April's Fool - 1. April's Fool

“I know who you are.”

I checked out my new co-worker, taking in details of his appearance without betraying the cold dread that settled in the pit of my stomach. He looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and fear, but I detected no judgment. He was taller than me and slightly pudgy. His crooked stance and crossed arms told me I could take him if I needed to. The exit to my right was clear, so I doubted I’d have to.

“That so?” I replied. “You get the gold star.”

“My roommate went to Westfield High. He was there.”

He didn’t need to tell me what he was ‘there’ for. I grabbed a pan and started scrubbing, focusing my attention on getting rid of the cooked-on sauce. I was not going to be drawn into a conversation about the past. I figured it would only be a matter of time before I was recognized by someone, especially with the tenth anniversary coming up, but I had hoped it wouldn’t be on my first day at a job where someone was willing to take a risk on someone like me. Jobs weren’t easy to come by for convicted felons, and I desperately wanted to keep this one.

“His name is Brandon Murray.”

The pan fell into the sink with a loud clang. I cursed myself for showing any sign of weakness. I snatched it up and resumed my task, scowling. He had to say the one name that I hadn’t forgiven myself for.

“You remember him? He don’t talk about what happened at all. It really fucked him up, though.”

Wow. Ignoring this guy was not making him go away. I had no idea what to do. I knew how I’d handle him in prison but reacting that way here would get me sent back there in a hurry. And I didn’t plan on going back.

“Don’t you have tables to clear, Brian?” I jumped as the deep voice resonated through the kitchen, cursing myself for the reaction. Brian had struck a nerve. I glanced up at my new boss, who was looking at me even though he addressed my co-worker.

“Yes, sir,” Brian said, flashing me a look that let me know the conversation wasn’t over, then headed through the door from the kitchen to the dining area.

“In my office now, Casey.” Miguel turned on his heel and marched off. I dried my hands then followed. Orders from Miguel did not wait.

Miguel Alvarez was the last person you’d expect to be a chef of haute French cuisine. He was big and burly, and sported tattoos up and down his arms and back. They even extended up his neck. Most people would be terrified to meet him in broad daylight, let alone a back alley. His gruff tone and no-nonsense manner played right into his appearance. I knew better, though. Underneath the ink, muscles, and scowl, lay a heart of gold.

Miguel gestured to the seat opposite the large desk that filled the majority of the small office and shut the door. I sat and waited as he took his own seat opposite me and shuffled through some papers.

“Brian giving you grief?” he asked.

“Nah. He was just asking questions. He recognized me.”

“Let me know if anyone hassles you. I don’t put up with that shit. There’s no judgment here.” He slid some papers over to me. “I need you to fill these out before you leave. They’re for taxes.”

“Sure, OK.”

“Casey….”

“Yeah, boss?”

Miguel looked at me like he wanted to say something, then changed his mind. “I expect good things from you. Don’t disappoint me.”

“Yes, sir. No, sir. I’ll try not to,” I replied, then headed back to the kitchen to resume my task.

Thankfully, Brian left me alone during the rest of our shift. He glanced at me occasionally, opening and closing his mouth in a parody of a fish. I washed every pan and stacked every dish as they came in. The fast pace and brusque attitudes of the chefs were things I was used to from working in the prison’s kitchen.

I had met Miguel three years ago when I was accepted into the state’s vocational training program. I was assigned to the kitchen, which I was grateful for since I had always enjoyed cooking. Miguel was a volunteer instructor in the program and was also a sous chef and an ex-con.

I learned the proper way to chop vegetables and what terms like ‘chiffonade’ and ‘mise en place’ meant. We were taught how to butcher meat and break down seafood. Once we had the basics down, we were allowed to actually cook and learned how to sear, braise, parboil, and properly season.

Miguel’s approach was no-nonsense. Anyone caught fooling around or treating the experience as a joke was expelled. There were plenty of others to take their place. I loved every minute I spent in that kitchen. Miguel treated us with respect if we deserved it and put us in our place if we got arrogant. Praise was hard-earned, and when it was offered, you knew you had done well.

