I finally exhale, realizing I've been holding my breath for who-knows-how-long. I throw my backpack over my shoulder and leave the room, trying not to think too hard about what just happened. Or what's supposed to happen tonight.
The school isn't too far from where I live, it's about a 20 to 30-minute walk, depending on how fast I move. I could take the bus, but I'd rather not ride it with any of the spoiled rich kids who go here. I'd prefer to keep my address and my entire existence off their radar.
So I wait. I linger around until the parking lot clears out and most of the buses are gone. Only then do I start the walk home, cutting through the quieter streets, hugging my arms close to my chest.
I get to my apartment around 2:30 p.m. I've got about ten minutes to fill out that pile of school paperwork and change for work. That's the rhythm of my life now: survive school, then survive work.
I drop my bag by the front door and pull out the stack of forms I stuffed inside earlier. It's the usual stuff... name, address, emergency contact info. Parent email. Parent phone number. I write down my own email and number for both because… who else is going to fill it in?
Parents? Right. Funny concept.
I scribble my name on the last line, shove the papers back into my bag, and head to my room to change. My work uniform is wrinkled and sad-looking, but at least it's clean. I tug on the black tee and faded jeans, then grab my bus pass off the counter and leave again.
Hopefully, Deborah, my manager at chuks E. Cheese is cool with me cutting out early tonight. I'm hoping I can bribe her with an offer to stay late Monday. There's a birthday party that night, and if I've learned anything, it's that no one wants to work birthday parties on a Monday.
Seriously. What kind of psychopath throws a party at the start of the week?
After what felt like the most soul-sucking, painfully slow bus ride in existence, I finally arrive at the one place no sane person willingly admits to working: chuks E. Cheese.
Yes. chuks. E. Cheese.
The land of screaming toddlers, sticky arcade machines, and the distant threat of someone in a rat costume jumping out at you. Basically, America's favorite indoor petri dish of germs, chaos, and regret. It's loud, it smells vaguely like expired cheese, and something is always either broken or on fire. Spiritually, anyway.
Thankfully, today I'm not out front dodging projectile slices of birthday cake or wiping snot off tabletops. I've been assigned to the back—the kitchen. The sacred land of semi-functioning ovens and "food" that can technically be consumed by humans. It's not glamorous, but at least it's quiet.
Deborah, my manager, greets me the way she always does, half-eye roll, half genuine exhaustion. She's been here forever and has the kind of patience only built from decades of babysitting other people's sugar-high kids. I tell her I need to leave early for something important (read: a party I absolutely do not want to attend but somehow got roped into). Thankfully, she agrees as long as I stay late on Monday. Apparently, there's a birthday party happening that night.
Because nothing says "celebrate another trip around the sun" like doing it at a children's pizza dungeon on a Monday. Who even does that? Sociopaths, that's who.
Anyway, the deal is simple: make five pizzas now, prep ingredients for ten more, and I can clock out early.
Honestly, I don't mind kitchen duty. I can throw some sauce and cheese on dough, shove it into an oven, and get paid barely above minimum wage while daydreaming about being literally anywhere else. It's low-effort, low-stakes and in this economy, that's a blessing.
Time blurs. I go into autopilot mode, dough, sauce, cheese, repeat. I'm pretty sure I zoned out halfway through tossing the third pizza in the oven and didn't snap back to reality until I was wrapping up the last prep tray. It's 7:30 p.m. when I finally wipe my hands on my apron and tell Deborah I'm heading out.
She waves me off with a sarcastic "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," which, given her wild stories, doesn't narrow down much.
By the time I get home, it's just shy of 8:00 p.m. My first thought? Crap. I'm still in my disgusting work clothes. I smell like grease, despair, and vaguely like animatronic sadness.
I pull out my phone and punch the address Mateo gave me into Google Maps. The app says twenty minutes by foot.
Double crap.
With no time to shower, I do the next best thing: a five-minute panic makeover. I strip out of my uniform and throw on my favorite black Fall Out Boy tee, because if I'm going to a party full of people I probably won't like, I'm going to do it in band merch. I pair it with some dark-wash jeans, slightly distressed and not on purpose, and my battle-worn black Vans that look like they've survived at least two apocalypses.
I swipe on a little black eyeshadow not too dramatic, just enough to pretend I tried and run my fingers through my caramel-brown hair. It's still a mess. No surprise there.
I sigh at my reflection, mutter "Good enough," and grab my phone. I pause at the door, taking one last look at my apartment. It's small. Beige walls, too little furniture, and definitely not soundproof—but it's mine. I snag Mateo's note from my bag, lock up, and slide the key into my pocket like I'm guarding a palace.
On my walk to the bus stop, I finally type out the message I've been avoiding all day.
Hey, it's Philip. I'm on my way
I hit send. I don't expect an immediate reply, but then those three little dots pop up. The typing bubble of doom. I try to act like I'm not holding my phone like it's the last lifeline on Earth, but let's be honest I totally am.
His response arrives seconds later.
Hurry or you'll miss all the fun. 😉
That damn winking emoji.
I let out an audible groan loud enough to make a passing stranger look at me. I flip my phone around in my hand and resist the urge to chuck it into the bushes.
This is my Friday night, I think, trudging toward what is most likely going to be an absolute disaster… or worse even, maybe something I enjoy.
I roll my eyes so hard I'm shocked they don't fall out of my skull. Without a second thought, I save Mateo's number under the very fitting title: Asshole From School. No emojis. No heart. Just plain, honest truth.