Page 1 of Caleb
1
Naomi
“Naomi!”My manager's shrill, girlish voice cuts across the hubbub of the restaurant.
My cheeks turn pink. I roll my eyes and turn to face him.
"Come here," he mouths, waving his hand at me impatiently. "Now!"
"I'll be right back," I say to the family of four I was busy serving. Giving them my best smile. Hoping this incident won't cost me a decent tip.
I weave my way between tables, trying to think of something I’ve done that might warrant a public putdown.
“Yes, Clive?”
His acne-scarred face turns a livid purple. He hates it when people address him by his first name. I'm pretty much the same age as him, but always insists I call him Mr. Peters. Maybe it's because his first name is so terrible. And, to be honest, I don’t blame him if that’s the case. But it’s much more likely he simply enjoys the power trip.
Clive Peters. The walking talking embodiment of the Napoleon complex. His thin, pigeon chest. His pockmarked face. A nose that’s too big for his face, and eyes that are small and dark and just a little too close together.
I often look at him and wonder what the heck happened. His parents are such kind, generous people. But their son didn’t turn out anything like them.
“Mr. Peters,” he growls. “How many times have I told you. You call me Mr. Peters while you’re at work.”
“Yes, Mr. Peters,” I say, acting in an overly sincere way that might just be a little too sassy for my own good. “What can I do for you, Mr. Peters? And may I tell you how fetching that little polka dot bow-tie looks on you today, Mr. Peters. It reminds me of a doll I once had as a child.”
His fists clench at his side and he grinds his teeth. “You have a phone call.”
“Then tell them to call me later," I say, "when I’ve finished work. Surely, you know I’m not allowed to receive personal calls during my shift?”
“It’s your brother,” he says, a grim look of pleasure on his ratlike face. “He says it’s urgent. It sounded like he was crying.”
“Crying?” I stutter. “My brother?”
I rush to the phone behind the counter. My whole world suddenly shrinking down to fear and worry and panic.
“Jake?” I say, picking up the receiver. “Dylan? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“It’s Dylan,” my brother says. His voice sounds tiny. My heart sinks all the way to my little black shoes. He’s usually so confident. So brash. “We’re at the hospital.”
“Oh my God! What’s happened. Where’s Mrs. Finch?”
“I’m so sorry!” he cries. “We were just playing around! I didn’t mean it to happen! You have to believe me!”
Somehow, I manage to calm him down. I tell him it’s not his fault, even though I have no idea what’s happened. I learn that Mrs. Finch, our elderly neighbor who looks after my brothers while I’m at work, is still at her house.
“Okay, sit tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Hanging up the phone, I turn around to find Clive standing right behind me. He has his hand on his hip and a smug grin plastered all over his face.
“I hope you don’t think you’re going to leave in the middle of your shift?” he sneers.
“My brother’s in the hospital,” I tell him, hoping for once in his sad, miserable life that he’ll show a modicum of humanity.
But, I guess that’s too much to ask.
“You leave now, then don’t bother coming back. I’ve had it up to here with you and your ways?” He puts his hand about a foot above his head, and it still barely reaches my eye line.
“My ways?” The anger inside me starts to simmer and bubble. If I don’t get away from this mean, petty little man I might do something I really regret. Something that will get me in trouble.
