Format: Hardcover, 336 pages
Release Date: September 19, 2023
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Occult & Supernatural
A cynical twenty something must confront her unconventional
family’s dark secrets in this fiery, irreverent horror novel from the
author of Such Sharp Teeth and Cackle.
Nobody
has a “normal” family, but Vesper Wright’s is truly...something else.
Vesper left home at eighteen and never looked back—mostly because she
was told that leaving the staunchly religious community she grew up in
meant she couldn’t return. But then an envelope arrives on her
doorstep.
Inside is an invitation to the wedding of Vesper’s
beloved cousin Rosie. It’s to be hosted at the family farm. Have they
made an exception to the rule? It wouldn’t be the first time Vesper’s
been given special treatment. Is the invite a sweet gesture? An olive
branch? A trap? Doesn’t matter. Something inside her insists she go to
the wedding. Even if it means returning to the toxic environment she
escaped. Even if it means reuniting with her mother, Constance, a former
horror film star and forever ice queen.
When Vesper’s homecoming
exhumes a terrifying secret, she’s forced to reckon with her family’s
beliefs and her own crisis of faith in this deliciously sinister novel
that explores the way family ties can bind us as we struggle to find our
place in the world.
Rachel Harrison's Black Sheep is the story about a cynical twenty something must confront her
unconventional family’s dark secrets in this fiery, irreverent horror
novel from the author of Such Sharp Teeth and Cackle. 23-year-old Jesper Wright walked away from her family when she was 18. For the past 6 years, she has worked as a waitress. Until she is terminated after cheese explodes in a customers face. Faced with the real possibility of having to start over again. Vesper left home mostly because she was told that leaving the staunchly religious
community she grew up in meant she couldn’t return.
But then an envelope
arrives on her doorstep. Inside is an invitation to the wedding of
Vesper’s beloved cousin Rosie and her husband to be Brody Lewis. It’s to be hosted at the family farm.
Have they made an exception to the rule? It wouldn’t be the first time
Vesper’s been given special treatment. Is the invite a sweet gesture? An
olive branch? A trap? Doesn’t matter. Something inside her insists she
go to the wedding. Even if it means returning to the toxic environment
she escaped. Even if it means reuniting with her mother, Constance, a
former horror film star and forever ice queen.
arrives on her doorstep. Inside is an invitation to the wedding of
Vesper’s beloved cousin Rosie and her husband to be Brody Lewis. It’s to be hosted at the family farm.
Have they made an exception to the rule? It wouldn’t be the first time
Vesper’s been given special treatment. Is the invite a sweet gesture? An
olive branch? A trap? Doesn’t matter. Something inside her insists she
go to the wedding. Even if it means returning to the toxic environment
she escaped. Even if it means reuniting with her mother, Constance, a
former horror film star and forever ice queen.
What must be said is that Vesper grew up in Hell's Gate religious community which believes in Satan. The question becomes who sent the invitation to Vesper? It obviously was not her mother Constance the so called Scream Queen of Horror films. When Vesper’s homecoming exhumes a terrifying secret, she’s forced to
reckon with her family’s beliefs and her own crisis of faith in this
deliciously sinister novel that explores the way family ties can bind us
as we struggle to find our place in the world.
reckon with her family’s beliefs and her own crisis of faith in this
deliciously sinister novel that explores the way family ties can bind us
as we struggle to find our place in the world.
*Thoughts* Vesper is a truly cynical soul with little
happiness in her life, missing her father when, speak of the devil, he
returns. It is hard to not say more for fear of spoiling the story. Her attitude takes on deeper meaning once you
learn the environment she grew up in, taking family drama to a whole
other level, truly making the devil shine in its dirty little details. The best parts of this story were the parts when
the author goes back in time and explains to the reader what happened to
Vesper that caused her to leave her "Cult" like family and try to make
it on her own and the subsequent revelations of who her father is that
she's been searching for for years.
happiness in her life, missing her father when, speak of the devil, he
returns. It is hard to not say more for fear of spoiling the story. Her attitude takes on deeper meaning once you
learn the environment she grew up in, taking family drama to a whole
other level, truly making the devil shine in its dirty little details. The best parts of this story were the parts when
the author goes back in time and explains to the reader what happened to
Vesper that caused her to leave her "Cult" like family and try to make
it on her own and the subsequent revelations of who her father is that
she's been searching for for years.
