High Hopes Read online

  I looked at the bent handlebars. “I just got this last night.” I let out a sigh.

  He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Look—

  “And you know what else?” Hot adrenaline coursed through my body, straight to my mouth. “I could have died!”

  He stood up and eyed me skeptically, which only made me angrier.

  “I’m serious! Last year, motorists killed almost 20 cyclists in Manhattan alone, so you are lucky that I wasn’t one of them or you would be in the news as a murderer.” It amazed me how quickly I had retrieved this particular statistic from memory. Thank you, Halmuni!

  As he pulled up the bike, he wasn’t paying attention to me. Instead, he was looking at my ridiculous basket, reading the name “Mantis” to himself. “Is this really your bike?”

  For some reason, I suddenly felt fiercely protective of it. “Yes. It is a specialty item.” I have no idea why I said that, but I didn’t want him to know this was the only bike I could afford.

  Without hesitation, he withdrew three crisp one-hundred dollar bills. “This should cover the cost of repairs. Or buy you a new bike. Either way. If not, give me a call.”

  Three hundred dollars for my ridiculous Mantis bike? This obviously rich, privileged jerk clearly had no clue about the real world. But who was I to complain? Halmuni would have said, Ask him for more! Start limping and pretend you need go to hospital.

  Next, he reached back in his wallet and pulled out a business card. Made of thick material, the card had a light beige tint, the kind of high-end card you don’t print off your computer. The name IAN WILLIAM ANDERSON II appeared in embossed cursive blue letters that matched his car’s hue. Beneath the lettering was a single straight line and a phone number. Nothing else. Weird.

  “Do you think you’ll be okay? Do you need a ride?” He held my arm up to make sure I was steady. I could feel the warmth coming from his hand—it caused a kind of tingling sensation I never felt before.

  “I’m fine.” I yanked my arm from his grip as I pushed his money away. “Just on my way to work.” I glanced at the damage to my elbow and knee. Blood smeared into my forearm and my left shin, and I felt like that little girl on a tricycle again, counting bruises and blood spots to show Mom.

  “Oh, where do you work?” He slipped his wallet back in his pocket. He didn’t seem in the least concerned his super-car was illegally parked and could be ticketed or towed at any minute.

  “Poseidon.” I tried to sound more “adult like” and matched my posture to his. “That’s a restaurant. I’m just starting today.” I handed back his once-white handkerchief, which now had several blood stains on it.

  “I know that place. Super trendy now. You sure you don’t want a ride?”

  As I stood up, I looked directly at his face. His nose and cheeks were tan, as if he spent the summer at the beach. I suddenly became very self-conscious. He was so good looking. I must look like a disheveled mess. His eyes impressed me the most. Startled by the feeling of not being able to break away from them, I cleared my throat.

  “No, thank you,” I managed to croak. We looked at each other for a second. I had never been pulled into someone’s eyes like that. His were light, light blue, like the color of one of those unbelievably clean oceans by a private island. No. Stop that.

  “Okay, then how about I pick you up afterwards to go repair your bike? Maybe even grab a bite to eat?” This guy was relentless. He was probably used to girls drooling over him. Don’t fall for it Kelly. He must be a womanizer.

  “Sorry. Busy today.”

  I leaned over to get my bike upright, but he immediately reached over and pulled the bike up. As he leaned over to reach for the bike, I couldn’t help but notice his nice, crisp clean scent.

  “You smell like SeBreeze-Fresh Garden Scent,” I whispered, not realizing that I actually said it out loud. I was mortified.

  He chuckled. “No one has ever compared my scent to an aerosol can before, but thank you?”

  Completely embarrassed, I just needed to turn around the corner and speed off, way past that stupid blue car and those ... blue eyes.

  I began walking around him with the bike, but right as I walked past, he bent down.

  “Wait.” He picked up the books from the road that had fallen out of my basket. He reached them out to me, barcodes facing up. Next to the numbers spelled COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY.

  “This where you go to school?”

  “Yeah.” I quickly readjusted the placement of my basket, plopping the books inside. I hoped he didn’t comment on Columbia like Tim—I wasn’t in the mood for someone else to make a smart comment.

