Two Kitchens

The walls of Rebecca’s room are blue. A light, neon aquamarine that happens to absorb every ray of visible light besides the one that makes her want to peel her eyes open like an unripe banana. The blue is complemented harshly with various grades of shiny metal, each hung like the pendulums used to torture heresies in the Spanish Inquisition. First place, honorable mention, first place, second place, third place; diagonally on the wall in that order, each engraved with surfers in various flashy positions that looked impressive to everyone except Robert Kelly Slater. 

Rebecca bumbled into the kitchen like the recently discarded cork of a champagne bottle. Flakes of mascara nested like fleas under her eyes, and patchy concealer congealed around her nose and cheeks. The ends of her hair were just starting to curl from tossing and turning in her sleep — the 1.5 hours of straightening done by her mother the day before cruelly undone. 

Rebecca only ever got to see her full head of curls when she found herself in the bathroom after a surf competition. A sprinkle container of freckles and pretty, blonde ringlets that curled around her neck. Lisa usually said she looked messy, joking that she must have gotten those features from the scruffy mailman that wore cargo shorts too big for his skinny legs and left packages inconveniently far from the door. 

Breakfast was half an avocado — no pit — with salt and pepper served on a plate meant for dinner mints. Rebecca quietly made a plate of eggs and toast to make up for the lack of calories before Lisa appeared like a police dog trained to sniff out non-keto meals.

“If you eat that you won’t fit into your dress for tonight,” Rebecca’s mother said, face lifted into a constant smile.

Rebecca did not flinch and answered with a full mouth, “What’s happening tonight?”

“Your father is giving that budget speech at the country club. You know the one.”

“Where he pretends to care about HOA fees and tells everyone that he’s working very hard on getting them lowered? Right.” Lisa ignored Rebecca’s rhetorical analysis and instead told her to be ready by 5:00 p.m. Rebecca sighed.

——— 

The “party” at the country club was in full swing by 6 p.m., and various millennials in steamed dresses and pressed suits sloshed against each other like the red wine in their glasses. Rebecca, furnished in a light pink dress with belled sleeves like a pretty ottoman, found a table as far away from her parents as possible. Her earrings were big and shiny and elegant and her white pedicure was accompanied by tan, beachy wedges. 

“Anything I can get for you, pretty girl?” A waitress with short, dark locs that ended just above her chin smiled as if she was about to burst into laughter at any moment. Her arms — exposed by a navy blue muscle shirt — were bulky and defined, carrying a large tray of chocolate croissants from table to table. 

“No, I’m alright. Thanks.” 

The waitress leaned over to the side of Rebecca’s head, and Rebecca noticed her tie was loose and poorly done.

“Listen, between you and me,” the waitress started, lowering her voice to a whisper. “These people are a lot more tolerable when you aren’t hungry.” She threw her thumb over her shoulder and raised her eyebrows higher than should’ve been humanly possible. Rebecca covered her mouth to snort, which made the waitress double over with laughter. The tray of chocolate croissants did not waver in the process. 

“Here, take a croissant. For your health,” she said, grabbing the pastry with two fingers and extending it towards Rebecca. “Keoni approved.” Rebecca noticed Keoni’s gold smiley piercing as she beamed. 

Keoni’s eyes shifted away from Rebecca and across the foyer, brown eyes dragging across the numerous drunken figures that awkwardly fumbled around the room. “Do you maybe—” Keoni met Rebecca’s gaze again. “—want something more interesting to do?” 

Keoni’s eyes widened slightly in a kind of silent excitement. Rebecca nodded, and her earrings shook back and forth against the sides of her face like the feathers on the back of an ink pen. Not like pendulums. 

In less than a minute, Rebecca found herself standing in front of the most concentrated ball of noise she had ever heard in her life. Fat, burly men in aprons clanged pots against metal tables with miraculous adroitness; pretty girls with papercutless hands placed greasy tickets on thick fishing line; tired women with thick arms flipped and stirred and fried; and each and every one of them was yelling something completely inaudible to everyone but the person right next to them.

Rebecca’s face, eyes frozen wide and mouth parted slightly, finally moved again when she heard Keoni hysterically laughing. It was different from her laugh before, and the new sound could be likened to the muffled cries of a hyena. Keoni wiped the tears from her eyes. 

“Have you never seen a kitchen before?” Keoni said, placing a strong, reassuring hand against Rebecca’s back. “Come on. The waitresses are slightly understaffed. Meet Marley, Jemma, Alana, and Taejanae. They are the eyes and ears of this establishment and have the greatest amount of patience known to man.” Keoni did a dramatic flourish-bow and the girls giggled. Rebecca was suddenly aware that Keoni’s hand was still intertwined with hers, and she squeezed it tighter. 

As the girls dispersed — each running to various impatient tables — Keoni silently took off her own apron and tied it swiftly around Rebecca’s waist before backing up and making a little square with her hands. She smiled wide. 

“You’re a natural. There’s a notepad and pen in the front pocket. Knock yourself out.” Keoni was about to walk away when Rebecca practically saw the lightbulb appear in her brain. Keoni pulled her tie over her head. 

“There,” Keoni said, nose an inch from Rebecca’s as she slipped the tie around her neck. “You look perfect.”