This Is Now

by Maggie Gilbert

  Ten sweaty minutes later, I knew I’d been kidding myself. I was a moron. My stomach churned uneasily and my skin had gone cold, then hot, then clammy as I read question after question and had no idea which were even the stupid answers.

  This was a total waste of time, and any minute the frustration and panic burning my eyes and clogging my throat was going to get on top of me and I was going to cry. And no way was I letting that happen.

  I put down my pen, and pushed back my chair.

  Mr Boyd looked up sharply.

  ‘I thought there wasn’t a problem.’

  I wrestled with myself, and desperation won, preventing me from saying something that would get me a fail, or worse.

  ‘No problem. I’m done.’

  He gave me a look that said quite plainly he very much doubted it, but obviously I wasn’t the only one who’d decided to play it safe.

  ‘You can go then. Quietly. Some students are still trying to work.’

  And fuck you too, I thought, but by keeping my teeth clamped together, I managed not to say it.

  Just.

  Chapter 6

  I went to the restaurant early and headed straight for the espresso machine, desperate for a coffee to have with a cigarette, still shaken after my aborted maths test. Or maybe not so much the test, but how close I’d come to blowing more than just that one test. I’d had a bad rep at school, and it had followed me to TAFE. Although this year I’d been as close to the perfect student as I knew how, I guess the teachers there weren’t yet convinced.

  I could hardly blame them; sometimes I didn’t believe myself.

  As I stood there frothing the milk, making sure the steam made miniscule bubbles for a silky, creamy foam for my latte, I tried to shake off the bad day at school and the problem of Jay and whether in fact Sebastien would actually be at that café when I got off work. Beyond my control, I reminded myself, and saw the milk was done. I set the jug of milk down to settle, blew steam through the nozzle to clear it and wiped it with a cloth, then swirled the milk in the jug before adding it to the double shot of espresso. Now that was what I called a perfect cup of coffee, even if I did have to make it myself. I was used to that, really.

  I picked up my cup, jerked my head towards the door to let Tanya, the waitress already on duty know where I was going, and headed out.

  In the service alley that ran behind the row of shops, allowing delivery vans access for unloading supplies, I set my cup down on a milk crate left out there for our breaks and lit my cigarette. After the day and previous night I’d had I reckoned I deserved one. I inhaled gratefully, then sighed out smoke, and counted the frighteningly small number of ciggies I had left. I had sworn to myself that this was the last pack.

  I tucked the pack into the pocket of my jacket and picked up my coffee. I took a sip; damn I was good. I guess if all my dreams came to nothing, at least I could always get work making coffee and serving cake.

  Another mouthful of coffee, a couple more drags on my cigarette, and life was looking better. I sat down on the crate, stretching my legs out in front of me. We all took the opportunity to sit whenever we could on shift; if it was a really slamming night we could be running back and forth for hours without even time to take a pee. One of the girls got a pedometer thingy and we all took turns wearing it. On even a quietish night I could cover 5k.

  I’d used most of the second pay I got to buy decent shoes, big chunky ugly things that made me look like a cartoon character with the ginormous boxy things hanging on the end of my skinny legs, but it beat the hell out of trying to waitress in cheap shoes, because it wasn’t just your feet that hurt. It started there, sure, like hot pokers were being shoved up through your heels and the balls of your feet, then travelled up to knees and hips and finally a killer lower backache. These shoes were too ugly even to wear to class and one of the few things I owned that wasn’t multifunctional, and worth every cent.

  I slipped my phone out of my pocket and checked the time. Only five minutes to go. I finished my cigarette and stubbed the butt out in the sand-filled jumbo sized beetroot tin by the crates, and savoured the last few mouthfuls of my coffee. Then I stood up and went inside, to put my stuff away, find a clean apron, and get to work.

