7. Ember
Ember
“We raised you to be brave, glittery, and slightly alarming.
Don’t disappoint us.”
— Ember’s mom and dad
The alarm clock blares at five, a shrill, piercing sound that feels like a physical assault on my nervous system.
I shove a hand out from under the covers to silence it, my palm landing on the cold, sagging plastic of my air mattress. It has leaked a solid thirty percent of its air overnight, leaving my hips pressed firmly against the hardwood floor.
I groan, rolling onto my side and peeling myself off the floorboards, my body stiff and aching before the day has even properly begun.
I stumble into the bathroom, the floor freezing against my bare feet, and flick on the light.
I look in the mirror and stifle a scream.
My curls have mutated overnight into a bird’s nest. One side is a disaster of static-charged fluff, while the other is plastered flat against my temple, glued down by a stray smear of caulk I missed during yesterday’s frantic cleaning session.
“Okay, that’s just great,” I mutter to my reflection.
I grab the curl cream from my bag and pump a massive, excessive dollop into my palm. I work it through the tangled mass, but it’s like trying to reason with a cyclone.
The cream just makes the tangles slick and defiant. I try to comb through with my fingers, but I hit a knot so stubborn it tugs at my scalp, making my eyes water.
I sigh and start wrestling the strands into a tight, defensive knot at the crown of my head. I wrap an elastic band around it again and again until my scalp pulls taut, pinning the frizz down by force.
It isn’t cute, and it certainly isn’t professional, but it’s contained.
I skip the lipstick—Marge doesn’t strike me as a woman who respects a red lip at dawn—and pull on a gray jumpsuit.
I take one last look at my reflection, trying to smooth a stray, rebellious curl that keeps poking out from the elastic. It’s useless. I let it stay.
I have ten minutes until I have to get to the bakery, and if I’m late, Marge won’t care about my hair—she’ll just make sure I never show up again.
Nine minutes later, I am sprinting down Main Street. My boots hit the pavement in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm, my breath coming in short puffs as the town clock tower begins its slow, booming chime.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
I throw my weight against the heavy glass door of the bakery at exactly 5:58 AM. The brass bell overhead lets out a wild jangle as I stumble into the warm, yeast-scented air.
Marge is already behind the counter, holding a metal clipboard. She doesn’t look up from her inventory sheet, her deep, dark skin glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights. She tracks the digital clock on the wall until the final second ticks over.
“Two minutes early,” Marge says, finally lifting her gaze. She folds her arms, her silver-streaked bun perfectly in place. “I expected you to be ten minutes late, carrying a six-dollar iced coffee and looking for a place to plug in your phone.”
“I am a professional, Marge,” I pant, gripping the edge of the counter. “I don’t miss deadlines. I don’t miss shifts. Point me toward the flour bins and I will execute the sanitation protocol with maximum efficiency.”
Marge looks at my tight, chaotic bun, then down at my pristine leather boots.
“In the back. The industrial bins are sixty-pound rolling tubs, and the lids are jammed with baked-on flour dust. There’s a wire brush, a bucket of hot water, and a bottle of white vinegar on the prep table.
Don’t use the blue soap on the aluminum; it stains.
Move it. The morning rush starts in two hours and I don’t have time to hold your hand. ”
The back room of the bakery is a high-heat production floor. The massive deck ovens are already roaring, radiating a wall of dry heat that immediately begins to melt the curl cream straight out of my defensive hair-knot.
I drop to my knees in front of the first rolling bin. It is a massive gray plastic cylinder filled to the brim with pastry flour, and the sliding track of the lid is completely caked in a thick, concrete-like layer of dried paste.
I start scrubbing.
Within thirty seconds, I understand why bakers have forearms like medieval blacksmiths. Tiny muscles I didn’t previously know existed start aching.
The dry flour dust rises from the tracks in a fine cloud, settling into the fabric of my jumpsuit and turning my knees and elbows a dull, powdery white. My curls begin to slip from the elastic band, falling into my eyes in damp, sticky spirals as sweat beads on my forehead.
“You’re doing that all wrong,” a voice says.
I jump, nearly dropping the brush. Marge is standing in the doorway, holding a tray of proofed sourdough loaves.
“The tracks don’t need brute force,” she says, walking over and snatching the brush from my hand. She demonstrates, using a rhythmic, light motion. “It’s not a battle. You have to dissolve the paste with the vinegar first, let it sit, then wipe. You’re just wearing yourself out for nothing.”
