Page 36 of Hateful
“How long is this thing going to be?” I ask as we enter the auditorium.
“Hours, I think,” Neville replies.
I make up my mind here and now not to attend.
There are a lot of things to do that I’m not qualified for: fixing the stage lighting, for instance, or programming the sound levels. I pretty much act as a gopher for my whole shift. A few professors watch over us and help, but it’s a senior student—the head of the committee—that really oversees all the work.
It’s nice to be interacting with people other than The Brotherhood for once. Most of the other students are friendly to me. I flit between people, hauling wires and other supplies, almost getting in as much exercise as I would have if I’d run this morning.
“Alex!” yells a professor.
I set down a big box full of electrical equipment before I call that I’ll be right over.
“Here,” I say to the senior student that needed it. “Carson told me to bring these to you.”
The boy’s eyes light up as he starts digging through the box. “Thanks, Alex!”
I’m so unused to being treated with even the smallest kindnesses here that I’m almost taken aback by his enthusiasm. I have to stifle a grin as I head off toward the professor who yelled for me.
He beckons me over and hands me a clipboard. “Have you ever been into the kitchens, Alex?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I’ll need you to go to them today and pick up everyone’s lunch.” He taps the clipboard he’s given me, so I glance down. It’s just a big list of food. “Do you know where they are?”
“Sure,” I reply easily. I tuck the clipboard underneath my arm and make my way in that direction.
Generally, students aren’t allowed inside the kitchens, so I’m strangely excited to see them.
I head into the dining hall, which is empty, and walk the length of it to the double doors leading to the kitchens. Immediately, a man in a chef’s hat stops me and starts rambling at me in rapid German. I freeze up for a moment before handing him the clipboard.
“Oh—lunch for the volunteers,” he says in accented English. “All right. This way.”
I gaze around as he leads me through a maze of gleaming stainless steel. It’s stiflingly hot in here. So hot I feel like I can barely catch my breath. Several men in white jackets and aprons bustle around us, some laden down with pots and pans, some with stacks of plates.
“Here we go.” The chef hat man stops and points at a steel cart bearing all sorts of food—standard American faire like burgers and fries, some Swiss foods, and dozens of desserts. My mouth waters at the sight of it. “You can carry?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Use this door.” He points past the cart to a door that leads out into the hallway. I suddenly feel like an idiot for walking through the dining hall.
“Danke,” I tell him, using just about the only German word I know and feeling immediately stupid about it.
He just nods and walks away. I hear him begin shouting over the noise of the stoves as I put the clipboard on an empty spot on the cart and grab the handle to start pushing it.
More people are starting to flood into the hallways since it’s almost lunchtime. I carefully navigate around them, but from the number of them who stop to stare at my cart, it’s like they’ve never seen food before. I feel my cheeks burning. I don’t like the attention, but this will probably be the last task of my shift, I realize. My stomach rumbles as the smell of the food hits my nostrils.
By the time I park the cart outside the auditorium doors so I can push them open, I’ve already started mentally picking out which mousse cake I’m going to claim for myself from the cart. There’s a wedge we’ve been using to hold open the doors when we need to, and I grab it and push it into place. I hear the buzz of conversation inside.
I rush back to the cart, grab it, and start pushing it inside the auditorium carefully since there’s a small slope from the doors to the stage.
But just as I start the descent towards backstage, I feel something connect with my back—hard.
I yell out in pain and fall forward into the cart, which immediately takes off down the slope without me. I manage to catch myself with my hands before my face slams into the hard floor.
I hear everyone gasp as ahead of me the cart rolls away, gaining speed and listing off to one side. A few people jump off the stage to grab it, but they’re too late.
It crashes into one of the rows of seats with a noise that could rival a small explosion. Beautifully made fresh food tumbles in all directions. The mousse cake I’ve been lusting after splats unceremoniously onto the floor. One boy is covered in pasta, but that’s the least of my worries.