  “Cool.”

  I looked up at him, surprised.

  “Sure I can’t change your mind about tonight?” Yup, relentless.

  “The bike and I will be fine. Just some scratches.”

  “Okay.” He backed away. “Well, then ...”

  Voice trailing, he waved, then walked back to his car, opened the side, and got in. More pedestrians floated past. I rotated my handlebars and decided to walk the bike to the corner, or at least until I stopped shaking. I looked at Ian a second longer before he drove off, slowly this time.

  I didn’t need a new bike. Or a “bite to eat.” I was fine. He was probably just a spoiled brat, anyway.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “About time you showed up,” said a very agitated Sophia.

  “Sorry ...” My voice died in my throat.

  Arriving at Poseidon ten minutes after my fall, I was still in a state of shock and confusion. I could only imagine how untidy I looked: the sleeves of my beige jacket not quite rid of sidewalk debris, my jeans ripped around my scraped knee, my dark brown hair in a messy ponytail with the top of my hair inadvertently over-teased as a result of my helmet rubbing against the top of my head.

  I wished I had time to fix myself up better before coming in. It also didn’t help that a trail of dried blood covered my elbow and knee. But I did my best to appear confident, presenting my tight-lipped professional smile as I shrugged off thoughts about nearly dying coming here.

  Sophia sported bleached blonde hair in a tight, neat bun and perfectly arched eyebrows. She didn’t seem fazed by the fact I was out of breath or that I had to keep wiping sweat from my brow. Squatting behind the hostess stand, she lifted heaps of place settings as if she had magnets attached to her freckled hands.

  Then, she stood up, adjusting her hair so that not a strand was out of place and straightened her black top. She stared through me as if taking inventory of each movement in the room. Without warning, she turned on her heel toward the first row of tables. Assuming I was supposed to follow, I hurried after.

  Poseidon’s interior was an eclectic blend of Greek mythological statues and Chinese artifacts. The vaulted ceilings seemed to stretch as high as the billboards on Manhattan Avenue. Along the entrance, tall earth-colored Terracotta style Chinese warriors stood as if guarding the restaurant, and through the arched front windows, you could see a large marble statue of the eatery’s namesake, the Greek good of the sea and earthquakes—brandishing his massive trident.

  Striking, deep hues distinguished the stylish décor. Well-dressed men and women in smart suits and blazers fresh from their high-paying jobs leaned up against the dark oak tabletops. Chatting loudly to be heard over hip-hop beats blasting from the sound system, they threw back oyster shooters in between nibbling tapas-sized plates of dim sum. Meanwhile, servers clad in all-black uniforms similar to Sophia’s blended in with the elegant, yet chic, vibe, darting around with trays of food and cocktails.

  I did my best to shadow Sophia, but she zoomed through the crush of diners like a cheetah cat, her heels barely kissing the floor. Once or twice, I got stuck between her and a four-top, a casualty of the speedy servers racing to drop off Laksa noodles and various ceviche small plates. As Sophia slowed for a moment at the lip of the bar to inspect a half-dozen specialty drinks, I rushed over to explain my tardiness. “It wasn’t my
fault. This guy came out of nowhere—”

  “Make this one again.” Sophia told a female bartender with a nose stud. Then she turned to look me full in the face for the first time. “Get here late next time, don’t come back.”

  My mouth parted, but I quickly shut it.

  She looked me up and down. “You living on the streets?”

  “No, I was actually hit by a car today. That’s what I was trying to explain.”

  “That’s a good one.” The faintest glimmer of amusement flashed across her narrow face. Then her green eyes hardened. “But I don’t accept excuses.”

  “Oh, I’m not trying to give one. It’s the truth.”

  “Leave the truth to jurors.” Sophia reached over me to plop a cherry into a beverage a nano-second before the server took it. Then she rocketed off to the next part of the restaurant with me in her wake, talking over her shoulder. “I owe B.B., so I guess I really don’t have a choice. I have to take you. For now.”

  I didn’t like that last part. I vowed to make her think employing me was not a mistake.