I absorbed everything that Miguel taught us like a sponge. I found that I loved cooking and putting my own twists on the recipes we were given. The first time I changed the spices, Miguel lit into me for not following the recipe. If I ever got good enough to work in a real restaurant, no freelancing was allowed. I was not a chef or even good enough to be a line cook at that point. Miguel pointed out that it was the height of arrogance to even think of changing the flavoring combination when I had no experience. I felt about six inches high when he was finished berating me, but then I was encouraged when he winked at me as he turned away.

I eventually became good enough to cook in the prison kitchen under the supervision of a man who made Miguel look like the friendliest person on the planet. My performance reviews were all good, despite the man’s gruff manner. Miguel approached me about a month before I was due to be released and asked if I’d be interested in working as a dishwasher in his restaurant.

It was an opportunity reserved for very few people, and I jumped at the chance. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to even find a job after my release, let alone one in such an upscale place. There was opportunity for advancement, too. If I did well as a dishwasher, then I could eventually move up to prep cook. My dream was to become a sous chef and possibly even an executive chef. I wasn’t sure it was possible, due to my past, but I planned on doing everything in my power to make it happen.

Before I left after my shift ended, I asked the maître d’ if I could take a menu home and return it the next day. He looked at me like I had five heads with antlers but grudgingly said I could take one as long as I didn’t spill anything on it. I thanked him and tucked it under my arm, heading swiftly out the door before he could change his mind.

It took about an hour to reach the small room I was renting in a boarding house in a sketchy part of the city. When I was released from prison, I was given a list of places such as this that rented to newly released prisoners. This was the only one with any vacancies, so it’s not like I had much choice. I had just enough money from my work in the prison kitchen to pay for a week’s rent and give a small deposit. I really hoped I’d get paid from my new job in time to pay for another week, otherwise I’d be out on the street. These guys didn’t accept any excuses.

The room looked like it hadn’t been re-decorated in thirty years. Gold patterned wallpaper, long since faded to yellow, curled away from the walls at the corners. A single bed occupied about a third of the room, with the rest of the room consisting of a battered wooden table with two chairs and a microwave on top of a stand that looked like it was in imminent danger of collapse. The original color of the carpet was long obscured by years of stains and wear. I made sure to keep my shoes on unless I was in bed.

I couldn’t afford a TV, so my only source of entertainment was a couple of dog-eared paperbacks that had been donated to the prison by a library. They were the leftovers nobody wanted after a weekend of book sales. I added some water to a bowl of instant Ramen noodles—I had purchased them at the dollar store, four for a dollar—the only food I could afford on what was left after I paid my rent, and popped it into the microwave.

I managed to eat the whole thing, despite the taste of the delicious food I had been served before the start of my shift at the restaurant lingering in my mouth. After I finished my meal, I flopped on my bed and toed my shoes off. The dim light on the nightstand next to me was just enough to read the menu I had snagged on my way out.

I spent all night studying every dish on the menu, from appetizers to desserts. I figured learning the menu now would give me a head start if I worked hard enough to get promoted. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since the shooting, so I figured this was a better use of my time instead of lying in bed tossing and turning all night. Unfortunately, my body and mind didn’t see eye-to-eye on the no-sleep rule, and I eventually fell asleep, despite my best intentions to stay awake.

Nicky grabbed my sleeve and pulled me into the empty band room. “You can’t tell anyone,” he stated as he unzipped his backpack.

“What happened to your eye?” I asked, although I had a feeling I already knew.

Nicky scowled. “That asshole George happened.” The venom in his voice made me take a step back. He held the unzipped backpack closed and looked at me intensely. The expression on his face scared the crap out of me. His smile held a sinister quality, which was not like my best friend. “We’ll show them, though. They need to know how we feel when they mess with us.”

A chill ran down my spine. “We’re better than them, Nicky. We only have two more years, then we’re free.”

Nicky scoffed. “I can’t do this for two more years. They need to pay now. What the hell, Casey? They mess with you just as much as they do me. You sound like you’re defending them.”

“I’m not defending them. What are you going to do?” I asked.

“First you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Fine. I promise.”

He opened the backpack and tilted it toward me so I could see what was inside. My blood ran cold and I felt like vomiting. Nicky laughed when he saw my reaction, a sound I’ll never forget.

“You do know what today is, right?”

All rational thought had left my mind. He could have asked me my name, and I wouldn’t have been able to tell him. I shook my head.

“It’s April Fool’s Day. You don’t think these are real, do you?”