“Sorry,” I say, wiping my sweaty forehead with my forearm, which only smears more flour across my skin. “I’m used to… different kinds of work.”
“Clearly,” Marge says, handing the brush back. “Get the vinegar solution into those tracks now. The locals will be here by seven thirty, and if the bins aren’t ready for the morning mix, we’re behind all day.”
I do as I’m told, my hands aching as I work.
Forty-five minutes into the shift, the wire brush slips.
The rough steel bristles catch the edge of the aluminum track, skidding violently and slicing directly into the meat of my palm.
I let out a breathless gasp, instantly dropping the brush into the bucket of water with a loud splash. A bright line of crimson wells up across my skin.
“Ow, damn it,” I whisper, squeezing my wrist to stop the flow.
The swinging doors burst open, and Marge steps into the back room holding a tray of unbaked sourdough loaves. She stops, her sharp eyes taking in the bucket splash and the white dust on my face.
I tuck my hand behind my back, gripping a dry rag from my pocket to clamp down on the cut.
“Everything alright in here?” Marge asks, squinting at me. “You look like you’re fighting that bin.”
“Just a minor issue with the hardware, Marge!” I say, forcing my voice into a high, bubbly, completely unbothered register despite the sharp, throbbing sting in my palm. “The aluminum is yielding to my superior urban willpower. We’re making great progress.”
Marge eyes me suspiciously, her hands on her hips.
If she knows I am bleeding, she’ll probably kick me out of the kitchen, and I am not losing my first day of work to a wire brush.
“Well, hurry it up,” Marge says, her tone gruff but missing any real malice. “The morning rush is starting early. I need those bins moved to the mixing station before the locals get here. And wipe your forehead—you’ve got white paste in your eyebrow.”
“It’s the new look,” I call out cheerfully as the doors swing shut behind her.
The second she is gone, I let out a shaky breath, pull an industrial-grade cloth bandage from the shelf, and wrap it tightly around my bleeding palm. I yank a pair of blue nitrile gloves over it, hiding the evidence completely, and drop right back onto my knees.
I finish the last flour bin and discover that Marge apparently operates under the horrifying assumption that competence should be rewarded with additional labor.
“Good,” she grunts after inspecting my work with the intensity of a military auditor. “Now sweep the back storage room. And get under the racks. Flour piles up under there.”
I’m ninety percent sure I briefly black out.
“Marge,” I say, clutching the broom dramatically, “I have already given this establishment a premium hinge-related performance.”
“You’re on the clock.”
“For eight dollars an hour,” I remind her weakly.
She points to the exit without looking up from the tray of croissants she’s arranging. “Door’s over there if you want to quit.”
The truly humiliating part is that I don’t.
At one point Marge actually pauses long enough to squint at me and say, “You can head home if you want.”
Which is obviously the moment my pride kicks in like a deranged little demon.
“No,” I say. “I can handle this.”
Marge gives me a look that says she has personally witnessed stronger people perish in less hostile conditions, then goes back to her pastry trays.
So now I am crouched on the bakery floor, covered in flour, running entirely on caffeine, stubbornness, and the psychological need to prove I can survive manual labor for more than a few hours.
Twenty minutes later, Marge violently shoves the swinging doors open again.
“Ember! If you’re so determined to stay and work, get out here. The high-school girl called in sick. You’re on the register.”
I straighten from where I’m sweeping under the storage racks, my lower back immediately filing several formal complaints with my spine.
“Marge,” I say, clutching the broom handle, “I have been employed here for less than three hours.”
“You have a mouth and you can count,” Marge says, already turning back toward the ovens. “Smile. Don’t touch the espresso machine; you’ll blow the boiler.”
The next four hours I stand behind the ancient, clunky cash register and try to navigate the complex social hierarchy of Suncrest Hollow under the intense scrutiny of the locals.
They don’t like me here—the girl from the city who sticks out like a sore thumb—and they make it known with every pointed glare.
Martha, the historical society president, is the third person in line. She looks at my flour-dusted jumpsuit, my messy gold curls escaping my bun, and lets out a low, disapproving hum.
“A cinnamon roll and a coffee,” Martha says, her tone dripping with civil disapproval. “And please ensure the bag isn’t covered in… flour.”
“It’s unbleached organic pastry flour, Martha,” I say. “A completely standard byproduct of local economic productivity. That will be six dollars.”