  It turned out to be not only busy, but one of those horrible nights where it was one thing after another. Like the party of eleven that came in off the street, no booking, and then got shitty because we couldn’t fit them in anywhere. Charlotte, a new waitress working her first Friday night shift, forgot to call ‘backs’ as she carried a plate into the kitchen and Danny, the chef, turned away from the hotplate without realising she was there, and burnt her with a pan. Danny wants to get up Charlotte’s skirt so he was pissed off in case she hated him for it, so he swore and screamed at everyone in range, and Charlotte burst into tears and ran out of the kitchen into the restaurant, and chaos ruled.

  We’d barely all calmed down from that, and were one waitress down because Charlotte had gone to the hospital to get checked out, when a customer complained that their steak was tough (duh, that’s what happens if you order it well done) and while we were dealing with that, a young couple fucked off into the night without paying.

  So we were short staffed, run off our feet, with a chef sulking over the shag that got away and some explaining to do to the manager tomorrow for the bill that wasn’t paid.

  But finally, we got a few people sorted who’d been waiting for a while and Charlotte came back with a bandage on her arm but willing to work (I take back what I said) and allowed Chef to fuss over her and give her a hug, so the mood lifted about a million percent.

  I had a chocolate mud cake with whipped cream to plate up, and after I’d put a slice on a plate I glanced at the clock above the counter. It was just on nine o’clock, and the restaurant still had eight or nine tables going and about half of those were only just finishing up mains. I was going to have to find a chance to text Sebastien. Not only would I not be there by nine thirty, unless he was happy to have a very late date, assuming this was even a date, then I’d have to let him know I couldn’t make it.

  Bugger, the cream thingy was empty. That pissed me off. Whoever had used it last would have known it was out of gas and out of cream and just stuck it back in the fridge for somebody else to take care of.

  Grumbling, I stomped into the kitchen and rummaged around on the shelf until I found a couple of the little gas canisters.

  ‘Backs,’ I grumped, passing the kitchen staff to get to the fridge where we kept the pure cream. They stood out of my way on the return trip, as I stomped past in silence. Everybody hated changing the cream canister over, and they were probably worried if they looked at me the wrong way I’d give the job to them.

  Back out the front, I put the cream and the canisters on the counter, and the canisters promptly rolled off and fell on the floor. I bit my lip against the curse that wanted to come out. The owner got his panties in a total bunch if any of the wait stuff mouthed off, although it was of course OK for the chef to swear blue murder in the kitchen where customers could hear him perfectly well anyway. But who says people have to be logical? I bent down to get the canisters and one had rolled under the cake cabinet. I did swear then, but quietly.

  Crouching down, I carefully slid my hand under, but it had gone in too far. Grabbing one of the cake servers from under the counter, I poked it under there and managed to sweep the canister out.

  ‘Ha!’ I exclaimed, pounced on it and stood up triumphantly.

  ‘Jess!’ Sebastien said in some surprise, from the other side of the cake cabinet, but I bet he wasn’t anywhere near as startled as I was. I jumped, and nearly lost the canister again. Slippery little sucker.

  ‘Uh, hi,’ I said, no doubt going as red as the napkins on the cabinet between us. ‘What are you doing here?’ Yeah, queen of the stupid question. My guess would be he came in to get food of some description.

  ‘You work here,’ he said, not quite answering with a question, but close. />
  ‘Obviously.’ Shit. Remove foot from mouth. ‘Sorry,’ I said. Mostly for something to do with my hands, I grabbed the cream thingy and started twisting the lid off.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  I wrestled with the cream dispenser and he watched in silence. A loooong silence.

  ‘Do you want a hand with that?’ he said finally

  ‘No I can do it.’ I finally felt it give a little.

  ‘So, I guess you’re pretty busy.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I won’t be out of here before ten, I reckon. I haven’t even had time to text you.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Sebastien said, ‘I can —’

  The lid finally slipped free, and I heard the ominous hiss of gas, and tried to twist the lid back, but it was too late. I’d forgotten to bleed the last dregs of gas out before I loosened the lid, and it blasted off, flying across the counter, cream splattering as it went, all over me, all over the counter, the floor and yes, all over Sebastien.