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1
As I stood singing the birthday song for the fifth time that
evening, I realized I was wrong for not believing in hell. Hell was the
birthday song. Hell was Shortee's. Hell was the green polo shirt, the
khakis, the whole stupid fucking uniform. Hell was my life.
"And
the happy Shortee's happy birthday to you, hey!" I clapped, and I
thought, This must be it. This must be the summit of loathing. I
imagined a climber atop Mount Everest, only bitter instead of
victorious, grappling with their dissatisfaction with the view.
Kerri
presented the chocolate lava cake to the kid, and when he blew out the
candle, we all applauded and whooped and I longed to feel what I
typically felt, which was numb, instead of what I felt in that moment,
which was miserable.
The kid's parents kissed his forehead,
ruffled his hair. His sister asked meekly if she could try a bite. I
observed them as I distributed extra spoons and napkins, and for the
first time in a long time I thought about my family.
For the first time in a long time I missed them.
Or,
if I'm being honest, which I suppose I should be, it was the first time
in a long time that I admitted to myself I missed them, and how much.
In that moment, I surrendered to the tidal pull of family. Of blood.
My
hand found my neck, which was naked, absent the token of my youth, a
sometimes coveted but more often resented piece of jewelry.
"You okay?" Kerri asked, ushering me back to the kitchen.
"Sure," I said, unconvincingly.
"Awesome.
Yeah, so, I was wondering . . ." she said, trailing off, distracted by a
stain on her polo. "Ugh! Chocolate. That is chocolate sauce, right?
Shit."
"Wondering what?" I asked, checking the window for table eight's order.
"Do
you think you could cover my section 'til close?" she asked, batting
her lashes, flakes of mascara falling to her cheeks like ash.
"Why
would I do that?" I said, poking my head into the window to see what
the line cooks were up to, suspicious they were once again slacking off.
"Because I'm asking very nicely," she said. "And because you owe me."
"I owe you?"
"I pick up your shifts all the time."
I snorted. "When?"
"Last week."
"I was sick," I said. It wasn't a lie. I was sick. Sick of working.
"Please, Ves?"
"Why
do you need to leave early?" I said, sidestepping an overambitious
busser who was barely balancing a tray of precariously piled dishes.
She picked a waffle fry off of a plate in the window. A plate that was not for table eight. "Sean."
"Sean?" I asked, dumbfounded. "Really? That guy? You're ditching work for that guy?"
"You're so judgmental."
"The
guy treats you like a travel toothbrush. He'll use you for a week
straight, then forget about you for months," I said. "And you either
don't care or your self-esteem is too low to do anything about it.
Either way, the whole thing is messed up."
Her jaw hung open for a
moment, eyes widened like those of a child discovering something new
about the world, something brutal. Your burger was a cow. Moo. I knew
this look. I'd offended her with my honesty. But the truth was the
truth, and she needed to hear it from someone. Might as well have been
me.
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Will you take my section or not?"
"I
don't really want to be aiding and abetting, but sure. I'll do it. But I
swear, if I have to sing that goddamn birthday song one more time, it's
game over."
"Thanks," she said, turning on her heel. She paused
on her way to the back room, looked over her shoulder at me. "You know,
you're not pretty enough to get away with being as mean as you are. And
you're really pretty."
I almost applauded. It wasn't easy to burn me, and she'd straight up smoked my ego.
"Order
up-got eight in the window," yelled one of the line cooks. When I went
to retrieve it, I thanked him, and then I heard him whisper under his
breath, "You're welcome, Your Highness."
There were worse nicknames, worse insults. Worse things.
⛧
After
ten p.m. Shortee’s turned into a cesspool of drunks and rubes, and some
nights I’d have the patience for it and other nights it’d make me want
to cartwheel off a cliff.
This night was one of the latter.
"Four
top at bar," Amy, the host, told me while snapping her gum. Staff
wasn't allowed to chew gum, but she did anyway, and I respected her
unwavering commitment to such a small act of rebellion.
"Great," I
said, checking the clock. Close was in less than forty-five minutes,
and I doubted this new table would be out by then, meaning I'd have to
stay late. I cursed Kerri and her bad decisions. I cursed my own.
