Chapter Eleven
Even though I didn’t actually have a plan to begin with, I can’t help but feel like the talk with my mom did not go to plan.
All I managed to do was confirm what I already technically know, which is that the curse is triggered by love, that it’s basically impossible to break without Austin, and that confronting him about it would be a big fat waste of time.
Plus, I guaranteed my place in the Daughter Hall of Shame by making my mom cry.
The next morning, I wake up surer than ever that I had it right the first time: if I can’t break the curse via Austin, I’ll have to go through Max.
When I ask Julian whether he can get me a job at F’resh, he texts back saying it should be laughably easy.
His old manager at the U Street branch was actually transferred to the National Zoo F’resh – he’s really weird, Julian says, but he owes him a favour after Julian helped him find new homes for his seventeen guinea pigs when his mom kicked him out of their house.
By the end of Sunday, I already have a video interview scheduled for Monday after school.
Julian’s old boss Rick is a small, rabbity man with more hair in his ears than on his head.
He scrutinises my basically non-existent resumé with beady eyes.
I don’t have any food-handling experience other than the time I had to help prepare cafeteria lunches for a week (AKA detention, after Mr Vorak caught me texting during one of his painfully long readings of Wuthering Heights), but they’re desperate, Rick confides to me, and he trusts Julian after he found that nice old lady in Virginia who could look after ‘his girls’. Could I start tomorrow?
And just like that, I’m in.
The last time I went to the National Zoo was for a field trip in the fifth grade.
The exterior is the same as I remember, the black wrought-iron fence backed by dark trees, the concrete letters spelling out ZOO above a bed of red flowers.
Rick’s email said I should meet him and the other recruits starting today at the new F’resh restaurant, located at the back of the zoo in the building known as the Mane Grill.
I had to sprint from Mount Luther to catch the bus to make it in time for my 3 p.m. shift, so I fast-walk down the wide, concrete pathway, darting around large groups of tourists and errant toddlers.
I use this time to run through the intel I gathered last night when I spent five hours researching how to go undercover, googling Max Taylor and reading F’resh forums on Reddit.
The former used a lot of sinister-sounding language like the ‘target group’ and ‘vital intelligence’, which felt weirdly intense, while the latter consisted mostly of ex-employees talking about the conspiracy theory around F’resh HQ trying to hide the pomegranate vinaigrette’s sugar content.
Searches for Max revealed little new information too.
He recently graduated from Arlington Preparatory High School, but aside from a few stats on him as a member of the freshman boys’ volleyball team, there’s basically nothing useful about him on the internet.
He doesn’t even have Instagram, just Snapchat.
I created a fake profile and followed him, but he didn’t have any new Stories.
There was nothing to tell me what kind of person I’d need to be for him to want me in his inner circle, what kind of douchebag I’d be faced with – a snob?
A frat bro? A womaniser like his dad? I suspected it’d be all three.
Frustrated, I switched my focus to Austin Taylor instead.
I knew from my mom that he’d split up with Max’s mom shortly after Max was born, but without her name, she’d be basically impossible to find.
The only thing I did uncover that was mildly interesting about Austin was his romantic history after he and my mom broke up.
He’s apparently single now, but he’s been spotted with a few B-list celebrities, an international diplomat and a French model.
All of them appear to have had partners afterwards that didn’t turn into monsters, so as far as I could tell, my mom looks like the only victim of his curse.
The Mane Grill sits at almost the very back of the zoo’s walkway, a medium-sized brown building with a trapezoidal roof. Orange umbrellas sprout up like mushrooms amid patio tables and chairs. On the front door, a sign that says GRAND OPENING SATURDAY!! is taped to the glass.
Nothing about the sleek silver countertops and stainless-steel wall panelling inside the Mane Grill match the building’s faded stone exterior and chipped white trim.
On the wall opposite the automatic front doors, two cash registers topped with iPads sit in the middle.
Above the menu that hangs over the cash registers is the word F’resh in big, neon-green letters; stacked underneath is the slogan simple salads.
simply healthy. The place smells like vinegar and plastic.
Wearing a green F’resh polo shirt and matching visor, Rick is standing in front of the cash registers speaking to an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, a woman with a huge horse tattoo that takes up most of her neck, and two girls the same age as me. No Max Taylor.
‘Here we go, at last,’ Rick says, seeing me. The small crowd in front of him turns, all looking sceptical and bored. ‘Everyone, this is Indigo, our final new starter.’
I open my mouth to apologise for being late, but the clock above the cash registers says I’m four minutes early.
