.
Her fingers are warm and rough. "Like this.
The boys eat fast. Big pieces, they choke. We don't need that paperwork."
“We're all adults, Lu!” I protest, finding that super funny.
“You'd be surprised. Even fifty-year-old men act like little boys sometimes. Don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I tell her, she grins, and I do as I'm told because apparently here it's all I do.
I mimic her technique, being as careful as I can be, which isn’t extremely careful, but more than I would be otherwise. “Like this?”
“Very good,” she says, satisfied, before returning to her station.
I slice through an orange, and it smells so good, citrus and sweet.
I want to bite into it. And, knowing my fucked up brain which makes the weirdest associations all the time, I remember who I want to bite.
And, then, as I set the rhythm again, my mind goes to our room after lights out, when Harry's sleeping and Jack's snoring, and Miles is doing whatever Miles does.
In there, I know Ethan likes me, because he actually acts as if he does.
He'll lean over the edge of his bed, and his voice changes, goes softer.
"You awake, Liam?"
"Always."
And we chat about everything.
One night last week, I missed dinner because Griff had me reorganizing the supply closet after I mouthed off in MMA.
I don’t know what I was thinking, but when he told me to stop chatting with Jack and focus, I was actually brave enough to mouth off.
Of course it was a horrible idea, and Ethan didn’t let it slide either.
He didn’t spank me, unfortunately, but he shot me one of those looks he does, the one that makes my heart stop for a second, and scolded me for at least five minutes.
Which is a close second to being spanked in my enjoyment list. After that, I came back to the room hungry, but I'm often hungry, so I was just trying not to be, which I've perfected over the years.
But there, on my pillow, was a napkin and a slice of chocolate cake. I knew who left it, of course.
I had to eat it. And not vomit. Because he got it for me.
"You're miles away, honey," Lu says, and her voice pulls me back to the cutting board, to the half-peeled pear in my hand, to the kitchen that smells like cinnamon now because someone has started on the oatmeal for tomorrow's breakfast. Everything seems to smell better and taste better over here.
"Sorry." I blink. "Just thinking."
I arrange the fruit on the metal serving trays, alternating colors the way Dora showed me, pear then apple then orange, like a cute fruit rainbow. Margarete watches me and doesn’t let go of what she’s thinking.
"Boy troubles?" she asks, singsong.