I
peeked over and saw that the party was four dudes, one in a backward
baseball cap. If I smiled, feigned effervescence, maybe-maybe-I'd
improve my chances of a solid tip. But I doubted it. At that point I'd
been at Shortee's for three years, and in the food service industry for
six, ever since I left home at eighteen. I could tell just by looking at
someone what they were going to tip, down to the cent. It was like
shitty magic, like an evil fairy bestowed a cruel, useless gift on me. A
highly specific power of foresight.
"Hey, how we doing tonight?"
I asked the guys, approaching the table, struggling to summon any
artificial zest. "My name is Vesper and I'll be taking care of you. Can I
start you off with something to drink or do you need a minute?"
"Yeah, uh, I'll take a . . ." was how each of them ordered.
I
kept my head down, scribbling in my book, trying to ignore the hot
nudge of a stare. I was being scrutinized in a way that was,
unfortunately, quite familiar to me. I knew in my gut what was coming. I
considered running.
This is what I get for thinking of them, for missing them, I thought. I've called them back in.
"Vesper?"
I looked up, instinctively, at the sound of my own name.
"First
of all, that's a rad name," the guy said. He was the oldest at the
table, about the right age. Mid- to late thirties. Old enough to have
snuck into her movies, to have rented the videos. He had a five-o'clock
shadow, wore all black. His ears had been gauged once upon a time. A
former Hot Topic punk. He'd probably bought her poster, had it up on his
wall. I knew the one. In a cemetery she posed provocatively in black
fishnets, a chain mail bra, and a signature piece of jewelry that
everyone assumed she wore just to be cheeky. "Second, has anyone ever
told you that you look exactly like Constance Wright?"
"Who?" I asked. It was how I usually responded, because I knew it'd piss her off.
"The
scream queen? You know, the chick from Death Ransom, Bloody Midnight,
Farm Possession, The Black Hallows Coven Investigation?"
I shook my head, deriving devious joy from the lie.
"Seriously? You've never heard of any of those movies?"
"I'm not into horror," I said, another lie. "I should get those drinks in."
"You don't need to be into horror to know Constance Wright. You have the exact same face. I swear to God."
He took out his phone, and I bailed. "Be right back with those drinks."
I'd
hoped that by the time I returned to the table they'd have moved on to
another topic, but no luck. When I went back to drop off their beers,
the guy still had his phone out. He'd Googled her, pulled up her image
page.
And there she was. My mother.
"You seriously don't know who this is?" he asked. "She's an icon."
"Dude, relax," one of the other guys said.
"I don't see it," I said, shrugging. "I'm sorry."
"Really?" he asked. He seemed disappointed, and I felt a twinge of guilt for deceiving him. But it was necessary deceit.
"Maybe
it's the hair," I said. I'd cut it off in an attempt to avoid
situations like the one I was in, but the pixie didn't make a
difference. It didn't change my face.
The man nodded, retrieved his phone. He stared at the screen, scrolling through picture after picture of my mother.
"Guess
you're a little young. You missed the golden age. Get high, go see the
latest slasher. Get scared shitless. Everyone's talking about horror
now, but nothing's scary anymore. It's all saying something. Doesn't
need to say anything. Just has to be scary . . ." He was talking to
himself at that point. Muttering. "Probably why Constance Wright doesn't
really make movies anymore. You know, she lives down in Jersey. She has
a farm out somewhere."
"Oh wow. Cool," I said, acting like it
was surprising new information. I hadn't inherited Constance's acting
talents. "Are we ready to order some food, or are we good with the
drinks?"
They ordered the spicy Southwest nachos and boneless
wings, and any dream I'd had of getting home before one o'clock died
tragically right then and there.
I brought them round after
round, each guy chugging whatever drink I'd delivered him within
minutes, racking up a bill that, in theory, should have led to a decent
tip, but they were getting so hammered that I wasn't exactly optimistic
that any of them could do the simple math of calculating 20 percent.
The
one guy, the former punk, didn't bring up Constance again, didn't
bother me, but the one in the backward baseball cap started to annoy me.
He'd had the most to drink, and it showed.
"Vessie," he said
when I dropped off the nachos and wings. Only Rosie was allowed to call
me that. "Vessie, you make these? You go back in the kitchen and make
these for us?"
