Page 11 of The Pact

The Stowaway is crowded and as soon as I enter, Joe beckons me over a very busy bar. He asks me who I am and when I explain that I’m covering for my sister, he shrugs and tells me to ask him or any of the girls if I’m unsure about something.

The next two hours fly by serving drinks and bringing baskets of fried food to the tables that dot the inside and the veranda at the back of the bar.

“What can I get you?” I ask a guy who’s way overdressed compared to the average patron of the Stowaway. The bar isn’t seedy but it’s definitely more of a place for the locals and the occasional tourists to let their hair down rather than a fancy wine bar or a place that caters to professionals of any kind.

“Can I get one of your local microbrews on draft?” I smile and think that the guy’s selection of drink isn’t surprising at least if I have to believe what my sister says. I know that I hate judgment and I feel a little unfair in boxing the guy in a category just based on the clothes he’s wearing and his drink order. But I’ve realized that it’s human nature to file a quick judgment upon meeting someone for the first time. People used to do it to me all the time when they saw the way my parents expected me to dress and act. So my issue is more with using that first impression as a permanent judgement without giving people the chance to show you who they really are.

The guy, in his crisp white button down and his dark slacks, his gold rimmed glasses that match the color of the expensive looking watch on his wrist, with his expensive haircut and the latest smartphone doesn’t sound as much a douche as I’d have expected when he talks to me.

I’m intent on pouring his drink but all I get is foam and not much else into the glass. Every order so far consisted of bottled drinks or liquor and a mixer, so this is the first time I’ve had to try to pour a draft drink and it’s not going well. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” he asks and I nod, embarrassed by my obvious lack of skill in pouring his drink.

“Yeah, it’s my first day today. I guess the mess I’m making with your drink gives that away, huh?” I try to make light of the fact that I’ve been trying to pour his beer for about five minutes now and all I’ve got is three glasses of foam.

“Nothing wrong with that, we all have to start somewhere.” The man smiles kindly and I look at his face for the first time. He’s much younger than I thought at a first, distracted glance, probably in his late twenties. He has dark hair slicked back with product and light eyes behind his glasses but in the artificial light of the bar, I can’t tell the exact color.

I smile back, relieved that he isn’t getting impatient or angry about my lack of skills.

“My name’s Aaron by the way. And you are?” He extends a perfectly manicured hand across the bar, a hand that tells me that he doesn’t earn a living with manual labor with his perfectly shaped nails and supple, soft skin. I shake his hand and return his smile. “Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Ausra. And I think I need to go get someone to show me how to pour from the draft or it might be Christmas before you get your drink.” I look around the room, relieved that the dinner rush seems to be over and while we’re busy, it doesn’t look as hectic as when I clocked in. But there are a couple of people waiting to be served and I know it’s better to ask for help than have someone notice how long this is taking me.

“I think if you tilt the glass, it’ll be better,” Aaron offers and when I try, beer starts coming out together with the foam.

“Ausra, what’s the hold up? People are waiting.” Joe approaches me and gestures with his head to let him finish pouring the beer.

“I’m so sorry, Joe. I’ve never poured a draft, I—”

Thankfully Joe isn’t too mad. “It’s all right. Look there’s a food order to be served outside, do that and then come back here and I’ll show you how to pour. In the meantime I’ll try to get rid of the waiting people.”

I scurry away gratefully, collecting four baskets with burgers and leaving the order of fried pickles for a second run. I think that Joe’s patience would definitely start wearing thin if I began dropping food too. “Table eight, thank you darling,” the cook says with a wink and I rush outside in the warm but breezy early summer night.

I spot them immediately at the table I’m about to serve and I stiffen at the memory of the last time I saw them, when they laughed at me. Well, mainly Kelley.

I almost turn back on my heels and ask someone else to serve them but Shep notices me and gets the others’ attention on me. “Oh, finally! That’s our food.”

So I have no choice but to walk to their table and serve them. They’re all dressed casually in jeans or shorts and t-shirts and they look as handsome as I remember them from school. I don’t really know them, we obviously ran in completely different circles but I know of them, everyone at Bradbury Prep knew them. Bode, the tallest of the group, with golden blond hair and intense, dark blue eyes. Ashton, the bulkiest of them all, built like a wall of solid muscle with mysterious gray eyes and dark brown hair. Shepherd, fit and magazine cover handsome with his dirty blond hair and green eyes. And finally, Kelley, the most popular of the group with sun-kissed brown hair and intense hazel eyes. All confident and cool, all behaving like kings or even gods with their world champion titles. They were what every girl at school dreamed of. Even I did until I realized that they saw me like a freak. Kelley’s derisive smile is impossible to forget.

“Hey, we’re missing something. We ordered some fried pickles.” Kelley addresses me as I place his burger in front of him and I lift my gaze to meet his, mentally bracing myself for him calling me some more insulting names like that time at school. But I don’t find any derision in his honey colored eyes, there’s actually a warm light in them and his tone isn’t rude, just inquisitive.

“Yeah, coming right up. I—I couldn’t carry everything together,” I say, unable to look away, until Bode’s deep voice attracts my attention.

“Of course, it’s no problem. You’re new, right? We come here often and I don’t remember seeing you before.” I nod as I can’t keep from smiling back at him. Bode’s smile is bright and genuine, lacking the ironic glint that I detected in Kelley’s. So they don’t recognize me from school. This is why they’re being so pleasant, the different hair, clothes and the makeup, the fact that I’m wearing contacts, really make me look different, I think relaxing only slightly.

“While you bring the pickles, could we have another round of beers?” Kelley asks and Bode immediately scolds him.

“She won’t be able to carry all that without a tray, you dipshit.”

Kelley looks taken aback. “Well fuck, she’ll have to do two trips then, won’t she? I’m really thirsty,” he says the last part almost apologetically, looking at me.

“It’s not a problem, I’ll bring the pickles and then come back. It’s my job,” I add, justifying the need to come back to their table.

Shep chuckles. “You can come back any time you want, pretty girl. Maybe we could buy you a beer too if you go on break?”

Is he flirting with me? For a second I’m so confused that I almost blurt out that I’m underage but then I realize that they are too, so to even get inside the bar, they must have fake IDs.

I explain that I don’t have any breaks until I clock off at closing time and then rush off to get the rest of their food and their drinks, trying to calm the swarm of butterflies that are fluttering their wings in the pit of my stomach. I’m really confused. I actually feel disappointed that I can’t have a beer with them. What the fuck is wrong with me? Those guys were laughing about me not six months ago and now they’re asking me to have a drink with them just because they haven’t recognized me.

They were real pricks. Ok, mostly Kelley. He called me unsexy and unfuckable. But the others laughed. They found it funny. None of them told him to shut the fuck up. But then again, so did ninety percent of the people I went to school with. Even the kids who came to Sunday service with their families had laughed at me and called me a freak, mostly behind my back, when they thought I couldn’t hear them. I had tried to speak to my parents about it, to explain that those shapeless, baggy clothes, the severe hairstyles, drew more attention rather than prevent people from noticing me like Dad wanted. Of course my objections hadn’t had any effect on my father’s decision. Yes, I was drawing attention but it wasn’t the kind of attention he worried about. I know that most of the reason why he tightened the rules for women at the church and made me and Mom an example was McKayla’s pregnancy. Dad really wanted to make me undatable and he had thoroughly succeeded.

“Hey are you ok?” Aaron asks from his barstool right across from me. “You look like something’s bothering you.”

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