Chapter 5-Umbrellas On The Inside

When I entered the class the next morning, my eyes instantly went to the window
beside my seat. It was raining outside, tiny rivulets of water streamed down the
surface of the window. Outside, the clouds were dark and heavy, blocking out any
rays of sunshine from escaping. I settled down into my chair and leaned back,
stretching my stiff spine.

Last night had certainly been uncomfortable. I had slept in an almost foetal position,
as any movement caused stinging pains in my abdomen. This morning, thankfully,
the pain had decreased and I barely noticed it. The bleeding, too had stopped and
the headaches were gone.

I arched my back further, flinching at the automatic prick in my gut. I pulled forward
and rested my chin on my hand, my eyes brushing over the rest of the class. Some
people were reading, talking, laughing, throwing a football back and forth across the
class and constructing paper planes. At the other end of the classroom, a bunch of
guys were watching me, watching the class. I blushed and turned back to the
window, my back to them. Had they seen me do my little embarrassing stretching
exercise? My worst fears were confirmed, moments later.

“I bet you wouldn’t mind doing her?” There was a chorus of laughter and I cringed
internally. Did they think I couldn’t hear them?

“I’ve seen better,” came the reply. Instantly, I was relieved. The conversation would
turn, judging by that sentence. I peered into the window, managing to catch their
reflections against the glass.

“Yeah? Who?” It was a blonde guy, sitting on the desk in a large sweater and black
pants.

“Her.” The guy with the hood up jerked his head towards some girls at the front.

“Stacy Meade?” The Blonde Guy chuckled. “I heard she’s a tiger in bed.”

“You’d be closer if you said snake,” corrected the Hoodie Guy. Blonde Guy frowned
at Hoodie Guy.

“Snake? What d’you mean?”

“Once she caught hold, she just wouldn’t let go.”

Everyone guffawed with laughter, and my eyes narrowed in anger. What the hell
was up with this guy? Embarrassing the poor girl like that? My ears burned as I
glared into the window, at their reflections. I watched as Blonde Guy knocked back
the hoodie off Hoodie Guy, only to expose Emo Guy. Eli.
I stood up when the bell rang and walked out of class, confused. Since when were
Emos so...popular? And so...whore-ish? I cringed and fought off an unwelcome
mental image. The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. I noticed how Eli seemed
to hang with Blonde Guy. Blonde Guy was a jock. It was pretty hard to miss, given
his burly, muscled figure and the fact that he carried a football under his arm,
wherever he went.

By lunch, I was utterly perplexed. Rory said Eli was an Emo. Blonde Guy was very
evidently a jock. So what the hell were they doing hanging out together? Our school
wasn’t incredibly tolerant when it came to clique mixing. Fraternising with the
enemies, as some said. Everyone in this school was labelled and thrust into groups,
whether they liked it or not. The school’s clique system resembled that of a
supermarket’s. People like Stacy Meade were the popular, expensive Pinot Noir in
the Wine Section of the supermarket. People like me were the battered chunks of
cod in the cold, desolate Frozen Fish Section. And people like Rory and her gang
were the grape juice lined in the refrigerators. They weren’t as expensive or as
popular as the wines, but she was well on her way.

I, the battered chunk of abandoned cod, couldn’t care less about my social standing.

At lunch I asked Rory about the ‘Emo’ she’d last talked about. She’d blushed,
stammered, but informed me that she was wrong: he was a jock. Then she’d went
on to say that being a jock only made him so much more ‘hawter’ and more popular.
I promptly zoned out, bored. I remembered to tell her that I would be home late
and that she should go home alone. She didn’t seem to care much, so I emptied my
tray (as I hadn’t really eaten anything) and went early to my next lesson.

By the end of the day I was exhausted and waited outside the school for Eli.
Hopefully I would learn the route through the alleyways, and wouldn’t have to rely
on him to guide me. I shuddered, recalling what had happened the first time I’d
stepped into those dark alleys. After half an hour of waiting in the rain, without an
umbrella, I deduced that he was not coming. I still had the directions to Cola on my
phone, so I decided to make my way there, on my own. I followed the instructions
until I was eventually standing in front of the entrance to the dark, foreboding
alleyways. I hung my head; rain was pelting down onto my head and shoulders,
chilling my body to the bone. It was now or never.