"Sure," I said. "Put them in the microwave and everything."
When I turned to walk away, he reached out for me, swiping my ass with his palm.
I spun around, and he laughed. "Oh, sorry. My bad. Can I get some more of this cheese sauce?"
I
nodded and retreated into the kitchen. It wasn't really Shortee's
policy to give out sides of nacho cheese, but I scooped some into a
ramekin and nuked it for a minute, figuring it was easier to shut the
guy up than try to explain the arbitrary rules of a chain restaurant.
I
checked the clock. It was eleven fifty-four. It also wasn't Shortee's
policy to kick anyone out. If they arrived before eleven thirty, we had
to let them stay, let them finish. Shortee's prioritizes hospitality, my
manager, Rick, would always say. I had this theory that he was a
corporate bot masquerading as a real human. I had a lot of theories
about Rick.
Just as I thought of him, he popped into the kitchen.
"How we doing, Vesper?"
In
restaurant speak "we" is "you," and if you're asked a question as a
member of the waitstaff, the response had better be positive.
"Good," I answered through clenched teeth.
"What we doing?"
"A guy asked for more nacho cheese."
Rick frowned.
"I know, I know," I said. "But customer first, right? I'm prioritizing hospitality."
"Just be sure to charge," he said. "Two dollars."
"Really? Two dollars?"
He frowned again.
"Got
it. Thanks!" I said, taking the cheese out onto the floor, eager to get
away from Rick, though not eager to return to the rude, handsy,
nacho-hungry bro.
I wove between the tables slowly, inhaled the
vague lemony scent of the cleaning solution we used to wipe everything
down. It smelled like the end of the night. It smelled like time to go
home. But I knew I wasn't going home anytime soon, and my heart tumbled
at the thought of another long, sleepy bus ride in the dark.
I
stifled a yawn, stifled the urge to throw the cheese at the wall, rip
off my polo Incredible Hulk-style, and set the whole place on fire.
"Here you go," I said, sliding the ramekin onto the table.
"Let
me ask you something," Backward Hat Guy said, leaning into me, gifting
me with a rancid exhale. "We were just talking about how all hot girls
have daddy issues. You have daddy issues, Vesper?"
I laughed. It wasn't polite, or a coping mechanism. It was genuine.
If only he knew.
He
must have taken my laughter as a signal of some kind, because he
touched me again. This time his hand found my waist, and he pulled me in
close. For a moment, I thought of Brody. What it'd felt like to be
touched by him. To have his hands on me, hands I wanted, that had
permission.
"Hey," I said, snapping out of my memory and stepping back from the table. "Don't touch me."
"Whoa, whoa," he said. "Relax."
I
laughed again, but underneath this laughter was a staggering rage. It
wasn't fresh; it was there always. A seething I kept stashed away, like a
baseball bat behind the headboard. I experienced it in the usual way. A
brief flare of blinding, white-hot anguish, followed by a mild chill of
despondence, and finally a return to indifference.
"I'll be back with the check," I said, turning to leave.
"We're not done," he said. "You'll do what we tell you. We tell you to bend over, you bend over, or no tip."
I whipped around, stunned by the audacity.
"Who's your daddy now?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. The rest of the guys snickered, shook their heads, said nothing.
He
reached for the cheese, and maybe it was his own clumsiness or the
result of an overzealous microwave, but somehow the cheese bubbled up.
It exploded, essentially.
And it exploded all over his face.
He
didn't scream at first, so at first glance it seemed like an innocent
spill. But then I noticed the curls of steam slithering from him like
skinny pearlescent snakes. And then I heard it. The sizzling.
Then he screamed.
"Ah,
ahhh! It's burning me! It's burning my fucking face! Ah! Help me!" He
fumbled for his napkin. The former punk-a quick thinker-tossed his beer
at the bro's cheese-scalded face, but the beer did nothing to mitigate
the damage. The guy kept screaming. He had a napkin now and was wiping
away the gobs of orange cheese. In their wake, pocks of skin were sunset
red and peeling. And I could smell the injury, the burning flesh. A
foreshadowing.
It was bad. It was really bad.