Rick thrusts a large brown paper bag at me, wafting a wave of minty cologne so overpowering, my eyes water.
‘Inside is your uniform, plus a few little extras from F’resh corporate.
’ He says the last part like we’ve been gifted a surprise trip to the Bahamas.
Everyone peers in their bags. Inside is a F’resh polo and visor to match Rick’s, a nametag with INDIGO written in the F’resh font, a metal F’resh water bottle, and a small circular pin that says GET F’RESH on it.
‘You can all get changed in the bathroom, over here.’ Rick gestures behind us to the single public toilet.
I raise my hand, determined not to waste a minute here on anything but my mission. ‘I saw that F’resh is hosting a party or something at the zoo.’
Rick nods. ‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘As you all might’ve seen on the news,’ he shrugs theatrically, as though it were his name online, ‘Mr Taylor is hosting a gala here next month to benefit F’resh’s wonderful sister charity, MENtal.’ Rick points at the hallway. ‘Now, if you all can—’
‘And who – who’s planning it?’ I say over the noise as everyone starts to shuffle off. ‘Are they gonna be around a lot?’
I bite down on a cringe. Even though I didn’t mention Max by name, I don’t think it’s possible for me to be any more obvious.
‘Mr Taylor’s son Max is helping out,’ Rick says slowly, fighting what I can tell is a trace of annoyance. ‘You’ll all probably see him walking around from time to time over the next few weeks, getting the lay of the land.’
This time, everyone files down the hallway, not waiting for another interruption. I consider asking more questions, but decide against it, not wanting to look any more suspicious than I already do. I have to make my friendship with Max seem natural, not like I’ve been waiting to entrap him.
The five of us take turns using the bathroom, shuffling around each other in silence except for the two girls my age who keep whispering back and forth.
It’s unclear whether they knew each other before this, or have already bonded over their similar age and mutual disgust for the hospitality industry, but regardless, I can tell by the way they keep looking at me and giggling that I’m very much not invited to their twosome.
When it’s my turn in the bathroom, I wrench off my button-up and replace it with the F’resh polo, the neon green harsh against my pale skin.
I grimace at my reflection in the mirror above the lone porcelain sink, the visor squeezed down on my head, but try to school my features into a smile, or at the very least neutrality.
My internet search from last night on ‘how to go undercover’ said it’s crucial to align myself with the target group if I want to infiltrate it.
Even if that’s not necessarily someone that loves F’resh, it is, at the very least, someone who’s willing to degrade themselves under the likes of Austin Taylor for minimum wage.
For the next hour, Rick goes over the entire F’resh premises inch by inch, walking us through every piece of equipment in the sparkling, stainless steel kitchen; the tiny staff room; the walk-in fridge with boxes and boxes of cold fruit and veggies; the gallery wall lined with health-and-safety posters, a list of the Ten Steps to F’reshness (number six of which is actually, genuinely, Ain’t No Oil Like an Avocado Oil!), and a sign promoting MENtal, in which a row of men stand holding hands in front of a sunset.
After our tour, Rick sits the five of us down at a table in the main restaurant.
We face him as he stands underneath the bright F’resh sign and monologues about how to properly open a tin can.
Even though we’ve only been walking around for an hour or so, the balls of my feet ache.
I slide them out of my loafers and make a mental note to stop by Target for new sneakers on my way home.
Rick is making the woman with the neck tattoo – Cecily – open her second tin can in front of us after her wrist slipped with the first one, causing chickpeas to rain down on salt-and-pepper guy – whose name is Juan – when the doors to the Mane Grill whir open.
Rick stops critiquing Cecily’s technique mid-sentence.
His eyes go wide and suddenly sparkle, his mouth curving up in a boyish smile as he stares at something over our shoulders.
All five of us turn. Three figures stand in the doorway: a man and a woman in suits, and a second, taller man looking more casual in a dark-blue button-up and black skinny jeans.
When he follows the other two into the restaurant, I see that he’s not a man, not quite – it’s his height, at least six feet, that makes him look older.
In reality, he’s my age. Just a little over a year older, to be exact.
Because even though I’ve never met this boy, I know him. His reddish-brown hair, shorn short on the sides with a longer, curly mop on top. His high cheekbones, dark eyes and freckles scattered up his neck and one side of his face. He looks so much like his dad, I feel dizzy.
‘What a treat!’ Rick exclaims from behind me. His voice is high with giddiness. ‘Everyone—’ he claps – ‘it’s my pleasure to introduce you to our very own F’resh Prince, Max Taylor.’