  I could hear Tanya laughing from the entrance to the kitchen. It had happened to all of us and whenever it did everybody else found it hysterically funny, but I just stared at Sebastien, horrified.

  He looked at me for a long moment. Then he wiped a bit of cream off his face and stuck his finger in his mouth.

  ‘Sweet,’ he said, and grinned.

  I was too surprised to grin back at him. I’d expected him to be pissed off that I hadn’t told him where I worked, pissed off I hadn’t texted him to let him know I was working late, and totally pissed that I’d ruined his shirt by spraying concentrated grease over him in the form of aerated pure cream. That he could just shrug and grin it away, even as he waved off my apologies and offers to make him a free coffee, blew me away. Wordlessly, I grabbed a Chux-wipe and wet it at the sink, stretching over the counter to pass it to him. His fingers brushed mine as he took the cloth from me, and my skin prickled. I wanted to think he’d done it on purpose, but I couldn’t tell.

  Sebastien found a table and after I’d cleaned up the mess I took him a coffee, on the house, and he ordered a toasted sandwich, explaining he’d been running late himself and hadn’t eaten, which was why he’d ducked in here, to get something to eat.

  I put his order into the kitchen and told them to make it a good one, and Chef stirred me about creaming my boyfriend (yeah, very funny) and Tanya and Charlotte ogled Sebastien from the doorway and commented on how hot he was, which put Chef in a sulky mood all over again.

  Sebastien got his toastie and I eventually settled down enough to concentrate on my job again, and people ordered and ate and paid and left and the night seemed to be finally past that point where the end of the shift began to seem real.

  By the time I left with Sebastien, who insisted on paying full price for his toastie and the second coffee he got, which impressed us girls no end, it was too late to go anywhere, and our date-if-that’s-what-it was looked like it would take place at Macca’s or not at all. But I was surprisingly OK with that.

  Because I had a feeling that any guy who could stand there in a restaurant spattered with whipped cream ruining his clothes, and turn it into a moment that was, well, sweet, probably wasn’t going to be put off by one night that didn’t go to plan. At least, that was what I hoped. And I wasn’t a girl to hope easily.

  Chapter 7

  Saturday, which meant Mum and her current boyfriend loafing around the house moaning about their hangovers and bitching at any of the three of us stupid enough to be home for it. But I really had to tackle the terrifying Mt Everest of homework waiting for me and I didn’t want to have to put on real clothes and haul my books on buses to the library.

  So I was at home, trying to avoid them, counting down the minutes until the pubs opened.

  Eventually, though, I had to leave my maths homework and venture out of my room for a pee break. That taken care of, I decided while I was out I may as well get myself a coffee and a sandwich.

  Unfortunately, Mum and Greg were sitting at the kitchen table, nursing their sore heads over cups of instant coffee. Smoke spiralled up into the already smoggy air from the cigarettes smouldering between their fingers.

  Mum blinked at me.

  ‘Didn’t know you were home,’ she said by way of saying hello.

  ‘Homework.’

  ‘I don’t know why you bother,’ Greg commented, tapping ash into the overflowing ashtray sitting on the scratched timber between them.

  ‘Who are you again?’ I opened the fridge, looking for milk.

  ‘Jessica, watch your mouth. Greg deserves more respect from you.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’

  Mum frowned. Probably trying to work it out. She wasn’t at her best in the mornings. She hadn’t been in years, since she lost her job at the bakery and couldn’t — or wouldn’t — get another one. Since then it had been a string of Gregs and Pauls (and once, memorably, a Timothy) and playing the pokies or sitting at home chain smoking in front of the TV. According to Brian she hadn’t always been like this, it was only after my and Troy’s Dad left her that she started really going downhill. But since this was all I’d known, I found it hard to imagine her being an ordinary parent. You know, one who made my lunch for school, or actually gave a shit. That kind.

  ‘You’re getting an attitude, young lady,’ Greg said.

  ‘Don’t young lady me, you’re not my father.’