I raised my eyes to meet his, relief flooding through me.

Nicky raised a handgun and looked at it. I couldn’t read his expression, despite knowing him my entire life. “I want them to be just as scared as we are.”

“I don’t know, Nicky. We could get in real trouble for this.”

“What the hell, Case? This is our chance to get even! What are they going to do? Expel us? Good! It will make it stop!”

“What are you going to do?”

“We are going to bring these into the cafeteria, and when they’re all sitting together, we’ll make them crap their pants.”

Nicky’s eyes sparkled with glee. In that moment, my best friend felt like a stranger. I nodded. While terrified at the thought of Nicky’s plan, I didn’t know how to say no. He’d supported me through some really bad times, so I couldn’t deny him.

I stared at Nicky’s backpack as we waited in line at the cafeteria to get our food. I wondered why we were bothering. There was no way I was going to be able to eat the glop of macaroni and cheese and bowl of slimy green Jell-O. Maybe Nicky would change his mind about his April Fool’s joke. I didn’t think it was much of a joke. Yeah, George and his buddies were assholes, but life wasn’t too bad as long as we stayed away from them. Which wasn’t that often, unfortunately.

It turned out we never got the chance to eat our food. As we passed by George’s table on the way to ours, one of his cronies stuck his leg into the aisle as Nicky passed, sending him tumbling to the floor. He landed right on top of his food, producing loud laughter and taunts from the fuckers sitting next to my fallen friend. Nicky sat up slowly and removed his backpack. I felt nauseous as I realized that there was no way Nicky would abandon his plan now. His calm demeanor scared me. His face betrayed no trace of anger or hatred. Just single-minded determination.

Nicky removed two handguns and handed me one. I heard gasps and a scream as we rose and faced our tormentors. Nicky levelled the gun at the boy who had tripped him.

“Got something you want to say to my face, asshole?” he asked.

I thought the phrase ‘face white with fear’ was just an expression. Turns out, your face actually does get white with fear. The normal cafeteria sounds faded in a wave as word that we had guns rippled across the sea of students. The people closest to the door ran out, prompting Nicky to shoot in the air. I jumped at the loud explosion. For a fake gun, it sure sounded real.

“If anyone else leaves, the next shot won’t be in the air!” Nicky yelled.

Only about half the cafeteria’s occupants had managed to escape. Nicky turned to me. “Take Dave with you to lock the doors. If he does a crap job, shoot him.” He waved the gun at Dave, who made a strangled noise in his throat and scurried to obey.

Dave was one of George’s cronies, but not nearly as mean as the rest of them. My hand shook as I kept the gun trained on him while he and another boy—one I didn’t recognize—blocked the doors with tables.

As we walked back to the table where George and Nicky were, I made eye contact with Brandon Murray. The look of terror in his bright blue eyes almost made me drop my gun. The only word to describe Brandon was beautiful. His blond hair curled around his ears and the nape of his neck and he had eyelashes as long as a girl’s. He played sports—soccer, mainly—but wasn’t a bully like most of the other jocks. I’d had a crush on him since fourth grade but was too afraid to tell him. I didn’t need to get beaten up any more than I already did.

Dave must have decided to take advantage of my distraction, because the next thing I knew, he lunged for my gun, causing me to lose my balance and close my hand in reflex. The act of closing my hand caused the trigger to depress, producing an explosion of gunpowder and a violent recoil. I have no idea how I managed to hold on to the weapon.

I watched in horror as a red stain spread across Brandon’s blue jeans, and his beautiful blue eyes widened in pain and terror. The screams of my classmates echoed around me as they dove for cover, turning the tables upright in an attempt to shield themselves from harm. I emptied my stomach as I realized that this was no joke.

I sat upright in bed, the menu falling to the floor. I threw on a pair of jeans and my shoes, then stuck my room key in a pocket before heading down the hall to the communal bathroom. I emptied my bladder, then stood at the sink and splashed cold water on my sweaty face. My next stop was outside to smoke a cigarette. The nicotine did little to soothe my jagged nerves. I stood with my back against the brick exterior of the building, one arm wrapped around my stomach and the hand with my cigarette tapped against my right eyebrow rhythmically as the smoke wafted around my head. I found the movement oddly reassuring.

