Chapter Twelve
Our very own F’resh Prince.
Our very own F’resh freaking Prince.
Rick continues clapping, the new recruits reluctantly joining in until there’s a sparse, awkward round of applause.
I clench my fists at my sides, ignoring the way Rick gestures to his still-clapping hands with his chin when our gazes accidentally collide, as though I’m not clapping because I haven’t realised we’re all doing it as a group, rather than that I’m actively choosing not to.
But instead of looking smug at the attention, or even proud, Max looks mortified.
An angry red flush has crept up his neck and he’s hugging an iPad to his chest, as though he wishes he could disappear behind it.
‘We were just talking about you and the wonderful gala you’re planning,’ Rick gushes.
‘This new F’resh will be the catering headquarters for the big event, so things around here are gonna get a little hectic in the week leading up.
’ He titters theatrically. ‘Obviously you all were recruited too late to be on the catering team, but don’t get discouraged.
You’re still an integral part of the F’resh family, right, Max? ’
Max attempts a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. Or, disgust.
The two girls – whose names are both, somehow, Sarah – are whispering to each other again, their eyes locked on Max.
And I get it – he’s hot. Not in a cool way, like Tyler, or overwhelmingly, like Avery.
More effortless. As though he doesn’t know his face is perfectly symmetrical, that his teeth are domino-straight.
His outfit – designed to look simple and effortless, but which probably costs as much as one of Rick’s paycheques – says, I’m just a nice guy who wants what we all want: good times and good laughs.
It’s how Austin Taylor ensnared my mother, how he continues to fool everyone, hiding behind his lame salads and PR stunt of a mental health charity.
I wait for some spark of reconnection to flash between us. Though we’ve technically never met before, our parents acted like we were family at one point. But Max keeps his eyes fixed on the F’resh sign over the cash registers, the flush creeping further up his neck.
The suits ferry Max into the kitchen. With one last longing look at them, Rick resumes his tin can lesson, but I can barely hear him.
Goosebumps have erupted across my entire torso.
It’s as though my body, now in such close, unexpected proximity to a Taylor, is on high alert.
Which is stupid; my whole curse-breaking plan hinges on befriending Max.
Without him, I’ve got no access to his dad.
But I didn’t consider how it would feel; having Max here is like sharing space with Austin Taylor.
When Max criss-crosses the kitchen behind Rick, all I can see in his face is the man who hurt my mom, whose jealousy took my dad to California and ruined my chances of a normal love life.
After his lecture, Rick gives us a fifteen-minute break. I use this chance to shake off the weird feeling seeing Max has given me and wander down towards the Kids’ Farm, which is around the corner from the Mane Grill. I pull out my phone, where just one message waits for me.
Mom
Good luck on your first day of
volunteering!! ???
My mom and I reconciled the morning after our talk on Laura’s birthday by not mentioning it and pretending it hadn’t happened. For all her mushy, pseudo-spiritualist bravado, my mom is really good at quietly papering over any and all cracks that are in the shape of my dad.
Even so, a guilty pit opens up in my stomach at the three hearts in her text.
I couldn’t exactly tell her I got a job at F’resh making money for our family’s arch-nemesis, nor that I didn’t actually get the job because I wanted it, but because I was looking for a way to break the curse.
I know how against it she’d be, how dangerous she’d think it was.
So instead, I told her I’d gotten a position volunteering at the zoo as part of the extra credits my guidance counsellor was offering.
Indie
Thank you
Indie
Next week they’re gonna let me feed the
prairie dogs!!
I am a terrible person.
A few minutes of walking brings me to the Amazonia building, where the gala will be held.
It’s a large, two-storey structure that’s half reddish-brown brick, half imposing windows.
As soon as I open the doors, I’m met with a wall of hot, humid air and a large open tank with flat, disc-like rays swimming along the pebbled bottom.
A short flamingo with long, spindly legs and a wide, flat beak is perched on the edge of the plexiglass, staring at the water.