I lifted my head and stared in shock; a large yellow arrow had been spray painted
onto the ground pointing deeper into the alley. That was not there last night. I
would have remembered it. But, where did it lead? I had a tiny inkling, so decided to
follow it, only to find another and another. I followed the messy yellow arrows,
turning left, right, right again, through the winding paths until I stood, dazed in front
of a door. It had the word ‘Cola’ printed on it in huge block red letters. I pressed a
button, which I guessed was some sort of buzzer only to hear crackling. Soon a
voice was distinguishable.

“We don’t open till 6. Come back later!”

I pressed the button again.

“I said WE DON’T-“

“I’m here for the interview? For the bartender job?” I quickly said, leaning in front of
the mouthpiece.

“Oh right. Why didn’t you just say?” There was a buzz and then a clicking noise. I
pushed my hand against the door and it opened.

I was back inside the Club. I was vaguely familiar with the layout, from last night,
and made my way to the door at the rear, and knocked.

“Come in.”

I stepped inside the brightly lit room, to see the same woman I’d seen yesterday.
Her tight blonde burls were pulled back into a short ponytail. She was wearing a
grey blazer top, the rest of her body hidden from view buy the large oak desk in
front of her. She smiled warmly at me.

“Selene, right?”

I nodded.

“I’m Janey Wilson. You’re here for the bartender job? Wasn’t Eli supposed to
interview yesterday?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t feeling well. I thought it’d been rescheduled to today?”

She nodded and pulled out her phone, tapping into it quickly. Moments later the
door swung open.

“Interview her.” Janey said to Eli who’d appeared.

“Can’t someone else? I’m busy?” He answered haughtily. Her eyes narrowed at him.

“Doing what exactly?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Fine.” He turned and strode out of the room, and Janey gestured for me to follow.
He was sitting at the bar tapping his foot impatiently. I stood in front of him, slightly
disorientated. What kind of interview was this? Wasn’t there supposed to be a desk
between us? A sheaf of papers perhaps?

“Why the hell are you blocking my view?” He asked rudely.

“Well, where is the interview happening?”

“Here. Get behind the counter.”

No need to be so rude, I thought to myself as I made my way around the bar and
behind the counter. There was a large stack of shelves behind me lined to the ceiling
with different types of drinks; vodkas, rums, tequilas, brandies, gins and whiskies.
There were small cups overflowing with tiny decorative umbrellas and garnishments.
Jars were filled to the brim with glazed cherries, olives, lemon and lime wedges and
other assortments of fruit.

“What can I get you sir?” I joked.

“One orgasm,” he answered in a flash.

My jaw dropped. He tapped his fingers on the counter, and suddenly I realised he
was talking about the cocktail. I turned around, hiding my red face from his view, as
my eyes scoured the shelves. My eyes finally settled on the bottles of Cointreau,
Bailey's Irish cream and Grand Marnier. Quickly, I poured the drinks into a short
glass, garnished it with a cherry and pushed it towards me. He took a miniscule sip
and put it back onto the counter.

“You didn’t make it on the back,” he noted.

I shrugged. “I made the original version.”

“Do a Martini.”

I turned back around, browsing the shelves until I found the gin and dry Vermouth.
I poured it in a four to one ratio into a standard martini glass, without bothering
with a separate glass to measure. Stirring it, I dropped an olive into it and handed it
to him. He raised his eyebrows at my unorthodox method, but stayed silent. After
taking another minute sip he put it aside.

I spent almost an hour making what seemed like a hundred cocktails. The entire
counter was full of drinks that looked untouched. I sighed, tired as I handed him a
Manhattan. He took a sip and pushed it away.

“You can go now.” He said.

“I can go now?” I asked.

“The conversation isn’t going to go anywhere if you repeat everything I say.”

I raised my eyebrows, but said nothing. Grabbing my jacket, I went to the main
door.

“You start work tomorrow. Be here at 6,” he called after me. I stepped outside,
shocked.

I had a job.