I cursed Brian and hoped that he wasn’t working with me next shift. It had been a while since my last nightmare, and I blamed his mention of Brandon for triggering this one. I finished my cigarette, stomped it out on the ground, then headed back inside.

There was a pile of pots, pans, and dishes already accumulated in the sink when I headed into the restaurant’s kitchen the next day. I didn’t need to be told what to do, so I went right to work and quickly emptied the sink. I was assigned pot and pan duty, while someone I hadn’t met yet washed dishes and cutlery. Brian was working, but he thankfully left me alone.

The prep cooks’ station was located to my left, within easy view, allowing me to observe their actions as I performed my mindless tasks. Most of them moved with smooth efficiency, peeling and chopping with a speed that would leave most people fingerless. Potatoes, carrots, onions, and tomatoes were sliced into various sizes and placed in metallic containers.

I hoped to one day work alongside them and pass the soapy sponge to the next poor soul in need of a buck. As the evening wore on, I found myself paying attention to one prep cook in particular. His hand trembled as he sliced into the various vegetables, producing irregular-sized pieces. Meat and vegetables needed to be cut the same size to ensure they cooked at the same rate. He also frequently wiped his brow, then wiped his hands on his apron. Not exactly sanitary.

I recognized the signs. I’d seen them in so many new inmates while I was in prison. This guy was jonesing. It was apparent he knew his work was shoddy, but he didn’t care. He mixed the stuff he was prepping in with another cook’s and divided them between two containers. He eventually took a break, and when he returned from the bathroom, his hands no longer shook, and he moved with speed and efficiency. He’d gotten his fix.

I seethed inwardly. This asshole was jeopardizing future employment opportunities for ex-cons. It was hard enough for us to find jobs, and this was precisely the reason. I knew I could do a better job in my sleep than this guy. One of the things Miguel praised me on was my knife cuts. I lowered my head and focused on scrubbing pots and pans until they shone. One thing I learned in prison was to keep my mouth shut. It wouldn’t take long for Miguel to find the substandard work.

“What the fuck? Miguel! Check this out!”

I glanced in the direction of the voice and saw one of the line cooks holding up a metallic container containing carrots. Miguel headed over immediately and scowled when he saw the irregular pieces. “Who prepped the carrots?” he bellowed, then checked the other containers. He slammed down several in succession, spilling onions and potatoes onto the counter.

The prep cooks cringed in succession, scowling at each other. The cook partnered with the druggie raised his hand. “I did, Chef, but I did a better job than that.”

Miguel dumped the container of carrots onto the stainless steel surface and sorted the pieces abruptly. “If you call this a good job, then I suggest you find another job.” He stood with his arms folded across his chest. Miguel was an imposing figure, especially when he was angry.

The prep cook’s eyes widened and he stammered. “I… I… I… need this job, Chef. I swear, it didn’t look like that when I finished!”

The druggie cook stood to the side, his face contorting between a smirk and straight face. I wanted to punch him. Miguel’s stormy eyes met my own, and his scowl deepened. “Don’t you have anything better to do, Rafferty?”

I met his gaze, then briefly flicked my eyes to the druggie cook before turning back to the sink. I wasn’t a snitch, but didn’t think it was fair that a good chef took the rap for a bad one. I hoped Miguel got the message.

“Do these again. Now. Tables are already waiting for orders, due to your incompetence.”

“Yes, Chef!”

*****

Screams, gunshots, and blinding pain were all I was aware of. I counted the shots. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Then a pause. Eleven. I shifted my weight in an effort to alleviate the pain.

“Don’t move, asshole!”

The pain was due to someone’s knee digging into my back. I lay on the cafeteria floor, straddled by someone, staring at the growing pool of blood underneath Brandon.

“Brandon needs help!” I yelled.

“Are you kidding me? He needs help because you shot him!”

“I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know! I thought it was a joke!”

The person on my back lifted my head and slammed it onto the floor. Pain exploded through my skull.

“A joke? A joke? You motherfucking son of a bitch!” A flurry of kicks and punches rained down on me, and I curled into a ball in an effort to protect myself.

“Dave! Stop!”

The weight lifted off of me, but I didn’t move. The cafeteria was eerily silent for about minute before the sound of smashing was followed by shouting as SWAT team members stormed into the room like a wave of ants. I was jerked roughly to my feet and away from Brandon. Away from the cafeteria and outside to a waiting police car. Away from my life and everything I’d known.

