Mrs. O’Riley sighs. “Just so you know, we do have cameras in every room of the building. We can see what’s going on at any time. So, please stay focused on the task in front of you.”
My face burns with the implication that something romantic will happen when Mrs. O’Riley leaves the room. Other than one moment of vulnerability at Hardy’s party a couple of weeks ago—that I’m starting to wonder if I imagined—there’s nothing behind Connor’s hard facade. He’s the same jerk he’s always been.
He stands there casually, hands in his pockets, as he looks up at the ceiling. I wonder if there really are cameras up there. Obviously, we won’t be making out, but the jury is still out on whether or not he might try to kill me.
Mrs. O’Riley grabs a giant sleeve of styrofoam containers. “Fill each of these with an eight ounce portion of dumplings, a four ounce serving of peaches, one piece of cornbread, butter, and plasticware. We have three hundred orders to deliver today. Do as many as you can.”
Without any further instructions, she leaves us to work.
I stare at the work area, purposefully trying to avoid Connor, but the space isn't big. His body is just there, and huge, and in the way. When I finally look in his direction, he’s staring at me.
“What?” I ask cautiously.
“Your hair is sticking out. It’s unhygienic."
“Okay.” I tuck the offending strands back under myhairnet. “Do you know which serving spoons are which?” I ask, holding them up.
“Do I look like a lunch lady, Adams?”
The harshness of his voice feels like a slap to the face. The next few hours with Connor are going to drag on. Wasting precious time trying to decipher which spoon is which will only force me to spend more time with him. I decide I don’t care if I’m using the right size spoon. If the director was really concerned about it, she would have told us which was which. I grab a few indiscriminately while watching Connor in my peripheral. He stretches a hairnet over his hair and starts setting up his work station. He opens several cans of peaches, dumps them in a metal bowl as big as a swimming pool, and puts it in the middle of the buffet.
Connor and I stand on opposite ends of the serving area and work in silence. The sound of metal spoons bumping against stainless steel dishes and styrofoam containers closing fills the room. The noises settle under my skin like an itch I can’t scratch, but I try to focus on the work in front of me. I’m careful to keep everything nice and neat in its own compartment. When I accidentally drip some liquid from the chicken and dumplings on the side of the container, I use a nearby cloth to wipe it clean.
I’m focused on my task, feeling good about my progress when I look up and see Connor’s stack of meals. He has about four more boxes on his side. I take note of that and keep working. I move a little faster as I fill the next twoboxes, but when I look over to see Connor’s progress, he’s now got five more boxes than me.
How is it possible that I’m moving faster and I’m still not able to catch up? Does he have to be so good at everything? Then I get a better look at one of his boxes. There’s a little bit of peach juice spilling out from the side. It’s dripping onto the box below it. He’s faster but lacks quality. A puff of indignation rises in me. Of course, it’s easier to go faster when you don’t care about appearance.
I’m careful to keep each serving clean and tidy. That is, until I realize that if Connor finishes more boxes, he wins at one more thing. I can’t let that happen.
All conviction flies out the window as I fill the next box, a little food spills into the compartment next to it. I leave it. When a piece of cornbread crumbles in my hand for the next, I don’t bother getting a different one.
Soon, I’m matching speed with Connor. My box count is getting closer to his, and I feel good about it until he picks up the pace. I move faster. So does he. We’re slinging food into our boxes, not caring about the mess on the table. Our box count looks pretty close.
Then the peaches run out.
We both stare at the empty container of fruit, then at each other.
“Go get more peaches,” he says.
I cross my arms across my chest. Connor has barely spoken to me the entire time we’ve been here, which is actually great, but the few things he’s said to me have beenorders. We’re both volunteers on our first day. He’s not my boss. He doesn’t get to tell me what to do. “No.”
“I did the first few cans.”
I wave my hand in front of me. “Then you already have experience.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your turn.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Neither am I.”
“Whatever.” Connor shrugs and starts assembling boxes without any fruit in them.
Red hot anger courses through my body. “Stop it.”
He sets aside an unfinished box and starts working on the next one. “Stop what? Making food for the less fortunate?”
“Stop trying to get ahead of me.”