This time
when I laughed, it wasn't because I thought it was funny, or because I
was angry. It was nervous laughter. Doomsday laughter.
As I stood singing the birthday song for the fifth time that
evening, I realized I was wrong for not believing in hell. Hell was the
birthday song. Hell was Shortee's. Hell was the green polo shirt, the
khakis, the whole stupid fucking uniform. Hell was my life.
"And
the happy Shortee's happy birthday to you, hey!" I clapped, and I
thought, This must be it. This must be the summit of loathing. I
imagined a climber atop Mount Everest, only bitter instead of
victorious, grappling with their dissatisfaction with the view.
Kerri
presented the chocolate lava cake to the kid, and when he blew out the
candle, we all applauded and whooped and I longed to feel what I
typically felt, which was numb, instead of what I felt in that moment,
which was miserable.
The kid's parents kissed his forehead,
ruffled his hair. His sister asked meekly if she could try a bite. I
observed them as I distributed extra spoons and napkins, and for the
first time in a long time I thought about my family.
For the first time in a long time I missed them.
Or,
if I'm being honest, which I suppose I should be, it was the first time
in a long time that I admitted to myself I missed them, and how much.
In that moment, I surrendered to the tidal pull of family. Of blood.
My
hand found my neck, which was naked, absent the token of my youth, a
sometimes coveted but more often resented piece of jewelry.
"You okay?" Kerri asked, ushering me back to the kitchen.
"Sure," I said, unconvincingly.
"Awesome.
Yeah, so, I was wondering . . ." she said, trailing off, distracted by a
stain on her polo. "Ugh! Chocolate. That is chocolate sauce, right?
Shit."
"Wondering what?" I asked, checking the window for table eight's order.
"Do
you think you could cover my section 'til close?" she asked, batting
her lashes, flakes of mascara falling to her cheeks like ash.
"Why
would I do that?" I said, poking my head into the window to see what
the line cooks were up to, suspicious they were once again slacking off.
"Because I'm asking very nicely," she said. "And because you owe me."
"I owe you?"
"I pick up your shifts all the time."
I snorted. "When?"
"Last week."
"I was sick," I said. It wasn't a lie. I was sick. Sick of working.
"Please, Ves?"
"Why
do you need to leave early?" I said, sidestepping an overambitious
busser who was barely balancing a tray of precariously piled dishes.
She picked a waffle fry off of a plate in the window. A plate that was not for table eight. "Sean."
"Sean?" I asked, dumbfounded. "Really? That guy? You're ditching work for that guy?"
"You're so judgmental."
"The
guy treats you like a travel toothbrush. He'll use you for a week
straight, then forget about you for months," I said. "And you either
don't care or your self-esteem is too low to do anything about it.
Either way, the whole thing is messed up."
Her jaw hung open for a
moment, eyes widened like those of a child discovering something new
about the world, something brutal. Your burger was a cow. Moo. I knew
this look. I'd offended her with my honesty. But the truth was the
truth, and she needed to hear it from someone. Might as well have been
me.
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Will you take my section or not?"
"I
don't really want to be aiding and abetting, but sure. I'll do it. But I
swear, if I have to sing that goddamn birthday song one more time, it's
game over."
"Thanks," she said, turning on her heel. She paused
on her way to the back room, looked over her shoulder at me. "You know,
you're not pretty enough to get away with being as mean as you are. And
you're really pretty."
I almost applauded. It wasn't easy to burn me, and she'd straight up smoked my ego.
"Order
up-got eight in the window," yelled one of the line cooks. When I went
to retrieve it, I thanked him, and then I heard him whisper under his
breath, "You're welcome, Your Highness."
There were worse nicknames, worse insults. Worse things.
⛧
After
ten p.m. Shortee’s turned into a cesspool of drunks and rubes, and some
nights I’d have the patience for it and other nights it’d make me want
to cartwheel off a cliff.
This night was one of the latter.
"Four
top at bar," Amy, the host, told me while snapping her gum. Staff
wasn't allowed to chew gum, but she did anyway, and I respected her
unwavering commitment to such a small act of rebellion.
"Great," I
said, checking the clock. Close was in less than forty-five minutes,
and I doubted this new table would be out by then, meaning I'd have to
stay late. I cursed Kerri and her bad decisions. I cursed my own.
