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1
AVERY
Ican’t take another minute of this. My head is throbbing in sync with my heartbeat, my hands are cramping from gripping the piping bags, and the constant focus on these tiny rosettes is making my eye start to twitch. If that were all, I could power through the rest of the day, but Henri is in one of his moods.
The staccato bursts of his shouting are unpredictable and echo through the kitchen like gunfire. Even being in the back corner does nothing to muffle the sound. All week, he’s been like this, stomping around the kitchen, slamming pots and pans, and screaming at everything that moves.
It’s not even like we’re overbooked. It’s our normal workload. Something must be going on at home… again.
I want to crawl into the supply cabinet for the rest of my shift and hide.
Damn it.
My hands shake so badly that the rosette I’m trying to make looks more like a meatball than a flower. I sigh and turn around to rummage in the drawer for a palette knife to remove the meatball.
I really should have remembered to set that out with the rest of my supplies.
A large hand grabs my wrist, yanking it out of the drawer and spinning me around. I feel myself cowering under Henri’s glare.
Did he fly across the room or something?
I hate how weak and small I feel.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He seethes.
I flinch as flecks of his spit hit my face.
“I just needed a palette knife.”
“Why wasn’t it already out? Why weren’t you prepared?” he demands. “Any chef with basic fucking training would know to have all their supplies out and ready.”
He practically throws my arm down to release me. I fight the urge to rub the sore spot on my wrist. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s hurt me.
“And what’s this?” Henri says, pointing at my rosette meatball. “Is this what you learned off the internet, hmm? Is this a flower or a pile of dog shit? Do you think the Embroidery Guild paid us to cater their meeting so we could serve them shit on a petit four?”
“It was just one mistake,” I say, blinking back tears, “but look at all the others. They’re perfect.”
“Even pigs can be taught to master a trick or two. Why don’t you go back to your sty, Little Piglet, and open this job up for a real chef?”
He swipes the rosette off the cake with his bare finger and flicks it at me. It splats harmlessly against my apron, but for how much it hurts, it might as well have been a brick. The tears are flowing so freely now that I can barely see.
“Why didn’t you use the palette knife, Chef?” I whine. “Now I have to throw the entire cake out.”
“And how is that my problem?”
Henri pivots towards the rest of the kitchen like an actor on a stage.
“People, this is what happens when we hire someone off the internet with no experience to speak of,” he says, gesturing grandly.
I crumple to the ground, clutching my knees to my chest as I sob.
“Blow it out your ass, Henri. The petit fours look amazing.”
I jerk my head up in surprise-Mia wasn’t supposed to be in for another hour, at least.
Did she get called in early or something?
It doesn’t matter, really. I’m just glad she’s here. She’s the only one who ever stands up to Henri. There’s not a day that passes where I don’t wish I could be more like her.