  “How do you owe B.B.?” I couldn’t picture her striking up a friendship with anyone, especially him.

  “We’re a fusion restaurant focusing on various styles of seafood. Asian, Greek and ... Peruvian.”

  “Peruvian?” I didn’t see how this connected to B.B.

  She turned the whole way around to address me, walking backward through the crowd. Incredibly, she didn’t bump into anything or anyone. “Peruvian cuisine has a rich culinary heritage unexplored by modern restaurateurs. Anyway, some fusion bistro down 112th said we were ‘appropriating’ their recipes,” she said, using air quotes. “It was all total B.S., of course, but they slapped us with a C&D. B.B. helped us out of the legal PITA.” She finally took a breath. “Man, gotta love acronyms.”

  “PITA?”

  “Pain In The Ass.” Sophia switched back to charging through the restaurant face-first. “Before that, he and I went to Boston College together.”

  “You went to Boston College?” I ducked under a server’s tray carrying what looked like spring rolls.

  “Why the surprise?” She said with some rancor in her voice. “People who work at restaurants can have college degrees, you know.”

  “It’s just that you have a British accent, so I wouldn’t have thought you went to school here,” I managed to stammer out. I hope I didn’t offend her. I really need this job.

  She ignored my response and swiveled around a passing waiter to place a new napkin set up at a table beside the window. A middle-aged couple peered up at us expectantly. Sophia immediately turned on the charm, offering them an angelic smile. “Here you are. Anything else I can get for you?”

  The man shook his head. “How did you know I needed silverware?”

  “You must have eagle eyes,” said his wife.

  Sophia shrugged off the compliment. Walking away, she caught a young waitress by the shoulder. Grabbing her arm, she pulled her closer to whisper. “I shouldn’t still be helping your customers.”

  Blushing, the girl nodded, then scurried off. I watched her go, fearing that might soon be me. I continued after Sophia, trying to keep up. At each empty table she passed, she picked up glasses, wiped off crumbs with a towel, and tucked in chairs. I was getting tired just watching her.

  “On the plus side,” she said, returning to the narrow bar area to pour a beer from one of the many taps. She handed it to a waiter, then clicked on a nearby computer screen. “I guess you’re pretty enough to be a hostess.”

  I clumsily hovered beside her, not sure where I should go. “Oh, um thank—”

  “But you should know,” she said, handing off a glass of wine to the bartender who nodded thanks. “This restaurant business is warfare. You always need to stay one step ahead of your enemy.”

  “My enemy?”

  “Yes. Time.”

  Before I could process this statement, Sophia raced off to the hostess stand. As I rejoined her, she brushed me out of her way to allow in a tall woman, who was so beautiful people couldn’t help but notice her. There were a couple of men with those fancy, professional cameras that only real photographers use taking photos of her as she entered. She must be someone famous, I thought.

  “Hi there, darling, how may I help you?” Sophia purred in her sweetest voice.

  “Two please,” said the woman, as an equally dapper man wearing a suit with no tie joined her.

  “Great. This way.” Sophia whipped out menus and place settings without taking an extra breath. “Wait here,” she told me.

  I stood behind the counter, looking out of place in my scuffed jacket and untidy hair. Another couple came in and smiled at me. Oh no. They looked at me expectedly. I glanced in either direction as if some other hostess would magically appear to save me.

  “Two, please,” the man said.

  “Oh, um, sorry I don’t actually—”

  “This way.” Sophia emerged from nowhere, pushing past me to grab more menus and silverware. How did she keep appearing everywhere?

  I stood awkwardly at the stand until Sophia returned. “Remember. This is what happens when you call in sick. Other people have to rise to the occasion for you.” She waved over a waitress.

  A woman in her mid-20s came over. Her jet-black hair was pulled back, but hers was in a low bun, instead of a high bun like Sophia’s, and the tips of a blue cactus tattoo peeked out from beneath the sleeve of her tight t-shirt. Bright lip-gloss reflected off her full lips.

  Sophia grabbed a black apron from the back of the lowest row on the hostess stand. “Your apron looks filthy,” Sophia said as she handed it to the woman. I couldn’t help thinking it looked perfectly fine to me.

