Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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I'm hiding under the bar top.
I've been pretending to search for something that fell for the last thirty seconds, really committing to the act by using the flashlight we keep on the utility shelf right under the register. There's not much down here, other than a few stray straw wrappers and some lost pennies, but really, I just need a second to sit down and breathe before I pass out.
Since the first pre-season basketball game started two hours ago, the diner has been overrun by rowdy, rude, and incredibly drunk college students. It's been one big blur of chicken wings, fries, milkshakes, and bacon burgers. And since I haven't eaten since my blueberry smoothie this morning, my stomach is screaming at me, begging me to unwrap the granola bar in my purse and take a bite. I don't have that kind of time, though. This little search party was just so I could catch my breath without looking like I was slacking, so when I finally slow it down enough to get a full breath of air, I grab a forgotten pen sitting by the office supply shelf and stand back up.
Nancy pops her head out from the kitchen and eyes me immediately, her shoulders relaxing a little as she waves me over. I adjust the apron tied around my waist as I head over, making sure the straws and pens are still tucked securely in the pockets. When she turns back to me, she holds out a tray stacked haphazardly with teetering plates, and I don't have the chance to try to rearrange them into sturdier positions before she hands it off to me and nods toward the far end of the diner.
"Table thirty-two. All bacon burgers, no mods." She scans the tray one final time before turning around, and I don't hesitate to hurry out into the crowd because, based on her rough exhale, she's about to explode on the cooks for their slow ticket times, and I don't want to be caught in that crossfire. Nancy is the sweetest woman I've ever met, but she's also terrifying when she's stressed.
Tightening my grip on the tray, I crouch down a little as I weave through the drunken crowd. An elbow comes flying straight toward my face as someone turns — so fast I'm sure I would have been knocked on my butt — but by some stroke of luck, it just barely grazes me. I inhale quickly as the rough fabric of his jacket just barely scrapes against my cheek. He doesn't even realize he almost knocked me out, and I look around wide-eyed, searching for a clear path to safety from the crowd. Finding a small opening toward the booths, I hurry out quickly, sidestepping a guy laying on the floor, apparently too drunk to stand any longer. He has a USW fan jersey on, and when he rolls over to try to stand up, I smile at the name and number printed boldly on the back — McConnell 23.
Of course. It's fitting that Luke's fans would party just as hard as he does.
Turning back toward the booths, I find table thirty-two quickly, but all four guys sitting in the booth keep their eyes on the TV across the room as I stop in front of their table. They all have the same order with no modifications, so I don't bother pulling their attention as I place each plate down in front of them. I'm about to grab their empty cups of water for refills when the entire diner goes silent.
