Chapter 6: Earth

The obnoxious bleating of my alarm clock drags me back to reality, and I force my eyes open. My eyes burn, but it can’t be helped. I’ve got to get up, shower, and get moving. There are dollars to be made, because we’ve got bills to be paid. It doesn’t keep me from groaning as I roll off my mattress and stand.

My brother Jesse yawns as he exits the bathroom ahead of me, his hair managing to stick up in four different directions in spite of being wet. “Morning.”

I grunt.

He stops and leans against the doorframe. “You okay?”

I shrug. “I’m fine. Tired, but fine. But over on Terra. . .”

He tilts his head sideways. “Twist an ankle on the tightrope again?”

I roll my eyes. “Martin would Heal that immediately.” I shake my head. “Other than, you know, being telekinetic, my dreams of Terra are pretty mundane. But not last night.”

“What does that mean?”

I fill Jesse in on the bizarre happenings. “And Martin loaded everyone up and took off.” I drop my voice, which is completely ridiculous given that not a soul can hear us in this tiny apartment, alone. “He said the Followers of Amun want me dead. He said that’s why my mom brought me to live with them in the first place.”

Jesse blinks. “Your imagination’s running wild today.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you think you’re really in danger?” For all his teasing, my brother looks uncomfortable.

“I mean, that’s the question, I suppose. Is Terra real, and can I be permanently injured there?” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve been Healed there.” He bites his lip. “You go to bed here with bruises and wake up completely fine. Sprained ankles. Scrapes and cuts.”

I sniff. “I know.”

“I’m worried.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll think about it today,” he says. “You do the same.”

It hardly seems like a solution, if I really do live on two different worlds, Earth and Terra, and if dying on one means dying on both. But I don’t know what more we could possibly do. I don’t even remember that Earth exists when I’m on Terra. I’ve been dreaming of Terra as long as I can remember, and it’s still confusing. I consider my situation on Terra while I shower, dress, and eat. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the dull thunk Robert’s head made as I flung him against the stable wall.

I may be in danger, but that doesn’t feel too real, not yet anyway. No, what bothers me the most is that I may have killed someone.

The doors on the city bus hiss as I step down to the sidewalk. Ah, the muggy embrace of Houston in September. I walk as quickly as I can toward my place of employment: Perry's Steakhouse. I’d love to walk through the front door and order a thick, juicy steak with risotto, or the grilled swordfish that’s flown in from the coast. Sitting down to eat that might get my mind off of Terra, at least momentarily.

But that's not on the menu for me. Ever.

As a dishwasher who takes her payment in cash under the table, I'm sort of Exhibit A of a cautionary tale. I’m a good warning to kids who want to drop out of school. By the time I reach the staff entrance, I've only been outside of the air-conditioned bus for a moment, but my shirt’s already clinging to my skin. Thanks to a substantial wine delivery, the staff door’s blocked by crates stacked up on a cart. I don’t want to be late, so I circle to the front of the restaurant warily. If I’m quick, maybe no one will notice I broke a small rule—sometimes that’s what life demands. Break a little rule to avoid running afoul of a large one.

I duck through the front door quickly, pausing for a moment while my eyes adjust to the light inside the restaurant. Perry's employs mood lighting expertly, even at lunch, but it’s always a bit of a shock when you push past the front door. Small lights wink from the wine display. The low fixtures throughout the main dining area are bright enough to read the menu, but dark enough that your meal remains private. As I walk past the doorway into the dining room, I notice that some of the guests here for an early lunch ordered my favorite dishes. The chateaubriand they carve at your table, usually enough for two. Perry’s famous pork chop, so moist and delicious it melts in your mouth. I pause and breathe in the scent of the very best of all: the southwest filet mignon wrapped in applewood-smoked bacon. It's served with a corn and fig relish so amazing that I’d almost trade one of my kidneys to get it. I do have two, after all. My mouth waters involuntarily, but I swallow and keep walking.

I always come to work hungry. It would be an insult to do otherwise.

Of course, I've only ever had a few bites of the relish. By the time the plates reach me, there usually isn't any left over. The administration would definitely fire me if they knew, but when the bus boys bring the plates back to be washed and they’re covered in delicious food, I just can’t scrape it all in the garbage. So I eat it—or I dump it in a to-go box and take it home.

The assistant manager, Ramon, who knows nothing of my pilfering, scowls at me when I reach the sinks in the back. “What are you smiling about?”

I can hardly tell him that I doubt the emaciated woman in the blue backless dress will finish her filet, much less the relish on top. So instead, I force a smile. “It's nothing. I'm fine. Just excited for another wonderful day at work.”

His scowl softens to a frown. “You're ten minutes late.”

I glance at the clock, which even after my wine delivery detour reads eleven thirty-two a.m. I don't bother arguing with him—that’s what got me stuck on lunch shifts in the first place. Doing both lunch and dinner shifts gives us overtime hours, so they don’t allow that, but being stuck on lunch shifts isn’t really enough to be full time. I need to make Ramon happy or I’ll never get my full time hours back.