I
peeked over and saw that the party was four dudes, one in a backward
baseball cap. If I smiled, feigned effervescence, maybe-maybe-I'd
improve my chances of a solid tip. But I doubted it. At that point I'd
been at Shortee's for three years, and in the food service industry for
six, ever since I left home at eighteen. I could tell just by looking at
someone what they were going to tip, down to the cent. It was like
shitty magic, like an evil fairy bestowed a cruel, useless gift on me. A
highly specific power of foresight.
"Hey, how we doing tonight?"
I asked the guys, approaching the table, struggling to summon any
artificial zest. "My name is Vesper and I'll be taking care of you. Can I
start you off with something to drink or do you need a minute?"
"Yeah, uh, I'll take a . . ." was how each of them ordered.
I
kept my head down, scribbling in my book, trying to ignore the hot
nudge of a stare. I was being scrutinized in a way that was,
unfortunately, quite familiar to me. I knew in my gut what was coming. I
considered running.
This is what I get for thinking of them, for missing them, I thought. I've called them back in.
"Vesper?"
I looked up, instinctively, at the sound of my own name.
"First
of all, that's a rad name," the guy said. He was the oldest at the
table, about the right age. Mid- to late thirties. Old enough to have
snuck into her movies, to have rented the videos. He had a five-o'clock
shadow, wore all black. His ears had been gauged once upon a time. A
former Hot Topic punk. He'd probably bought her poster, had it up on his
wall. I knew the one. In a cemetery she posed provocatively in black
fishnets, a chain mail bra, and a signature piece of jewelry that
everyone assumed she wore just to be cheeky. "Second, has anyone ever
told you that you look exactly like Constance Wright?"
"Who?" I asked. It was how I usually responded, because I knew it'd piss her off.
"The
scream queen? You know, the chick from Death Ransom, Bloody Midnight,
Farm Possession, The Black Hallows Coven Investigation?"
I shook my head, deriving devious joy from the lie.
"Seriously? You've never heard of any of those movies?"
"I'm not into horror," I said, another lie. "I should get those drinks in."
"You don't need to be into horror to know Constance Wright. You have the exact same face. I swear to God."
He took out his phone, and I bailed. "Be right back with those drinks."
I'd
hoped that by the time I returned to the table they'd have moved on to
another topic, but no luck. When I went back to drop off their beers,
the guy still had his phone out. He'd Googled her, pulled up her image
page.
And there she was. My mother.
"You seriously don't know who this is?" he asked. "She's an icon."
"Dude, relax," one of the other guys said.
"I don't see it," I said, shrugging. "I'm sorry."
"Really?" he asked. He seemed disappointed, and I felt a twinge of guilt for deceiving him. But it was necessary deceit.
"Maybe
it's the hair," I said. I'd cut it off in an attempt to avoid
situations like the one I was in, but the pixie didn't make a
difference. It didn't change my face.
The man nodded, retrieved his phone. He stared at the screen, scrolling through picture after picture of my mother.
"Guess
you're a little young. You missed the golden age. Get high, go see the
latest slasher. Get scared shitless. Everyone's talking about horror
now, but nothing's scary anymore. It's all saying something. Doesn't
need to say anything. Just has to be scary . . ." He was talking to
himself at that point. Muttering. "Probably why Constance Wright doesn't
really make movies anymore. You know, she lives down in Jersey. She has
a farm out somewhere."
"Oh wow. Cool," I said, acting like it
was surprising new information. I hadn't inherited Constance's acting
talents. "Are we ready to order some food, or are we good with the
drinks?"
They ordered the spicy Southwest nachos and boneless
wings, and any dream I'd had of getting home before one o'clock died
tragically right then and there.
I brought them round after
round, each guy chugging whatever drink I'd delivered him within
minutes, racking up a bill that, in theory, should have led to a decent
tip, but they were getting so hammered that I wasn't exactly optimistic
that any of them could do the simple math of calculating 20 percent.
The
one guy, the former punk, didn't bring up Constance again, didn't
bother me, but the one in the backward baseball cap started to annoy me.
He'd had the most to drink, and it showed.
"Vessie," he said
when I dropped off the nachos and wings. Only Rosie was allowed to call
me that. "Vessie, you make these? You go back in the kitchen and make
these for us?"
