ONELIA
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The soft chimes of a bell ring out into the air, instantly grabbing my attention from behind the register. Turning my head to the new customer, my eyes meet a regular; his eyes glued to his phone, his finger gliding across the keyboard speedily.
As always, he doesn't miss a moment off his phone.
Shaking my head, I continue with a woman's order.
"Order six."
I mumble while writing it down.
"Coming right up."
I straighten up, gesturing to the sitting area at the side aligned with black and white styled seating arrangements to match the aesthetic appeal of the restaurant.
Pivoting around, I maneuver past the mechanical machines. Grateful that day is one of the days when we don't sell any sort of coffee. It would have made my shift even longer and more tiresome than it already is.
Passing through the doubled doors, the sweet scent of grilled beef and sizzling oils, Which means they have reached order 3.
The common sound of the pot hitting against the gridded bars of the stove fills my ears way louder than the teens, who are celebrating a birthday at one of our tables.
"Thankfully, I'm not a waiter this time."
I say, immediately sending my prayers for kendra the only waiter we have today, yet my eyes fall on the kitchen.
A haven, with pots draping from hooks hammered to the beams stretching across the ceiling, four sets of stoves, two to the left and right, and two jammed against the third wall feet away in front of me.
There's everything an aspiring chef can dream to cook with. A Blackstone grill, a doubled sink dishwashing area, yet only two on-shift chefs, and one whose father thinks it's dangerous to cook without him.
I'm twenty, twenty-one in the next few days.
Even as we struggle with the Friday rush in the afternoon, he still doesn't allow me inside the kitchen to help the other chefs.
Sighing, I shake my head and push all the exhaustion and complaints away. I need to stay focused and look on the brighter side of things. It doesn't matter that my father isn't here due to the uprising in his 'meetings' to help us as well as the rest of the staff.
As soon as I'm twenty, I'm going to be in this kitchen every chance I get. He will no longer be able to stop me.
In no time, my enthusiasm returns with a smile and a nod from both Simon and Gray. At least we're stuck with the fastest workers today. Turning around, I place the order on a steel table wedged between the door and a wall to my left.
Just as I'm about to leave, Norrier walks in, her arms from the flat of her palms to the nock of her elbow lined with emptied plates as she walks in, moving to the right and dumping them in the water with the other unwashed dishes.
Gray and Simon, seeing their chance, take it, placing two more plates in her hands.
"More?"
She turns to them wide-eyed, and they nod.
"I swear to God, it's like everyone is choosing to come to us today!"
She groans in frustration.
"Like, aren't any of the fast food places open?"
"I know, right?"
I reply, trying to contain my laughter since it's always funny seeing her this frustrated but still carrying out her task; for a rich girl, she carries her weight around her pretty well.
An exasperated exhale leaves her mouth as she stops beside me.
"I hate working when it's just us."
Kendra says, the arch in her eyebrow deepening.
"It's like every other day they're going on 'breaks' or a 'meetings.'"
"I find it equally weird that my father suddenly has lots of meetings to attend to."
I add as we look around the packed store. It's maybe just four of us, but we're managing it quite well.
"Mhm."
She bobs her head.
"I am grateful Mr. Everett took me in for a while, but the meeting excuse is getting overdone."
She says, gesturing to me to take one of the plates, and I do. Using her free arm, she wipes her forehead clean; brown curls from her loose ponytail, sticks to her face.
"You really think it's an excuse for something else?"
I question, eyes searching the side of her face, hoping she looks me in the eyes and reassures me it isn't.
"Olesia." She says, her gaze remaining on the store.
Not on mine.
"I'm certain."
Yeah. Real reassuring. She wouldn't even look me in the eyes while speaking.
"Now."
She finally turns my way, a smile forming on her face as she takes back the plate.
"You have a birthday coming up in two days, and you still haven't chosen something for us to do."
She reminds me as if I had forgotten.
