Page 2 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
“That’s some crazy bad luck,” Mateo says, his precisely penciled-in eyebrows high.
Topher sucks in a hard breath and holds it, large eyes increasing.
Okay. So. Step one to ever getting a lunch break: Calm this guy down. “Really, it’s fine,” Mateo soothes, waving a hand at the hip-high door that leads behind the counter. “Come on back. Put your bag in the cubby-thing there.” He indicates the cube storage on the far side of the cutting table that was once white and is now various upsetting shades of brown.
Topher’s gaze snags on Mateo’s matte-black stiletto nails, then hair, then face, and finally lingers on Mateo’s shirt. His soft mouth parts as if there’s a question he can’t figure out how to ask. Probably about the unreality of the combination that is Mateo in black-lipped makeup and a jaunty yellow polo. Mateo gives him a moment to solidify this discordance into a query, but when Topher fails to move or speak, he taps the little door loudly with a polished claw.
Like a small woodland creature, Topher startles into motion and does as told.
Progress. Topher can, if pressed, follow basic instructions.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to join me in this high-fashion hell,” Mateo says, rooting beneath the register. “The owner requires we wear the shirts.” He hefts out a box markedEmployeein fat sharpie and thuds it onto the counter, gesturing for Topher to come closer.
Topher shifts exactly one inch.
So much for progress. He can’t tell if this is high-frequency anxiety or if Topher’s one of those guys who freaks at other guys in eyeliner. Whichever it is, it’s annoying.
Once Topher reemerges from the back, the bright yellow shirt untucked over his pale gray jeans and his hair slightly tamed, Mateo launches into training mode. “Okay, so, work history. Ever use a register before?”
Topher’s head shakes.
“What about customer service? Helping people on the floor?”
Another head shake, his gray eyes getting wider.
“Receiving?”
Topher’s eyes go wider still, and he mouths the wordno.
What the actual hell? Doris wouldn’t hire someone with zero experience, right? Except, she would because she’s cheap. Probably paying him below minimum wage. He doesn’t want to ask but needs to understand how bad the day ahead will be. “Have you ever had a job before?”
Now those gray eyes are saucers, near-perfect circles of alarm, like he’s the shocked one.
Fucking. Hell.
“Okay. Okay. Oh. Kay.” Maybe he has other skills. Quick learner. Innate ability to color-match that will prove invaluable. “Everyone starts somewhere,” Mateo says, impressed that he sounds amiable and not like he wants to walk into traffic. “Let’s talk through some stuff.”
It takes one hour for Mateo to confirm that Topher is functionally useless.
Register? Frantic button mashing locks the machine up three times while the slightly inconvenienced customers become hostile. Taking orders? Fails to write down obviously critical information on the easy-to-understand form. Six. Times. Not even a name on the last one. Making copies? Machine spits out solid black pages and makes the place stink like burnt hair.
That last one’s not actually Topher’s fault, but by this point, Mateo’s prepared to blame him for homelessness and corporate tax loopholes.
“How about you straighten up front?” Mateo says in the inflectionless tones of the forsaken, crouching in front of the copier. “Just make things look pretty. If anyone comes in and looks confused, ask if you can help and bring them over to me.”
Topher bobbles his empty head in agreement, looking as if he’s just survived a war zone when it’s Mateo surviving active crimes against humanity. Mateo does a lot of pulling out and sticking back in of parts. Thumb to theprintbutton, the machine whirs to life.
He keeps an eye on Topher haunting the front as he prints orders. Topher’s doing a lot of picking up and putting back down in the same spot. Like he has no idea how to straighten up.
Holy shit.
Topher has no idea how to straighten up. It’s not even a convincing fake of it.
Screaming won’t fix this, so Mateo crams the bad feelings into a tight little ball so as to more easily ignore them and finishes orders.
As he powers on the large-format printer, his attention snags on Topher stumbling to put distance between himself and a homemade-cookies-looking elderly woman. It’s as far from asking if she needs help as possible. Anti-help.
He can think of precisely one reason Doris would hire this guy, and it’s obvious now. Topher’s the kid of someone she knows. AnotherShitty Brian. And like Shitty Brian, this guy’s going to be not just useless but extra work.
