Page 2 of Searching for Nova

“Just give it a taste,” he says, putting the pickle right in front of my mouth.

“Jace, stop,” the girl next to him says as she laughs.

“Yeah, you’re scaring her,” one of the other guys says. “She’s probably never had one that big.”

They all laugh. If I didn’t need this job so bad, I’d take these dirty dishes and dump them on their privileged little heads. I know they’re privileged because one of the guys is wearing a Fairmont jacket. Fairmont is a private school on the other side of town where all the rich people live with their spoiled rotten kids.

“C’mon,” the guy with the pickle says. “Just one little lick? You might like it.” He puts it against my mouth.

I shove it away, grab a dirty knife from the bin, and point it at the guy’s face. “I said I don’t want it.”

He grabs my wrist and yanks the knife from my hand, his eyes bearing down on me. “Then you’re not getting a fucking tip, bitch.”

I’m the dish girl. I don’t get tips. But I don’t bother telling him that. He’s clearly too stupid or drunk to understand. He’s wearing a hockey jersey, which I guess is his costume, and has fake blood all over his face.

“Just let her go,” I hear one of the guys say.

I keep my eyes on Pickle Guy and wait for him to release my wrist. When he finally does, I grab my bin of dirty dishes and turn to leave. I’ve barely made it two steps when my foot hits something slippery on the floor. It happens so fast I can’t catch myself. I fall flat on my ass, the bin of dirty dishes landing beside me, plates flying out and crashing against the tile floor.

Cheers erupt, along with clapping and high-pitched laughter from the girls at the table I just left.

“Hey, it’s not funny,” a guy says in a deep voice. “She might be hurt.”

“She’s fine,” one of the girls says as she laughs.

“There goes Easton.” It sounds like Pickle Guy’s voice. “Always gotta be the hero.”

“Easton, she’s fine,” a girl says.

I’m trying to get up, but sharp pain shoots through my back every time I try to stand. I just need to fight through it. I can’t stay here on the floor with everyone laughing at me.

“Need some help?” a guy says.

I look up and see a guy with dark blond hair and dark eyes staring down at me, holding out his hand.

“I’m good,” I tell him, not trusting that he’ll actually help me. Given how his friends treated me, he’s probably just playing a joke where he’ll offer me his hand and then drop me just as I’m about to get up.

“You sure?” he asks. His concerned expression actually seems sincere, but I’m sure he’s just a good actor. He’s wearing a hockey jersey like Pickle Guy’s, but doesn’t have the fake blood on his face. “That was a bad fall.” He reaches under my arm and starts lifting me up.

“I said I’m good!” I glare at him.

“If you were good, you wouldn’t still be on the floor.”

“Easton, leave her alone,” a girl says. I glance up and see the girl with the red hair giving an angry look to the guy who’s helping me. “You better get your ass back here or you’re not getting any tonight.”

“That’s bullshit,” I hear Pickle Guy say with a laugh. “You give it to him even when you’re pissed at him.”

“And how the hell would you know?” she shoots back.

The guy who was helping me stops a moment. I look up and see him staring at me.

“Are you gonna help me or not?” I ask.

He’s still staring at me. “Nova?”

I stare back at him, wondering how he knows my name. Then I remember I have a name tag on.

“Just forget it. I don’t need help.” I shove him away and push up from the floor, cringing at the pain shooting through my back. I grab the bin of dishes and make my way through the diner, getting bumped around by stumbling drunk people.

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