I wind through a darkened room filled with more tanks, skip up the stairs to the rainforest exhibit and cross through to the science gallery.
It’s a large, open space with orange-brown walls and adobe accents.
Standing in the centre of the room are the two suits from before, the woman gesturing up at the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The man is holding the iPad and standing next to Max, who is awash in the yellow light that streams in through the windows.
As the two suits talk, Max glances over as though my entrance into the gallery has set off some alarm.
I freeze as our eyes meet. He lifts a hand in a small wave, and smiles.
An announcement rings out overhead, informing people that the zoo is closing in half an hour.
Max breaks our eye contact to glance up at the sound.
While he’s distracted, I heave open the exit doors and burst back out into the cool air, heart pounding.
Outside again, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
As I slip it out, I think again of my mom and wonder if I can make friends with one of the actual volunteers, someone who’ll take a picture of me tossing a few fish to the flamingos or something, but the notification on my screen stills my thoughts.
It’s from my video feed app. Someone – or something – is in Tyler’s cave.
I pull in a huge, steadying breath. It’s probably another animal – a rabbit, or a squirrel. But when I click on the notification and the app opens on the grainy black-and-white video, a large fluffy shape is sniffing the stuffed bear I bought last week. Tyler.
‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no,’ I whisper furiously. ‘How?’
And how so soon? I know Tyler changed back to normal on Saturday because one of his friends tagged him in a picture of their band practice.
I made sure to take the bus that didn’t go through Columbia Heights today, in case Tyler was working, but I must have still accidentally gotten too close to him.
Was he skateboarding at Rabaut Park? Getting dirty fries in Adams Morgan?
After the Qure show, you’d think I’d have accepted that avoiding Tyler based on where I think he should and shouldn’t be is useless.
Washington, DC is tiny, less than seventy square miles big. He could be anywhere, at any time.
The guilty pit in my stomach only widens as I text my mom to say I actually won’t make dinner, since me and some of the other new volunteers are going out for sushi.
Rock Creek Park butts right up against the National Zoo; I can visit Tyler after my shift, grab pizza from the place I saw by the panda exhibit.
When I get back to F’resh, Rick instructs me to mop the floor of the main restaurant before he promptly plops himself down in one of the patio chairs outside and begins talking loudly on his phone to someone about tomorrow night’s episode of 1,000-lb Sisters.
As the light outside begins to fade, the park empties, volunteers in red polos ushering lingering groups towards the zoo exit.
I start on the hallway floor leading to the bathroom before working my way to the main restaurant.
As I swish the mop across the tiles, I’m able to push thoughts of Tyler out of my head.
He has some toys. I left him four packs of beef jerky. He’s good for now.
It’s mostly quiet in F’resh except for the sound of Juan humming a song behind the counter, and the Sarahs giggling loudly about some guy one of them met at a party last weekend.
I scrape at a stubborn brown splotch in the grout until I’m sweating and my own breathing is loud enough in my head to tune them out.
I may not have infiltrated the target group – or target person, technically – yet, but there’s still time, I remind myself.
This is only day one. It’s all part of the process.
Still, I find myself whisking the mop across the tiled floor until THIS SUCKS is written in big, soapy letters. With my hands stacked on the mop’s handle, I prop my chin on top and sigh.
‘Is this your first day?’
The voice over my shoulder makes me jump, my feet sliding across the suds so that I almost topple backwards.
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ the voice says, a hand reaching out and grabbing my elbow.
Once steady again, I turn around and look into the sheepishly smiling face of Max Taylor.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
Standing up straight and shrugging off his grip as inconspicuously as I can, I follow his gaze to the floor, where my soapy message still stands, only the final S smeared. Scrambling for the mop, I swipe away the words until there’s just a lopsided puddle at my feet.
‘I’m Max,’ he says. Even his voice is hot, a low, smooth timbre. I try not to scowl, and when I don’t answer for a few seconds, he says, ‘And you are … ?’