  Mum glanced at Greg, then at me. ‘He could be,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Popped the question, didn’t I,’ Greg said, giving me a wink.

  I almost puked.

  ‘And I said yes,’ Mum said, blushing. Blushing? At that the urge to vomit changed to a sense of panic so strong it made my legs rubbery.

  ‘No way,’ I said.

  Mum’s glow went out like I’d slapped her. The sick feeling returned to my gut, only guilty, now.

  ‘Would it kill you to be happy for me?’

  ‘Mum, it’s not that.’

  Mum shook her head at me, her eyes going shiny with tears, and Greg covered her hand with his. He had big, scarred, strong hands and I hated seeing him touch my mother. She might be a shitty parent, but she was my Mum, and I didn’t want to see her hurt. Which is why I’d never told her about any of the arseholes she brought home who seemed to think I should be part of some nasty package deal. Greg had never tried any of that shit on me but that didn’t make me like him any better. He was connected to bikers, and wherever his money came from it wasn’t from a job. Mum was never going to get her shit together while he was sitting around helping her drink and gamble her dole payment.

  ‘Jess,’ Greg said, ‘I understand I can never replace your Dad. I promise I’ll try to be a good stepfather to you —’

  ‘You have got to be fucking joking,’ I said, slamming the fridge door shut. I was shaking with a mixture of fear and angry surprise, but mostly I could not believe the hide of the man. ‘Where do you get off? You put shit on me for doing my homework and then think you can give the parental lecture?’

  ‘Jess!’ Mum exclaimed, her facing going white and then red, and I recognised that as her getting truly angry. But I wasn’t done.

  ‘No way do you get to ever be my father, stepfather, whatever, you loser.’

  Greg went a bit red himself at that. I knew that would shut his mouth, all right, because he couldn’t argue with the truth, could he, but I hadn’t counted on how Mum might react. She leaped up so fast her chair fell over, and I jumped about a foot.

  ‘You will not speak to Greg like that, or you can get out of my house.’

  ‘Trust you to take his side.’

  ‘And why wouldn’t I? What do you do to put food in the table or help pay the rent?’

  ‘Have you gone crazy? You kept all my Austudy for board, remember? I’d like to know what he does besides help you spend money.’

  ‘Jessica Marie,’ Mum said quietly, and my skin crinkled. I hadn’t heard that tone from her since I was about nine. ‘You will
get out of this house right this minute and don’t come back until you’ve cooled off. I expect you to apologise to me and to Greg when you come back, or don’t bother coming back. And if you don’t like the idea of us getting married then you are free to find somewhere else to live.’

  ‘Honey, don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?’

  ‘No I don’t, she’s been getting it all her own way for too long and I’m sick of her smart mouth and snotty attitude. She thinks she’s better than us, that’s her problem.’

  I opened and closed that smart mouth a few times, rejected a half-dozen furious hurtful things that wanted to come rushing out of it. What finally did come out was bad enough, I suppose, although it didn’t even begin to cover it.

  ‘He’s not good enough for you,’ I said finally.

  ‘He is and that’s more than good enough for you.’ Mum sat back down, and when Greg handed her a cigarette, she squeezed his forearm with unmistakeable affection. Mum blew smoke out and looked at me. ‘And like I said, if you don’t like it, you know where the door is.’

  I stared at her, and the blood must have drained away from my face because I felt light headed and cold, so cold. I turned around and went out of the kitchen. In a daze, I went to my room, grabbed my handbag, and left. I let the front door bang shut behind me and went down the front steps, unable to feel my feet.

  At the front gate I turned and started down the street, tears stinging my eyes, not thinking about where I was going. I didn’t even bother looking at the houses and imagining them bigger, better or just different like I usually did.

  How had that happened? Had my mother really just thrown me out? I couldn’t believe she’d choose him over me, but I knew she would if I pushed it. It was so stupid. I worked and saved, and worried so much about how I could get away from here and escape into a better life, but the thought of Mum throwing me out, of being homeless, was horrifying.