The problem is, he gets mad at people for nothing at all and becomes downright enraged if you disagree with him over anything. My best path is to politely acknowledge his displeasure and get right to work. I dive right in on the enormous pile of plates waiting for me in the second sink. Of course Henry, my co-worker who was supposed to come in at ten-thirty to clean up all the prep work dishes, isn't here yet either. He’s far more than two minutes late.

If I were Ramon, I might be cranky too. If I'd come an hour late like Henry regularly does, the assistant manager might have been elbow deep in sudsy water himself. That image brings an unbidden smile to my face.

After a few minutes of huffing and stomping around behind me on the pristine, porcelain tile floors, Ramon curses. “Is Henry ever coming?” He fumes. “When he does, I'm firing him. He's been late too many times.”

Henry's tardiness is so consistent that it’s nearly his hallmark. “Don't fire him. He loses track of time sometimes, but he always works hard once he gets here.” Jesse's always reminding me that most people are operating at capacity. If Henry loses this job, where else could he work? What's less skilled than washing dishes?

Ramon raises one eyebrow. “You're pulling double duty because he didn't show. You should be brandishing a pitchfork.”

I shrug. “So if I don’t mind. . .”

Ramon’s face turns bright red, as if defending Henry was a terrible offense. “I don’t like noble gestures. If he's not here in the next hour, I'm firing you both.”

Who hates noble gestures? That’s why they’re noble! Ugh. Ramon is the worst. And Henry better not be more than two hours late. Without this job, I won’t make rent.

Pretty soon my shoulders ache and my skin smarts from the hot water, and thanks to Henry's absence I’m barely keeping up. The pile isn’t diminishing at all, no matter how much elbow grease I expend.

But on the flip side, working alone makes it much easier to scrounge for leftovers. My belly and the to-go box I shoved into the drawer next to my sink are both entirely full in less than forty-five minutes, which I know because I'm watching the clock like a pot that’s never going to boil.

I may be about to lose my job, thanks to my big mouth and a stupidly loyal streak, but the new mushroom risotto is even better than the garlic potatoes. And in a rare stroke of luck, someone, probably that bony woman on what was clearly a first date, actually left an entire filet (minus one or two token bites) on her plate. I can't very well eat it here, gnawing on it like a dog over the sink, but I stuff it into my box for Jesse.

Thanks, skinny rich lady. Don't worry, you're better off not eating that fifty-dollar hunk of meat. Yes, your bony clavicle looks absolutely gorgeous protruding from your body at that awkward angle.

I'm so full I might pop when Henry finally shows, five minutes before Ramon said he’d fire us. “You’re nearly two hours late.” I lift my eyebrows. “That’s bad, even for you.”

Henry's hair is wet, and his dark curls stick to his forehead.

My eyes are drawn to a shining drop of water—or perspiration—rolling down his neck. “You’re dripping.”

He hasn't even glanced up yet. He's too busy taking his soccer bag to the back and replying to a text. His t-shirt clings to his abs. Not for the first time, I glance appreciatively at the outline of Henry's washboard stomach. Maybe I’m not as loyal as I am flirty.

“My soccer game got delayed.” He glances up at me absently. “Whoa, look at that pile of dishes. I’m so sorry.”

I throw a towel at his head. “Just start working.” It would be just like Ramon to fire us even though Henry squeaked in before the deadline. . .because he wasn’t washing anything yet.

“Alice, I'm sorry.”

After more than a year, I’m used to people calling me by my fake name—Alice—instead of Alora, but sometimes it still strikes me funny. Even on Earth, I’m stuck pretending to be a chicken.

“Don’t frown—I really am sorry. I forgot I was even working today until I was in the shower after practice, but I threw on my clothes the minute I realized it and ran over here.”

“You forgot?” I sigh. “I've been doing my best, but as you noticed, I’m way behind, and I'll warn you, Ramon is not pleased.”

“Is Ramon ever in a good mood? If I was an assistant manager at forty, I'd probably yell at everybody I could too. His paunch isn’t helping his mood, either.”

I don't bother pointing out that being a dishwasher in his early twenties doesn't exactly set Henry on a different trajectory than Ramon. That kind of insight probably wouldn’t be appreciated. Henry may talk trash, but at least he dives right in to help me catch up. Ramon comes by a few minutes later, but instead of chewing Henry out, he just glares at him for a moment, glances at me with narrowed eyes, and spins on his heel.

Right after Ramon stalks away, my favorite server plonks an enormous pot down next to Henry. “Bunch of stuff is piling up over there.” Chris gestures to the corner where the bus boys usually stack things. “If you hadn’t been so late, we wouldn’t be behind.”

I shake my head at Chris. “It’s fine. I’ll grab them.” I wipe my hands on my apron and jog across the kitchen. I’m loading up a tray when a phrase in the dining room catches my attention. I’ve heard it before—but not here.

Never on Earth.