I whirl around, the weird feeling I had on first seeing Max returning. He’s edged up beside me now, his face soft. I wonder if he learned the expression from his dad. How many girls he’s used it on to lure them into feeling safe around him. Not trusting myself to speak, I point to my nametag.
‘Indigo,’ he reads slowly. ‘Are your parents hippies?’
He sounds so much like Avery, I almost flinch.
I try to force a smile instead, but I can feel how strained it is.
I need to use this opportunity to connect with him, say something charming to make him see beyond the fact that I’m mopping a floor for minimum wage, but looking into his face, the way his top lip is curved into a perfect cupid’s bow, all I can see is his dad.
Outside, Rick’s voice is rising, whoever’s on the other line clearly arguing with him about something. Pet pageants. Or maybe, pet rabbits. Max tilts his head towards the sound.
‘I wanna tell you Rick gets less intense the more you get to know him,’ he says. ‘But it feels unfair to lie to someone you just met.’
It sounds so light when he says it. Playful, almost. But he’s only proved my hunch, that Max thinks he’s better than Rick.
Than all of us. And of course he does – he’s Austin Taylor’s son.
I knew this is how it would be. But the reality of it, here, right in front of my face, is suddenly more than I can bear.
‘At least he earned his job,’ I fire at Max.
Some part of me is aware that I’m shouting, but not enough to stop myself.
Not after the tears that streaked my mother’s face over the weekend, the fact that Tyler is, once again, hiding in a cave, that Avery could be one wrong kiss away from sprouting fangs.
‘Or is he the heir to some chickpea empire?’
A stunned silence pulses between us. Even the Sarahs have gone quiet.
‘I – I didn’t mean it like that,’ Max says, looking wounded. Which is so typical – he starts it, and then when I bite back, he’s the victim.
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Or should Rick be glad you even know his name enough to shit talk him, someone who would literally bow down to you and your rich daddy. I’m sorry he’s not the F’resh Prince.’
At the use of the stupid nickname, Max actually flinches.
‘Indigo! What do you think you’re doing?’
A wall of an astringent mint aroma ploughs into me. Rick tears the mop from my hand and glares at me, his face popsicle red. The automatic doors to the restaurant slide closed behind him.
‘Rick, we were just—’ Max starts, at the same time as I throw an arm towards him and say, ‘He’s being an asshole.’
‘Indigo, that’s—’ my manager splutters. ‘You know what? I’m gonna have to ask you to leave early.’
Mortification heats my cheeks, but I bite down hard on my tongue and keep my chin parallel to the floor. I won’t let Max see my embarrassment.
‘Whatever,’ I say, pushing through them.
This is fine. This is totally fine. I can check on Tyler, get home before midnight.
It’ll be a new record. I head behind the counter, Juan and Cecily’s eyes following me.
I’ll cool off, recalculate. Maybe Max isn’t the best way to Austin – maybe Rick’s obvious adoration of the salad mogul is based on a genuine friendship I can exploit.
Just as I’m about to round the corner to the kitchen, where the Sarahs scramble back to their positions beside the walk-in fridge as though they haven’t just been listening to every word in the main restaurant, Rick clears his throat.
‘You can leave your uniform on my desk,’ he says.
I turn on my heel in slow motion. ‘Wait, what?’ I say.
Max has followed us. ‘Rick,’ he says quickly. ‘I—’
Rick holds up a hand. ‘No, Max, I’m sorry, but there’s no need to have someone here who’s clearly not a team player.’
‘I was defending you,’ I retort.
But Rick just shakes his head. ‘No more,’ he says. ‘Change out of your uniform and go.’
I glance around the room, desperate for backup, but no one will make eye contact with me and I refuse to look at Max.
Eyes welling, I thunder past the Sarahs into the back office and rip the visor from my head.
None of our lockers actually have locks, so I wrench mine open and quickly shove my face in before anyone can see me cry.
The tears pool at the top of my lip before slipping into my mouth.
They taste like failure.