hand she was more likely to solicit some serious sympathy.
Emily
EMILY DRAGGED the black spongy bar mats through the kitchen, past the heated ballgame banter. To Angel and his sous-chef Tino, futbol was religion. Frank had bought the guys a television for the kitchen and mounted it to the wall above the food prep station. He'd gotten them Telemundo so they could watch la Liga Mexicana.
Angel and Tino quarreled and shouted, shaking their fists at the TV and spewing Spanish. Angel had polished his kitchen skills and his English in the resorts of Cancun, but Spanish was always the language of futbol. At times, the kitchen crew's shouts could be heard above the music in the bar, always some disagreement over which team was superior. Angel liked the dominating Atlante from his hometown of Cancun. Tino criticized Atlante for being a glamour team that imported talent. Tino, apparently a purist, liked the allnational Mexico City team Cruz Azul.
Emily paused to watch them rant.
“No, that's okay, guys. I got it,” she said, propping the door open with her butt. “I don't need any help. Thanks anyway. Really. I'm fine.” They didn't bother to look her way.
Emily leaned the heavy mats against a wall and turned the hose on them.
Someone stepped from the shadows. Emily gasped at the looming figure. She thought it was a hefty guy, but then she realized it was the tall homeless girl with a big pack strapped to her back. She clutched a sleeping bag. One of her hands was wrapped in bright-white gauze.
“Hey,” Emily said.
“Hey.”
Emily waited.
“So, you got any food you don't need?” the girl finally asked.
Emily finished dragging the last mat up against a wall to drain while she stalled. She brushed her hands off on her pants.
“How'd you know I work here?”
Lorelei shrugged. “You followed me, so one day I followed you.”
“I didn't really follow you. I just saw you at Batfest.”
“Whatever. You got any food or not?”
Emily waited a moment, trying to give the impression that she was deciding if she wanted to help. Then, “Sure, there's just me and the cooks here right now. They're cool. Come on in.”
Lorelei trailed Emily inside. Tino's hands were down in the industrial sink, but his eyes were on the TV. He flung soapsuds in the air and cried, “Que idiotas!”
Angel laughed and dried knives.
“Excuse me, guys,” Emily said. “This is Lorelei.”
Tino only nodded, but Angel extended his hand.
“Hola, Miss. I'm Angel and this is my cousin, Tino.”
She started to shake and then remembered her injury and pulled back.
“What happened to you?” Angel asked.
“Centipede,” she said. She pouted like a little girl, an unexpected change in demeanor.
Angel grimaced and sucked air through his teeth. “I have felt the scorpion's sting, but not the centipede. Did it hurt?”
“A lot!”
“Ay, caramba!”
This made her smile, and her stance became less guarded.
“Hey, are you hungry?” Angel asked. “I was about to make myself a sandwich. How about you, Emily? You hungry?”
Emily looked around at his clean kitchen.
“Sure, man,” she said. “I'd love a grilled cheese.”
“What about you? You want a grilled cheese or maybe turkey sandwich?” he asked Lorelei. He lifted a skillet down from its high hook.
“Could I have turkey and cheese?” the girl asked in a childish way. Emily thought Angel must seem fatherly to her. She probably missed having someone to feed her and protect her.
“Si! Turkey and cheese! What about my orange juice, Emily?” Angel was a recovering alcoholic and juice was all he ever drank.
“Lorelei, you want anything?” Emily heaved open the steel door to the walk-in.
“Juice is good.”
“Tino?”
He shook his head and continued to clean without taking his eyes from the game.
The walk-in cooler smelled like Emily's grandparents’ basement cellar, earthy and weird. She found the jug of juice. She grabbed a giant jar of pickles and slammed the door
Emily
EMILY DRAGGED the black spongy bar mats through the kitchen, past the heated ballgame banter. To Angel and his sous-chef Tino, futbol was religion. Frank had bought the guys a television for the kitchen and mounted it to the wall above the food prep station. He'd gotten them Telemundo so they could watch la Liga Mexicana.
Angel and Tino quarreled and shouted, shaking their fists at the TV and spewing Spanish. Angel had polished his kitchen skills and his English in the resorts of Cancun, but Spanish was always the language of futbol. At times, the kitchen crew's shouts could be heard above the music in the bar, always some disagreement over which team was superior. Angel liked the dominating Atlante from his hometown of Cancun. Tino criticized Atlante for being a glamour team that imported talent. Tino, apparently a purist, liked the allnational Mexico City team Cruz Azul.
Emily paused to watch them rant.
“No, that's okay, guys. I got it,” she said, propping the door open with her butt. “I don't need any help. Thanks anyway. Really. I'm fine.” They didn't bother to look her way.
Emily leaned the heavy mats against a wall and turned the hose on them.
Someone stepped from the shadows. Emily gasped at the looming figure. She thought it was a hefty guy, but then she realized it was the tall homeless girl with a big pack strapped to her back. She clutched a sleeping bag. One of her hands was wrapped in bright-white gauze.
“Hey,” Emily said.
“Hey.”
Emily waited.
“So, you got any food you don't need?” the girl finally asked.
Emily finished dragging the last mat up against a wall to drain while she stalled. She brushed her hands off on her pants.
“How'd you know I work here?”
Lorelei shrugged. “You followed me, so one day I followed you.”
“I didn't really follow you. I just saw you at Batfest.”
“Whatever. You got any food or not?”
Emily waited a moment, trying to give the impression that she was deciding if she wanted to help. Then, “Sure, there's just me and the cooks here right now. They're cool. Come on in.”
Lorelei trailed Emily inside. Tino's hands were down in the industrial sink, but his eyes were on the TV. He flung soapsuds in the air and cried, “Que idiotas!”
Angel laughed and dried knives.
“Excuse me, guys,” Emily said. “This is Lorelei.”
Tino only nodded, but Angel extended his hand.
“Hola, Miss. I'm Angel and this is my cousin, Tino.”
She started to shake and then remembered her injury and pulled back.
“What happened to you?” Angel asked.
“Centipede,” she said. She pouted like a little girl, an unexpected change in demeanor.
Angel grimaced and sucked air through his teeth. “I have felt the scorpion's sting, but not the centipede. Did it hurt?”
“A lot!”
“Ay, caramba!”
This made her smile, and her stance became less guarded.
“Hey, are you hungry?” Angel asked. “I was about to make myself a sandwich. How about you, Emily? You hungry?”
Emily looked around at his clean kitchen.
“Sure, man,” she said. “I'd love a grilled cheese.”
“What about you? You want a grilled cheese or maybe turkey sandwich?” he asked Lorelei. He lifted a skillet down from its high hook.
“Could I have turkey and cheese?” the girl asked in a childish way. Emily thought Angel must seem fatherly to her. She probably missed having someone to feed her and protect her.
“Si! Turkey and cheese! What about my orange juice, Emily?” Angel was a recovering alcoholic and juice was all he ever drank.
“Lorelei, you want anything?” Emily heaved open the steel door to the walk-in.
“Juice is good.”
“Tino?”
He shook his head and continued to clean without taking his eyes from the game.
The walk-in cooler smelled like Emily's grandparents’ basement cellar, earthy and weird. She found the jug of juice. She grabbed a giant jar of pickles and slammed the door
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