Chapter 35
Summer's POV
The back area of The Commons was nothing like the bright, clean dining hall. It was all industrial stainless steel and harsh fluorescent lighting, with huge sinks piled high with dirty dishes and the smell of grease and dish soap thick in the air. Kieran was at a wall of hooks, pulling on a dark blue apron that had clearly seen better days, tying it around his waist with quick, practiced movements.
He didn't see me at first. I watched him grab a rag from a bucket near the faculty dining area—a separate section with nicer tables and actual tablecloths—and start wiping down the surfaces. His right hand was stiff, I could see it even from here, the way his fingers didn't quite close around the rag properly, the way he had to compensate with his left hand to apply any real pressure.
My chest felt too tight. I couldn't breathe right.
He'd told me his hand was fine. He'd said everything was fine. But watching him work, watching him struggle with something as simple as gripping a cleaning rag, I could see exactly how not fine everything actually was.
"You're not supposed to be back here."
I jumped. Kieran had noticed me, was looking at me with a mixture of embarrassment and resignation that made me want to cry.
"I wanted to see," I said, and my voice came out smaller than I'd intended. "I wanted to see where you work."
"Well, now you've seen it." He turned back to the table, scrubbing at a stubborn stain. "Students aren't allowed in staff areas. You should go."
"I don't care about the rules."
"Summer—"
"I'm not leaving."
He stopped scrubbing. His shoulders were tense, his head bowed, and I could see the tips of his ears going red again.
"This isn't—" He paused, seemed to struggle with the words. "This isn't something you need to see."
"Maybe I want to see it." I took a step closer, my voice barely above a whisper now. "Maybe I want to see all of you, Kieran. Not just the physics genius who gets perfect scores. All of it."
His knuckles went white around the rag.
Before he could respond, before I could say anything else stupidly revealing, a voice cut through the kitchen noise.
"What the hell is going on here?"
A middle-aged white man in a white shirt and black vest strode toward us, a name tag reading Mr. Harrison, Dining Services Manager pinned to his chest. He was maybe forty-five, slightly overweight, with the kind of face that looked like it had forgotten how to smile somewhere around 2008.
He zeroed in on me immediately. "Students are not permitted in staff areas. You need to leave. Now."
"She was just—" Kieran started, but I cut him off.
"I was just leaving," I said quickly, not wanting to cause trouble for him. Not when he so clearly needed this job.
But Mr. Harrison wasn't done. He turned to Kieran, walked over to the table he'd just been cleaning, and ran his finger across the surface. When he held it up, it was damp.
"This is wet," he said, his voice sharp with displeasure. "How many times do I have to tell you? The rags need to be wrung out properly. Completely dry."
Kieran's jaw tightened. "I'm sorry, I'll—"
"I don't want excuses." Mr. Harrison's voice rose, and I could see other kitchen staff glancing over, watching the scene unfold. "You're here on work-study, which means you need to work harder than everyone else. You don't get to slack off just because you think the school owes you something for being poor."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I felt my whole body go hot with rage, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.
Kieran said nothing. Just stood there, back straight, chin up, taking it.
"The principal and board members are having a meeting in the faculty dining area this afternoon," Mr. Harrison continued, gesturing at the tables Kieran had been cleaning. "If these tables are still wet when they arrive, you can find yourself another work-study position. Understood?"
He checked his watch. "You have twenty minutes."
"Understood," Kieran said quietly.
Mr. Harrison gave him one last disapproving look, shot me a glare that clearly said get out, and stalked back toward his office.
The silence he left behind was deafening.
I was shaking. Actually physically shaking with anger and helplessness and the desperate need to do something, to say something, to march after that horrible man and tell him exactly what I thought of him and his condescending cruelty.
But Kieran caught my eye and shook his head, just slightly. A warning. A plea.
Don't.
So I didn't. I just stood there, useless and furious, while he turned back to his bucket and picked up the rag again.
He tried to wring it out. I watched his right hand fumble with the wet fabric, watched him try to grip and twist with fingers that clearly couldn't manage the task, watched the water drip steadily back into the bucket because he couldn't apply enough pressure to squeeze it out properly.
That's when I understood.
Mr. Harrison knew. He had to know about Kieran's hand, about the nerve damage, about the fact that wringing out a rag was physically impossible for him. And he'd given him the task anyway, had set him up to fail, had humiliated him in front of me and anyone else who might be watching.
Kieran tried again, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping, his left hand doing most of the work while his right hand just sort of... held on. The rag was still soaking wet when he pulled it out of the bucket.
"Let me help." I was moving before I'd fully decided to, crossing the space between us in three quick steps.
"No." His voice was sharp. "Summer, just—go back to class. Please."
"Your hand can't do this," I said, and I could hear my voice shaking. "You can't wring it out properly, can you? That's why it's still wet."
He went very still.
"Does he know?" I asked, quieter now. "Does Mr. Harrison know about your hand?"
Kieran's shoulders hunched. "He doesn't need to know. This is my problem to solve."
"But it's not fair—"
"The world isn't fair, Summer." He finally looked at me, and his eyes were so tired, so resigned. "I learned that a long time ago. You should probably learn it too."
Something in me cracked open at those words, at the absolute defeat in his voice, at the way he'd already accepted that this was just how things were and would always be.
"Well, I don't accept it," I said fiercely. "And I'm not leaving you to deal with this alone."
Before he could argue, before he could push me away again, I bent down and plunged my hands into the dirty bucket water. It was cold and greasy and smelled like old food, and I didn't care. I grabbed the heavy, sodden rag and started twisting it with all my strength.
"What are you doing?" Kieran's voice was strangled.
"Helping you." The rag was slippery in my hands, water streaming between my fingers. I'd never done anything like this before—never cleaned, never scrubbed, never even washed dishes at home because we had staff for that—and it was harder than it looked. The wet fabric kept sliding through my grip, and my hands were too small, and I couldn't get enough leverage to really wring it properly.
But I kept trying.
"Summer, stop—" Kieran crouched down beside me, reaching for the rag. "You're going to ruin your uniform—"