Page 8 of The Writer

“It’s really not a good time,” I tell her. “I’m running late for work.”

“Really.” Her pitch heightens. “You have a new job? Please tell me you’re teaching again.”

“No,” I say, my chest aching as though I can physically feel her disappointment pressed upon me. “I’m still at the restaurant.”

I never finished my degree at WU, so I’m not qualified to lead my own course, but last year, I started substitute teaching at different schools in the area. That built up my résumé enough to land me a secure job as a teacher’s assistant. I only fell into the role because some of my former classmates had suggested it. Many literature majors end up in the classroom, and even though I didn’t have my degree, I figured the job would at least buy me some time until I decided what I did want to do with my life.

I hated every minute of it.

The early mornings. The late afternoons stuck making copies in a cramped teacher’s lounge. The constant rush of having to monitor the halls, the cafeteria, the bus drop-off. Most days I’d scarf down lunch and forgo going to the bathroom for hours at a time. It felt like I was a glorified, underpaid babysitter, and all the aspects of the job I thought I would enjoy—sharing my love of literature with bright young minds—was just a crock. Teenagers draw their inspiration these days from TikTok and YouTube, not Faulkner and Hawthorne. They care even less about writing; thanks to AI, they can submit a completed essay within minutes, and the instructors can’t even tell if it’s plagiarized or not.

With each passing day, it became increasingly clear I’d made a mistake by taking the job, until one day I broke down at work,rushed out the double-doors, and never looked back. See, in all fairness, the black hearts aren’t to blame for every problem in my life. Sometimes, it’s just me at fault.

“I assumed you only worked nightsthere.” Her tone makes it sound like restaurant work is the lowest of the low.

“Not always,” I say, slamming my car door closed and stabbing the key into the ignition. “I picked up some extra shifts to meet with the Maidens more this month.”

“Maidens. Is that your little writing group?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And how’s that going?”

I exhale in frustration, silently cursing myself for answering the phone. Most topics with my mother are off-limits, but I particularly hate talking to her about my writing. She doesn’t even try to hide her skepticism anymore. When I was still a college student, she at least pretended to support my dreams. Once I dropped out, she never missed an opportunity to remind me just how much of a starving artist I am. There was a moment of pride when I took the teacher’s assistant position, but my mother’s emotional support ended as abruptly as the job did.

It’s yet another reason I hopeNight Beatwill go somewhere. I wouldn’t dare tell my mother I’ve completed a manuscript and it’s on submission; I’ll tell her once the book is a done deal and watch her eat crow.

“Becca, are you there?”

“Sorry, Mom. Like I said, I’m running late,” I say, searching the spots beside the restaurant for a place to park.

“It’s almost eleven o’clock. Even a morning shift there isn’t really the morning, now is it?”

“I was up late writing,” I say. I won’t provide further details than that, but it’s important my mother knows I’m not a complete dud. “Is there anything you wanted?”

“Just checking in. You know, I’m visiting my sister at the end of the month. You’re more than welcome to come. New England is beautiful in the fall, and I could loan you a ticket.”

“Can’t take off work, Mom,” I say. “Busy here.”

“Sounds like it.” She pauses. For a moment, I think she’s ready to fire off more questions. Then her tone changes. Her voice lowers, and she says, “I always worry about you this time of year. You shouldn’t be afraid to reach out to me.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” I say between gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”

“Ten years is a long time?—”

“I have to go,” I say.

By the time I exit my car and feed the meter, Nikki, the shift leader, is standing in the entrance of the restaurant, hands on her hips, eyeing me as I walk up the street.

“Sorry I’m late?—”

“This is the third time this month,” she says, as though she rehearsed this speech already. Her painted-in eyebrows make an angry M in the center of her face as she scolds me. “If you can’t make it on time for lunch rush, I suggest you stick to the night shift.”

“I said I was sorry,” I say, but she’s already stormed off.

As much as I felt out of place working in the school system, everyone is out of place here. Most people working in the restaurant industry are in transition. Students looking for some extra cash. People with more established careers that need to supplement their income. People, like me, who need to pay the bills while they’re trying to decide what they want to do with their lives.

Nikki fell into the latter category until six months ago, when Mario decided to make her a shift leader. Now she uses what little authority she has to make my life, and everyone else’s, a complete hell.

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