Page 22 of Tasty Cherry

The door to the kitchens is propped open. Amazing smells waft out as several chefs in white uniforms bustle about the stainless-steel counters.

On the opposite side, another open door leads to a room filled with washers and dryers. This team, all in light blue, folds towels and sheets on a long white table.

A young man, probably only a teen, steps out, bright in his red uniform against the white room. “I’m watching the carts. You want me to roll it to your room yet?”

“Not yet,” I tell him. “I have more.”

He shrugs and turns back to his conversation with a blue-haired woman folding hand towels. “Come on, Cristal, go out with me.”

“You wish,” she says. “Not just anybody gets a shot at a piece of this.”

I walk down the hall, past the door marked “Head of Housekeeping,” and another marked, “Assistant Manager.” That’s Raya, who interviewed us.

There’s two more for the CFO and head of maintenance.

Then I hear voices.

Ahead is a staff room with double doors, both propped open. I pause and smooth my pants and sweater, then lift my chin and enter.

Sebastian and Raya stand at the front. The other four interns are seated in the front row. I hurry to sit next to them, choosing the end next to Brooklyn rather than Ilsa. There’s only one intern I haven’t met, and he appraises me with a long, penetrating gaze like he’s undressing me and making a judgment. His legs are kicked out, and he’s sitting low on the chair like he’s comfortable at home.

Raya is talking. “Today is for unpacking and exploring. Each of you will get five meals a week comped in the dining room. There is a significant discount for anything else you do, including room service. All this is coded into your ID.”

Sebastian speaks up. “But tonight, room service is on us. Order something, settle in, and we’ll get started with orientation in the morning.”

I avoid looking him in the eye, instead fiddling with the edge of my sweater.

“We have plenty of paperwork for you to fill out,” Raya says, turning to retrieve a stack of clipboards from the table behind her. “Let’s get started on that while we wait for Havannah to come.”

Owen raises a hand.

“Yes, Owen?” Raya asks.

“Is it the standard practice here to call everyone by first names?”

Sebastian nods. “We do. Havannah thinks of us as family.”

He raises his hand again and the other male intern sighs loudly.

“What address do we use on these forms?”

“Good question,” Sebastian says. “The hotel address is at the top of the privacy form. Use that. There is no need for a room number. Your name is good enough for your mail to get to you through our internal sorting.”

Raya passes each of us a clipboard, and she and Sebastian talk quietly as the five of us get to work.

It’s all the usual things. Tax forms. Privacy agreements. Then the hotel policies. I glance up at Sebastian and Raya, then flip through the code of ethics. I pause when I spot “fraternization.”

Here we go.

No relationship between members of the hotel staff shall be permitted if there is the potential for preferential treatment or disruption of work tasks. Romantic partners must have no more than one level in the chain of command separating them to avoid the abuse of authority or the appearance of abuse.

All relationships between employees in the same department but at different levels in the organizational chart should be reported to human resources for evaluation. Failure to follow these policies will result in disciplinary action, including possible termination.

My face feels hot. Sebastian is a thousand levels above an intern. He could get fired. Or more likely, I will get fired. Anything between us is dead in the water if I’m going to work here.

I draw in a slow, easy breath to calm myself.

The other interns have plowed through the policy document, initialing all the way. I quickly flip back and start scribbling M.S. M.S. M.S. I hesitate at the fraternization clause, then again, M.S.

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