Brittany Bends (13 page)

“We’re unpacking,” Mrs. Larson says, “and familiarizing ourselves with inventory. Go talk to Mr. Davis. He’ll tell you what to do.”

She nods toward the heavyset guy. He’s wearing the same kind of plaid shirt that he wore a few days ago and has on suspenders to keep his baggy pants up. He grins at me when I come closer.

“C’mon, hon,” he says. “Let me show you how to use a dolly.”

I’m thinking dolls, but he takes me to this metal contraption with a handle and two wheels at the base. He loads boxes on it, then tips it back and waves me over. I’m supposed to wheel that thing to an entirely new area of unfilled shelves.

It takes me a while to get the hang of the dolly. I have to load boxes onto it and then hold it properly so that I can slide the boxes off of it. It’s weird work: lifting, carrying, moving, driving the dolly, unloading, and then doing it all over again.

If I still had magic, I could do it all in an instant, but I honestly don’t mind. I get into the rhythm pretty quickly, and I can actually see what I’ve accomplished, which isn’t like anything else I’ve done (except cook—and I’m not allowed to do much of that yet).

I move boxes for a long time. It seems like hours, but I know it’s not, because I’m entitled to a break in the morning sometime, and those regulations Mrs. Larson had me read say I’m supposed to have lunch after four hours.

Mr. Davis showed me how to pick up a box so that it doesn’t hurt my back, but after a few loads, I feel the lifting in my legs and arms. I feel like I’ve stretched them out. My hands are getting sore too from the box edges, but I like the feel of the cool metal dolly handle under my palms. That’s kinda soothing.

Mr. Davis calls me Dolly Girl whenever he needs something, and then he giggles. He says, “Hey, Dolly Girl! Here’s another stack of boxes!” or “Doing great, Dolly Girl!”

He makes me smile, but he makes Mrs. Larson wince every time he says it. Finally, she tells me that I shouldn’t take him too seriously, a command I’m not sure how to follow, since he’s the one who is giving me orders. She also says I should ignore his language because she can’t educate him out of it.

I have no idea what she means by language. He isn’t swearing and Mom wouldn’t bark
language
at him for any reason. He’s organizing me and the two boys (whose names I didn’t catch), and he keeps us moving.

Finally, he calls a break, and we get to sit down in the break area. We have to pay for soda and stuff, which I didn’t know, and we were supposed to bring a lunch, which I also didn’t know. So I get myself a drink of water.

When I sit down, my knees actually creak. My arms are shaking. I drink the water. Then Mr. Davis asks if I have some quarters. I have to confess that I only have a five, and that’s because Karl gave me the money for lunch when he found out I hadn’t packed one.

So Mr. Davis goes over to the Coke machine (that’s what he calls it, even though it looks like it doesn’t have any Coke), and buys me a lemon-lime Gatorade—his treat, he says. I’m not sure if I should take stuff from people I work for, but one of the kids—whose name, it turns out, is Nathaniel (“Not Nate,” he tells me firmly. “No one should ever call me Nate”)—says I should drink it because it has electrolytes, which will make me feel better because I’ve been sweating.

I blush—jeez, me and blushing. I don’t like thinking about other people seeing me sweat. Athletes do it, but I’m not an athlete. I’m just working.

Like the mortals do back home. The people that Hera says are beneath us and Tiff says are there to do the things we don’t want to waste magic on (although, she says now, she’s learning that she was wrong), although my brother Hephaestus always tried to tell us we should value mortals who worked, because it was noble.

I’m not sure about noble. Most of the family ignores him because he’s always grimy from his work on his forge, even though he does make the best jewelry and everyone loves Hermes’ sandals and winged helmet, which Hephaestus both designed and made.

I’ve always liked Hephaestus, even though he’s really old (older than Athena) and never really says much. He once told me there’s value in work that the rest of the family doesn’t understand.