The only good meals I ate were prior to the start of my work shifts. I wanted to save all the money I could so I could move out of the rooming house as soon as possible, so that meant eating four-for-a-dollar Ramen noodles and hot dogs heated in the microwave.

Due to the nightmares, my sleep pattern was even worse than usual. I was exhausted and ate my meal in relative silence, only speaking when spoken to. A middle-aged man with a bit of a pot belly entered the break room toward the end of our meal. Miguel seemed to recognize him and motioned him to the table.

“Henry. Good to see you.” Miguel shook his hand. He then turned his attention to us. “Some of you know Henry. For those of you who are new, this is how this works. No one leaves this table until Henry is finished. He’ll take each of you to the bathroom—one at a time—where he’ll watch you pee into a cup. No exceptions. You don’t piss, you don’t have a job.”

I glanced at the jittery prep cook out of the corner of my eye. His face had turned white, and he wiped his hands on his pants. I wondered what he’d do, since it was pretty obvious he wouldn’t pass. I guzzled a glass of water while I waited and had no problem filling the cup when it was my turn.

After I exited the restroom, Miguel motioned toward the kitchen, and I headed to the sink to begin my dishwashing duty. I had been working steadily for about fifteen minutes when Miguel said my name sharply. I turned to face him. He tossed me a white apron.

“Prep the carrots and potatoes. Deandre will show you where to get them.”

I nodded, suppressing a grin, and headed over to the prep cook station. Deandre showed me where to find the food, knives, and where to put the cut vegetables when I was finished. I peeled and sliced with efficiency, my skills honed by the years I spent in the prison’s kitchen. I worked next to Deandre, who watched my performance out of the corner of his eye.

I diced the last carrot and tossed it into the small, metal bin with the rest of the bunch. “What do you want me to do next?” I asked the large man next to me.

He scowled. “You’re supposed to do the whole package. We need more than a few bunches to get through service.”

“I did the whole container and the potatoes. I’m ready for whatever’s next.”

Deandre raised an eyebrow, checked my work, then grunted. “You can start on the onions,” he stated gruffly. “Do the Vidalia and the white onions separately. Different containers. Don’t mix them up.”

“Yes, sir.” I headed to the fridge and retrieved the two different varieties of onions. It didn’t take long for me to dice them and place them in the appropriate containers.

“What’s next?” I asked.

Deandre frowned. “You done already? We don’t put up with shoddy work here.” He dumped out the container of white onions and sorted through them. I figured he was checking to make sure my knife cuts were even. I knew they were.

“These’ll do. You can do the artichokes next.”

I set to my new task. I had a feeling I had just been praised highly by the grumpy prep cook.

“Where’s the onions for the Alsatian tart?” one of the line cooks snapped.

I handed him the bin of white onions. He scowled, then slammed it down onto my station, causing some of the pieces to jump onto the cutting surface.

“Idiot! I need the Vidalia onions, not the white onions!” He grabbed the bin of the more yellow Vidalias and shook his head, muttering about incompetence.

“The Alsatian tart is made with white onions, not Vidalia,” I stated. “The Vidalia makes it too sweet when combined with the crème fraiche.”

The line cook’s eyes bulged wide and his face turned bright red. I took a step backward, instantly regretting speaking without thinking. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Nobody, sir. Sorry, sir.”

The cook tore into me, calling me every name in the book and questioning my parentage. I stood and took it all. It wasn’t the first time I’d been yelled at.

“What the fuck is going on out here?” Miguel thundered.

“One day on the job and this moron thinks he knows better than me!” I thought the cook was in imminent danger of self-combusting.

Miguel turned to me and crossed his arms.

“He asked for the onions for the Alsatian tart. I handed him the white onions, but he wanted the Vidalia. I read the menu. It’s made with white onions,” I stated.

He turned to the cook. “Is this true?”

“I know how to make an Alsatian tart!”

“Apparently not, if you’re using Vidalia onions. Casey’s right. It’s made with white onions.”

I thought the line cook was going to melt from the anger pouring off of him as he grabbed the container of white onions and headed to his station. Miguel winked and came the closest I’d ever seen him to smiling. “Nicely spotted, Casey.”