  The waitress untied hers, putting on the new one. “But I spot-cleaned.”

  Sophia frowned. “If I can still see the shadow of brushing sauce, so can the customers.”

  The server glanced at me, then squinted her wing-tipped, jet black, eye-lined eyes, and said, “Next time, I’ll use newbie here as a shield.”

  “Eva, Kelly. Kelly, Eva.”

  I offered my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Eva tied her apron in the back with a harsh yank at the end. Strutting back toward the bar area, she pretended to high-five a waiter carrying four plates on his hands and forearms.

  “Very funny, Eva,” he said.

  “Gotta keep you on your toes, tough guy,” she said before disappearing into the kitchen.

  “She’ll be training you next week.” Sophia pointed to the iPad perched on the stand. “What time does that say?”

  “6:46?” I felt like this was a trick question.

  Sophia craned her neck, taking in the restaurant. I followed her gaze. Nearly every table was filled with patrons. Server after server rushed to keep up with the orders: in and out of the kitchen’s double doors, back out to the main floor. Aspiring actors made up the staff of most LA restaurants, and I had never seen any of them work this hard.

  “It’s not 6:46,” Sophia said, keeping her eye on the clock as the minute changed. “Nor is it 6:47. It’s Dinner Rush Time.”

  “Right.”

  “Why am I telling you this, Kelly? If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

  “Sun Tzu?”

  “Good girl. You’re well-read.”

  I would have taken that statement as a compliment if I didn’t also feel like Sophia’s new pet. The phone on the hostess stand rang. Its high-pitched screech bounced off the high ceilings before she snatched it. “Poseidon. This is Sophia, may I please place you on a brief hold?”

  She put the phone down. A red light started blinking at its base. She sighed, the first sign of normal human life she had shown in the last 20 minutes. “In the midst of chaos, there is opportunity.”

  “Sophia!” someone yelled. I turned to see a woman in her 40s, clad in expensive fitness clothes. She tossed off a Lululemon headband, dropping it in a $1,000 Gucci duffl
e bag she used as a sports bag.

  “Janet.” Sophia beamed. “Lettuce wraps with scallop ceviche?”

  “Honey, you always know my post-workout.”

  Sophia typed in the order on the iPad. “Want a glass of champagne while you wait?”

  “You read my mind.” Janet plopped into a seat by the door. “Bless you, woman.” She seemed to genuinely love Sophia. Sophia seemed to love the love.

  I watched both of them as Sophia finished inputting the order. Janet used a makeup remover towelette from her bag to rub her face. Sophia reached under the stand again, handing me a black shirt with a trident in the right-hand corner. The word POSEIDON appeared in bright orange lettering above it. “This looks like your size. And here’s the application I need you to fill out for HR.” She handed me a thick packet of forms.

  “Should I fill this out now?”

  “No. Take all that home to complete it. Bring it back Thursday. 4 pm. Be punctual. We need to defeat our inexorable enemy.”

  “What?”

  “Time.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “You can go now.” Her hand shooed me to leave.

  I started to say goodbye, but Sophia left before I could form the words. As I watched her zip to the bar, I couldn’t help admire how incredibly agile she was—her body gracefully glided by all the tables like a well-trained, prima ballerina.

  Suddenly, I felt a tap on my arm. I turned to see Janet holding another one of her Neutrogena wipes. She circled her face with her hands and scrunched her nose. “Looks like you needed a little refresher.”

  Embarrassed, I grabbed the soggy cloth and forced a smile. “Thanks.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After fitting my scuffed Mantis bike between some brand-new Schwinns, I trudged up the white, concrete steps to Hartley Hall. Lifting my body step by painful step, I suddenly became very aware of my exhaustion. My intuition told me I didn’t want to work for Sophia. I didn’t want to ride on stupid Amsterdam Avenue, facing impending death each day, just to get to a degrading job requiring super-human energy levels only maniacs like Sophia possessed. I also didn’t want to attempt that while studying the many textbooks weighing down my basket. Classes hadn’t even started, and all I wanted do was sleep.