I don’t know about value, but I do know about sore muscles. And grime. I’m new to grime, but I know I’m coated in it. The boxes give off dust, apparently, and we’re moving stuff around. Before we go back to work, I go into the bathroom and take off my sweatshirt. The t-shirt is almost too much, given how hot I am.

I leave my sweatshirt with my coat and purse and get back to work. For another hour and a half, I’m Dolly Girl, and then Mr. Davis sends us away for an early lunch. I’m ravenous and buy a full-sized sandwich at Subway, which I devour. I’ve never been so hungry in my whole life.

By the time I’m back at work, Mrs. Larson takes pity on me and tells Mr. Davis to give me work I can do sitting down.

So I learn how to use the label gun—which is a real trick—and I spend the afternoon comparing prices, using the label gun, and making sure I put the right label on the right product.

Who knew there were so many details in putting together a retail store?

By the time afternoon break comes around, Mrs. Larson watches me stand up and groan just a little. She puts her hand on my back and says, “Let’s figure out your schedule for the week.”

Then she leads me into the office.

My heart’s pounding for no good reason. Or maybe it is a good reason. I have no idea what she thinks of the job I’ve done. But she wants me to continue, so I guess I did okay. I don’t know, and I don’t want to ask, and I’m worried, and she says, “What’s your schedule look like?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” I say. “Mrs. Schmidt put me in this contest play as part of my grade and there will be rehearsals, which Mom says have to work around my job, and I have a standing appointment on Sunday—”

“With God, I know.” Mrs. Larson smiles at me. “I’ve known your mom a long time.”

I frown, and try to parse what she’s said. I don’t think she’s talking about my father’s family, but I don’t know exactly.

“Can you work after church?” she asks, and I let out a breath of air. She doesn’t mean
a
god. She means the same God that the Johnson Family says grace to every day.

“Um,” I say, “I have another appointment after that. It’s…personal.”

Lise says that when you use the word “personal” at a job they have to respect it, and not ask about it.

“Okay,” Mrs. Larson says. “Why don’t we just do Saturdays and Wednesdays after school for now, and when you know your play schedule, you tell me and we’ll work around it, okay?”

I let out a breath. That was easier than I expected. “Okay.”

“So,” she says, “I’ll see you on Wednesday. Now, don’t forget to clock out.”

“I’m sorry.” I’m so dumb. “I don’t know what ‘clock out’ is.”

Mrs. Larson looks up, and grins. “Of course not. It’s your first job.”

She leads me back to the little computery thing on the wall.

“Now,” she says, “wave your card in front of that until you see your name.”

I wave my card, and the tiny screen says, “Thank you, Brittany Johnson.”

Even the machines are nice here.

“That’s clocking out?” I ask.

“It means you’re no longer getting paid for being here,” Mrs. Larson says. “So head on home, honey, and tell your mom you’ve had a successful day.”

“Thank you,” I say. I have to go to the employee room to get my coat and sweatshirt. It’s a slog to get there. I’m a lot more tired than I expected, and my legs actually ache. But I’m in a good mood underneath it all.

I thought I would hate work. But I liked this. It felt useful, not at all like being an Interim Fate. As an Interim Fate, I was faking it most of the time, and the rest of the time, I felt like I was screwing up.

Here, I actually think I can get good at the tasks they’ve given me. And the fate of the world isn’t in my hands. Just the fate of a few boxes, and maybe a shelf.

I like that better.

I wave good-bye to Mr. Davis, Nathaniel, and the other kid (whose name I never did learn) and then head out the door.

When the cold hits me, that’s when I remember I was supposed to call home to get a ride.

I cross the parking lot to Subway. I still have a dollar, and I can get myself chips or something while I wait.

I pull the phone out of my purse and flip the phone open so that I can press the right buttons to make the call.

The phone slides out of my hand, hovers in the air, and explodes.