Deandre clapped a hand on my shoulder when I returned to my work. “Nice. I’ve never liked that pompous ass.”

I grinned. I was really starting to like this job.

*****

Six months later, I was still working as a prep cook. The druggie cook had taken off before he could be piss tested and never returned. I was paid more as a prep cook than a dishwasher, and it didn’t take me long to save for a small, one-bedroom apartment. I liked my job. I was good at prepping for service, showed up to work early and stayed late, and never took any time off. Life was looking up for the first time since I was carted off in that police car ten years ago. I should have known it wouldn’t last.

I slunk into my seat at the large table in the dining area just as the chefs emerged from the kitchen with the dishes they had prepared for our pre-service meal. While I wasn’t technically late, since my shift started after we ate, it was late for me. The nightmares had started again, leaving me exhausted and lethargic. I raised my hand in a slight wave and nodded my head in greeting. Deandre, on my right, and one of the line cooks to my left angled their bodies away from me simultaneously. The atmosphere in the room was charged with tension. I flitted my eyes from person to person, noting the stiff posture, frowns, and lack of eye contact.

My heart sank because there was only one reason for such a reaction from my usually-friendly coworkers—they knew. Brian was the only person who looked me in the eye. After our rocky start, he actually became tolerable. He had never mentioned my past again, and we chatted occasionally when we sat next to each other during the pre-service meals. I narrowed my eyes as I stared at him. He was the only one—besides Miguel—who knew my past. I couldn’t see Miguel betraying my confidence, so I wondered why Brian would do so now. His eyes widened, and he raised an eyebrow in question.

“Casey. In my office. Now.”

I stood and followed Miguel to the back of the building, conscious of the stares levelled at me with each movement. I felt like I was walking in slow motion; each facial movement, disapproving stare, and turn of the head exaggerated into a caricature that I was sure was going to lead to my firing.

I sat in the chair facing Miguel’s desk as he sank into his rolling office chair.

“Casey—”

“They know,” I stated.

Miguel nodded. “There was a special on the news last night.”

“I don’t have a TV. I’m not surprised, though. The tenth anniversary is coming up.” My jaw muscles bulged as I clenched my teeth. I was trying not to think about it, which probably explained why my nightmares had been so intense lately. “Am I fired?”

Miguel sat up, his eyes wide in shock. It was the first time I’d ever seen him rattled. “Fired? You’re one of my best employees!” He leaned forward and steepled his hands in front of him. “I told you there was no judgment here. I mean that. I’m going to tell you something I don’t tell many people.” He inhaled. “You have talent, Casey. I want to nurture that talent, and I can only do that if you’re here. Nobody knows yet, but Jack gave notice yesterday. I want you to take his position.”

I stared at my mentor, mouth open. I never expected to be promoted to line cook so quickly.

Miguel chuckled, a low rumbling sound I found oddly comforting. “Don’t look so shocked. See me before you leave today, and I’ll give you copies of the recipes.”

“I already know them all,” I stated, allowing a smile to creep across my face. “I asked Jack for them shortly after I started. I wanted to be prepared.”

“Why am I not surprised?” The corner of Miguel’s mouth upturned. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone or something. Laughter and a smile within five minutes of each other. Maybe Hell had frozen over.

Miguel’s expression returned to his usual grouchy demeanor. “Casey, I’m going to ask you to do something I don’t normally expect of my employees. We’re a family here, as you know, and in order for the restaurant to succeed, we need to work together. I think you need to tell the others your story.”

“I don’t like talking about it,” I whispered.

“I imagine not. But they need to know how you were tricked.”

I raised my eyes to meet Miguel’s deep brown ones. I saw nothing but empathy. “How did you know?”

“When I realized your potential, I researched you. I don’t normally look into my employees past. What’s done is done, and it’s the present and future that matters. My only exception is sex offenders.” He reached across the desk and patted my hand. “Tell them.”

I swallowed, then nodded. “Stay with me?” I asked.

“Of course.”

We entered the dining area, where Miguel addressed the assembled crew. “I think you all should listen to what Casey has to say.” He squeezed my shoulder. “We’re family here, and every single one of us has a past. Think about that before you pass judgment.” He sat to my left.