"Sure," I said. "Put them in the microwave and everything."
When I turned to walk away, he reached out for me, swiping my ass with his palm.
I spun around, and he laughed. "Oh, sorry. My bad. Can I get some more of this cheese sauce?"
I
nodded and retreated into the kitchen. It wasn't really Shortee's
policy to give out sides of nacho cheese, but I scooped some into a
ramekin and nuked it for a minute, figuring it was easier to shut the
guy up than try to explain the arbitrary rules of a chain restaurant.
I
checked the clock. It was eleven fifty-four. It also wasn't Shortee's
policy to kick anyone out. If they arrived before eleven thirty, we had
to let them stay, let them finish. Shortee's prioritizes hospitality, my
manager, Rick, would always say. I had this theory that he was a
corporate bot masquerading as a real human. I had a lot of theories
about Rick.
Just as I thought of him, he popped into the kitchen.
"How we doing, Vesper?"
In
restaurant speak "we" is "you," and if you're asked a question as a
member of the waitstaff, the response had better be positive.
"Good," I answered through clenched teeth.
"What we doing?"
"A guy asked for more nacho cheese."
Rick frowned.
"I know, I know," I said. "But customer first, right? I'm prioritizing hospitality."
"Just be sure to charge," he said. "Two dollars."
"Really? Two dollars?"
He frowned again.
"Got
it. Thanks!" I said, taking the cheese out onto the floor, eager to get
away from Rick, though not eager to return to the rude, handsy,
nacho-hungry bro.
I wove between the tables slowly, inhaled the
vague lemony scent of the cleaning solution we used to wipe everything
down. It smelled like the end of the night. It smelled like time to go
home. But I knew I wasn't going home anytime soon, and my heart tumbled
at the thought of another long, sleepy bus ride in the dark.
I
stifled a yawn, stifled the urge to throw the cheese at the wall, rip
off my polo Incredible Hulk-style, and set the whole place on fire.
"Here you go," I said, sliding the ramekin onto the table.
"Let
me ask you something," Backward Hat Guy said, leaning into me, gifting
me with a rancid exhale. "We were just talking about how all hot girls
have daddy issues. You have daddy issues, Vesper?"
I laughed. It wasn't polite, or a coping mechanism. It was genuine.
If only he knew.
He
must have taken my laughter as a signal of some kind, because he
touched me again. This time his hand found my waist, and he pulled me in
close. For a moment, I thought of Brody. What it'd felt like to be
touched by him. To have his hands on me, hands I wanted, that had
permission.
"Hey," I said, snapping out of my memory and stepping back from the table. "Don't touch me."
"Whoa, whoa," he said. "Relax."
I
laughed again, but underneath this laughter was a staggering rage. It
wasn't fresh; it was there always. A seething I kept stashed away, like a
baseball bat behind the headboard. I experienced it in the usual way. A
brief flare of blinding, white-hot anguish, followed by a mild chill of
despondence, and finally a return to indifference.
"I'll be back with the check," I said, turning to leave.
"We're not done," he said. "You'll do what we tell you. We tell you to bend over, you bend over, or no tip."
I whipped around, stunned by the audacity.
"Who's your daddy now?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. The rest of the guys snickered, shook their heads, said nothing.
He
reached for the cheese, and maybe it was his own clumsiness or the
result of an overzealous microwave, but somehow the cheese bubbled up.
It exploded, essentially.
And it exploded all over his face.
He
didn't scream at first, so at first glance it seemed like an innocent
spill. But then I noticed the curls of steam slithering from him like
skinny pearlescent snakes. And then I heard it. The sizzling.
Then he screamed.
"Ah,
ahhh! It's burning me! It's burning my fucking face! Ah! Help me!" He
fumbled for his napkin. The former punk-a quick thinker-tossed his beer
at the bro's cheese-scalded face, but the beer did nothing to mitigate
the damage. The guy kept screaming. He had a napkin now and was wiping
away the gobs of orange cheese. In their wake, pocks of skin were sunset
red and peeling. And I could smell the injury, the burning flesh. A
foreshadowing.
It was bad. It was really bad.
This time
when I laughed, it wasn't because I thought it was funny, or because I
was angry. It was nervous laughter. Doomsday laughter.