Then my father appears as the bits of phone are falling to the parking lot. He’s short and square and, with his big nostrils and prominent eyes, looks terrifyingly like a bull. I always forget just how much until I see him.

It doesn’t help that his nostrils are flaring and his eyes are more intense than usual.

“So, little girl,” he says, “you really think you can make fun of all of us?”

He sounds angry. I’ve seen him angry before, but never at me.

“What?” I say. “I haven’t—I’m not—”

“Oh, yes, you are,” he says. “And we’re going to sort this out right now, with the help of your evil little empath and her friends, those meddlesome Fates.”

Then he claps his hands together and shouts, “To the Fates!”

And everything around me disappears.

TEN

I HAVEN’T BEEN magicked anywhere in months, and I forgot how disorienting it is, particularly when you’re not the one wielding the magic.

One minute we’re standing in the cold parking lot and I’m thinking about Subway and my purse and the phone and being grimy and wondering what the heck my dad wants and the next minute, we’re in this blankness.

It’s not really blank. It’s more like we’re inside a giant cone of glare. We’re surrounded by white and yellow light, and it’s a lot warmer than that parking lot, and quieter too. The wind had been whistling, and there had been traffic noise I’d already learned to tune out, and then so much silence that the only thing I can hear is my own breathing.

At least I’m still breathing.

Then we arrive in that damn library where I worked with my sisters for a really long time. The actual Fates—Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos—are stretched out on three different couches, reading books. All three women are wearing white satin tunics over flowing white satin pants, and white mule slippers with fake feathers on the top.

Daddy picked me, Tiffany, and Crystal, not because we were brilliant or anything, but because our hair color matched the actual Fates. Apparently, all he saw was eyes and hair, because Tiffany looks nothing like Atropos, who is dark-haired. Tiffany’s hair is not straight or quite the same kind of black. Her skin is much darker, and her eyes are much prettier.

Atropos looks like one of those women on the Greek urns, with skin that turns dark in the sun, but isn’t dark if she stays out of the sun. Her hair and eyes are a startling contrast to her skin (and she really shouldn’t be wearing white. Just sayin’).

In Daddy’s grand scheme, I was supposed to take the place of Clotho. Clotho, in her normal state (not some magical persona she puts on, which she does a lot), is a tall, willowy blonde. Her voice is higher than mine and Tiff once said that Clotho was the prototype for the dumb blonde. Only Clotho isn’t dumb. Not at all. I’m a dunce compared to her.

She has blue eyes like mine, but the comparison ends there. Hers are filled with a sharp intelligence that I can only aspire to.

Right now, she has those eyes trained on Daddy. He doesn’t seem intimidated as he stares back at her.

Slowly, all three Fates stand up. They tower over Daddy, but not over me. That’s when I realize I’m taller than he is.
That’s
a surprise.

“We are not going to say to what do we owe this pleasure.” Clotho lowers her pale eyebrows at me. Her stare is disconcerting.

“We had a hunch we would see you,” Lachesis says. She’s the redhead, and the only one of the Fates who looks like an Interim Fate. Or, really, the only one that shows the resemblance. She’s curvy and red-headed and beautiful, just like Crystal.

The Fates have a prescribed speaking order. They cannot interrupt each other. They don’t quite share each other’s thoughts, but they do seem to have a sense of what the next sentence is.

Or at least, we did when we were the Interim Fates. We also had to speak in a prescribed order, even when we were by ourselves. It drove us crazy.

But then the whole job drove us crazy.

I turn toward Atropos. She’s going to speak next whether she wants to or not.

She frowns at me.

“We have already denied your sister’s request to return to Mount Olympus,” Atropos says to me.

“What?” I ask. It’s not the best way to start a conversation with the Fates, particularly since they hate all of us Interims for taking their job and getting them fired (or term-limited, as the case may be) even though we had nothing to do with it.

“Your sister Crystal,” Clotho says. “We told her she cannot return to Mount Olympus.”