I cleared my throat and shifted my feet. I wiped my hands on my pants and crossed them in front of me, then put them in my pockets. I’d always hated public speaking. “Ten years ago tomorrow, my best friend pulled me into a room at school and showed me a backpack full of guns. It was April first, so he told me it was a joke. He told me they weren’t real—” I stopped, inhaled, then resumed. “See, Nicky and me… we weren’t treated all that well. Every day we were punched, shoved, tripped, called names, or worse. I’m not excusing what happened. But Nicky couldn’t take it. He said he wanted to scare them. Play an April Fool’s joke. And I was stupid enough to believe him.

“Nicky was my best friend. I knew him better than I knew myself. Or at least I thought I did. I didn’t think he’d have the balls to go through with it. I should have known something was wrong… I should have seen it!” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I believed him when he told me they were fake. It wasn’t until I was tackled, and the gun went off in my hand that I knew it was real. When I saw the blood.” I took a shaky breath. “I’m not excusing what happened. If I had gone to the principal, then those kids wouldn’t have died, and Brandon wouldn’t—” I stopped speaking. I didn’t want to talk about Brandon.

My co-workers looked at each other, the table, the walls… anywhere but at me. Deandre stood and walked over to me, stopping right in front of me. He was a hulk of a man, intimidating on a good day. I looked into his chocolate brown eyes when he clamped a large hand onto my shoulder.

“You're a good worker,” he said; his baritone voice vibrated through my chest. “I won’t judge your past if you don’t judge mine. We cool.” He squeezed my shoulder before retaking his seat.

Miguel cleared his throat. “I have an announcement. Jack put in his notice yesterday. Casey has agreed to step up to take his position.”

There was silence for a moment, and I wondered if I had done the right thing. Then one of the sous chefs stood and approached me.

“I can’t say I’m convinced by your speech, but I do know a good worker when I see one. Miguel’s word is good enough for me. Congratulations on the promotion.” He held out his hand and I shook it.

The rest of my coworkers followed suit, each congratulating me in turn. The show of support was overwhelming, and when I looked at Miguel he winked at me, the barest hint of a smile on his face.

“Enough chit chat. We’ve got a service to prepare for!”

Jack started training me as a line cook the following night. It didn’t take long for me to catch on. I had all the recipes memorized and had been practicing my skills in the kitchen at my new apartment. I felt good, despite the specter of the anniversary looming over me. I planned on going home and watching movies all night. I was too afraid to attempt sleeping, since I figured the nightmares would be worse than usual.

I punched out and turned to head out the back door, but ran right into Brian. “Sorry, man. Didn’t see you there.” I side-stepped to avoid him, but he stepped into my path.

“It’s raining out. Need a ride home?”

I groaned. The wait for the bus in the rain didn’t sound all that appealing, but I wasn’t sure I was up for conversation. Brian was usually very chatty, while I was definitely the silent type.

“C’mon, man. Take the ride. I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

Guess he was more perceptive than I gave him credit for. I decided I’d rather deal with Brian than the rain, so I nodded. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“I’m parked out front.” He walked through the kitchen doors into the dining area. I thought it was strange, but I shrugged it off and followed him.

He stopped about halfway through the dining room and stepped to the side, revealing a man sitting at one of the tables. His left leg stuck out in front of him, and a cane rested loosely in his right hand. The bright blue eyes that met my own had haunted my dreams almost every night for the past ten years. He looked almost the same as he did in high school, only older. His blond hair hung just above his eyes and along the nape of his neck. I thought the touch of scruff was a nice addition.

I couldn’t read the expression on his face. I’m sure mine was one of shock. While I knew he was Brian’s roommate, I never expected to see him here.

“I’ve tried to hate you, you know,” he said quietly. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”

I swallowed. Brandon had been in the hospital during my court appearance, so this was the first time I had seen him since the shooting. “Brandon, I—”

He held up a hand and shook his head. “Let me talk. Like I said. I tried to hate you. You took away my mobility. That bullet shattered my leg. They had to piece it back together, and at one point they even talked about amputating. I refused to let them. I can walk now, but I’ll always need a cane. I couldn’t play sports anymore. I wanted to play soccer professionally. Or, at the very least, get a college scholarship. I spent the last two years of high school in a wheelchair because I couldn’t walk. I did go to college, but I had to take out a shitload of student loans to do so.”