Nodding, I fix the bottom of my white cork shirt, still stain-free, one of my honorable achievements after being in the restaurant, while Kendra. I eye her up and down, her white, almost cream, from one day of work. And she isn't even the chef.
"Alright, work and forget about my absence of a father."
I say to myself, preparing to breeze through the rest of my workday.
"You got this, girl!"
She cheers me on.
The rest of the customers were a breeze, each of them easy to cooperate with and patient. Surprisingly today, though it is busy, it is one of the peaceful days—no drama or groggy customers making my day already harder than it already is.
Finally I reached my regular.
"You must be fond of this place."
I say, grabbing his attention from his phone.
A chuckle escapes his thin lips as he adjusts the hems of his typical white and black suit, sliding his phone into his pocket.
"I really just like you."
He says, eyes widening in shock for a moment before he clears his throat.
"I mean, the food,"
He corrects himself, cheeks painting a light red as he fixes his falling glasses.
I smile and stifle a snicker. It was obvious he had some type of fascination with the place, but liking me? That is a blatant lie. I know the patterns of someone who likes you; they can't take their eyes off of you, and his are glued to his phone.
"Well, sir, what would you like today?"
"Number 20, please. Alfredo and shrimp,"
He replies, running his hand through his sandy blond hair.
"Big lunch today,"
I say calmly as I type in the price.
"Yeah, gotta get the calories in,"
He says, opening his wallet and handing me a hundred-dollar bill.
"Keep the change."
"Oh wow, generous today, I see."
I reply with a smirk, writing down his number on the receipt and carrying it to the back.
"Onelia, it's time for us to switch," Gray says, walking up, removing his apron, and handing it to me.
"Huh?"
I tilt my head in confusion.
"My father said I can't cook if he's not here."
"Your father isn't here now, is he? You're almost twenty-one, and this is my gift to you."
He pulls back the black apron.
"Unless..."
"No!"
I snatch it from his hands.
"I'll take it."
"Good."
He grins, making his way to the register.
Finally.
Putting on the apron, I roll up my sleeves and immediately get to work.
Firstly, the shrimp has to defrost, and the pasta also has to boil.
Shoving the frozen shrimp into the microwave on top of the blackstone, then immediately moving to retrieving the pasta from the cabinet, filling the pot with water, and placing it on top of one of the open stoves. I make sure to remember sprinkling salt into the water before dropping the pasta inside.
Whole this time.
"The Italians would be proud."
Simon counters from the corner, the deep italian cadence of his voice filling the air.
"Weird, because I remember a certain Italian losing his temper and shouting at me for breaking the noodles and forgetting to add salt into the water."
"Well, you know, us italians have a certain way of doing things."
He tries to right his wrongs.
"And if you don't get your way, you threaten to leave your job?"
I question arching my eyebrow.
He laughs awkwardly.
"Have any of the universities you applied for accepted you yet?"
He ingeniously averts the question.
Allowing him this win, I join him in the chopping station with peppers, onions, and cheese waiting to be shredded in hand. My thoughts reflect back to the countless applications I sent out and still to this day receive rejection responses.
"Nope, nothing at all. Only rejections."
I admit dejectedly, grabbing one of the knives from the rack, aiming it at the peeled onion's core, slicing it in half.
With a speed much quicker than mine, he finishes one onion in no time.
"I see. Don't be discouraged; you'll make it when the time is right. Those white folks have no idea what they're missing out on."
"I'm white!"
I say defensively.
He eyes me up and down.
"You're acting as if I have forgotten."
Low blow, Simon. Low blow. And he has the audacity to look proud after his remark.
"Are all of you Italians this rude?"
I mutter.
But with the ears of a hawk, he answers.
"Of course. We can hear pasta being cracked all around the world."
He jokes, and I can't help but laugh.
Eventually, the microwave beeps. Moving over, I take it out, the pack steaming, water dripping onto the sizzling black stone grill. Slicing the pack open, I dump the contents on it, string it around at once before moving on to pasta.