Still, cooking was cooking.
This has to work. It has to. If it doesn’t, I can’t go home....
Kyara sighed again, and turned back to her station. It’s not like there wasn’t always cleaning to do in a kitchen.
* * * * *
Kyara tossed and turned. The dream was back.
Dream Kyara wound her fingers through the mass of hair in front of her. Her fingers twisted and folded, pulling the hair into neat little braids. The head in front of her bobbed back a little with each tug.
No, no. This isn’t happening. Not again.
"Oww," said Keisha, pulling forward against her hands. "Why you hav'ta pull so hard?" Keisha's voice was high and whining, but Kyara just smiled.
"To make sure it stays," Kyara told the six year old. "Don't you want to look pretty for your daddy when he's done?"
No, Not her dad. Don’t make me look at her dad.
Both Kyara and the girl in front of her looked towards Keisha's father. The man stood hunched, his back to the street. He could have been kind of cute, but his narrow face was pinched with concern. His jeans sagged down, and the bandanna around his head declared his gang allegiance to anyone who cared to look at him. Kyara's papa stood talking to him.
Papa was older, gray hair now taking over the distinguished hair framing his light caramel face. He stood straight, compared to the hunch of the younger man, his suit falling in perfect, crisp lines.
No, Papa. I miss you, but don’t make me see it again. Don’t make me....
In the dream, bits of their conversation drifted over to Kyara and her young friend.
"I'll bring this to the police for you, Darrell. They can get you out. For now, we're just a young man talking to his preacher. It'll be fine." Papa’s voice was rich and powerful, just like it had been in life.
* * * * *
The blaring of the alarm pulled Kyara from sleep, and she sat up with a start. She could still see the fall of his suit, always so neat. She could still hear her father’s voice.
“It’ll be fine.”
Her cheeks were wet with tears.
Kyara wiped her face and rolled over, crossing her painfully empty bed to swat at the shrieking alarm clock. It wasn’t even light out yet, but restaurant prep started early.
Kyara shuffled through her morning, trying not to let last night get her down. The opening was slow, sure, but it was a slow kind of town. Once word gets around, it will be better. Plus, I opened on a Friday night, but this was still a working town. Farmers don’t really care about Friday nights, do they? They’ll take tonight, though, since they’re going to church tomorrow.
Yeah, tonight will be better.
Kyara managed to go downstairs into the restaurant with a spring in her step, if not a big one.
She unlocked and met the morning delivery. She thought she saw Mrs. Waite’s curtain’s twitch when the truck pulled up, but it was hard to tell in the early morning light.
Jan-3000 system, armed and ready, I guess, Kyara mused.
She kept herself busy with prep for that evening. Even for a tiny place like this, there was a lot to do, and it wasn’t like she had a sou chef. She let herself get caught up in the rhythm of the work, the careful chopping and labelling forcing away the remnants of her nightmare, at least for now.
When Crystal came in hours later, Kyara looked up in surprise. Time had gone by faster than she’d thought.
The perky teenager slid her backpack, black, of course, into the corner and came to stand by Kyara.
“I’m sorry you didn’t make much money last night,” said Kyara, still chopping. Crystal snorted.
“Pastor Eddie tipped me a pocket bible.” She favored Kyara with a smile. “It’s OK, though. I got to hang out with my friends instead of at home with my mom. Plus, air conditioning. Do not underestimate the value of your air conditioning.”