Tears streamed down my face. “I’m so, so—”

“Don’t. OK? Please, just… don’t.” He inhaled and ran his hand along his face. “My family hates you. My friends hate you. I tried. But I saw the look on your face when that gun went off. You were just as surprised as I was. I’ve never understood why. Brian didn’t tell me until last night that you work here. I made him bring me today. I think you know why.”

I nodded. “It the anniversary,” I whispered.

“Brian said I should listen to what you have to say.”

“You should do what you need to. I’ll answer any questions you have, or I’ll walk out that door if you tell me to go to hell. There’s nothing I can say that will make up for what I did.”

He gestured to the chair next to his and I sat, angling away from him.

“Why did you do it? Were things really so bad that you felt you needed to take lives?”

“Things were bad, but moreso for Nicky. He couldn’t take the bullying. I was depressed but would have dealt with it until graduation. I didn’t recognize Nicky that day. I’d never seen him so full of hate. He showed me the guns, but he told me they were fake. He told me we were going to play an April Fool’s joke. And I was dumb enough to believe him. I didn’t believe the gun was real until Dave tackled me, and it went off. It was an accident, Brandon. I would have never shot you. Believe me, you were the last person in that school I had any problem with.” I let out the breath I was holding in a shaky stream. “I’m so sorry for what happened.”

He stared at me, but I couldn’t read his expression. I met his gaze, hoping he saw the sincerity in my words. He eventually sighed and rubbed his leg. “I believe you.”

Prison had toughened me to the point where I thought I could handle anything, but seeing Brandon and hearing his words brought tears to my eyes.

His expression turned to one of curiosity. “You’ve never forgiven yourself, have you?”

I shook my head. “I have nightmares every night. I can’t forgive myself for what I did. And for what I didn’t do. Every day, I regret not going to the principal. But I honestly never thought he’d go through with it. I know that doesn’t excuse what happened. But I could have saved them… and you… if I’d just—”

“It sounds like you’re just as much a victim as the rest of us.”

I snorted. “Hardly. I don’t deserve sympathy.”

“Have you been in therapy?”

I shook my head.

“Well, you should start. It really helped me come to terms with my disability.” He lifted his hand, hesitated for a moment, then placed it on top of my own. “Casey… I would say I forgive you, but the truth is, I don’t think there’s anything to forgive. You shot me by accident. I saw Dave tackle you. I don’t think you would have shot me otherwise.”

I stared at him, my mouth open. Nothing to forgive? I clenched my hands into fists, willing myself not to break down into a quivering mess. Tears streamed down my face as I recognized the torment mirrored in his stormy, blue eyes. Brandon reached into his pocket and held out a tissue. I blew my nose and wiped my eyes.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” I said.

He drummed his fingers on the table and shifted in his seat. The corner of his mouth upturned slightly. I couldn’t read the expression on his face. “You know… I had the biggest crush on you. Until you shot me. That was a bit of a turnoff.”

I stared at him for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked.

“Not at all. You were always so shy. I wanted nothing more than to draw you out of your shell, tell you how adorable you were. I was too afraid to, though.”

“Believe me, you were the last person in that school I would have hurt. Even though we didn’t really know each other, you were always nice to me. And your blond hair combined with those sky blue eyes and your soccer physique….” I ran my hand through my hair. “You weren’t the only one with a crush.”

He laughed and took my hand. The musical sound and firm feel of his grip sent a thrill coursing through me. “To be honest… I always thought you were the cutest boy in school. I wanted you to notice me, but never once thought you returned my feelings.”

“Wow…I can’t believe you had a crush on me.” Stunned didn’t even come close to how I felt. I wondered if I was dreaming, and thought if I was, then it was crueler than any nightmare I’d experienced to date.

“Yeah. Go figure, huh?”

I laughed.

“Casey, this may sound strange, but I’d like to talk more with you.”

It took me a moment to respond. I was too overcome with emotion. “Yeah, OK. I’d like that.”

“Here’s my phone number.” He slid a slip of paper toward me. “Call or text me.”

“I will. And Brandon?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“I’m glad I came. See you later.”

“See you.” I remained seated as Brandon limped out the door, reeling from the experience, until Brian approached me.

“Ready to head out?” he asked.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “You have no idea what this meant to me.”

“You two needed to talk. I’m glad I could help. Now let’s get you home.”