Page 23 of Unexpected Pickle
I sit up. The room is dark. It’s night. No! I fell asleep! Did I miss the mixer? The beaver tail?
The clock reads 8:10. Okay, I’m late, but I didn’t miss it.
I dash for the bathroom, splashing water on my face. There will be no time for anything fancy. Are we supposed to wear chef whites? Surely not to the mixer.
I lunge for my suitcase. I didn’t bring much. No dresses. No formal wear. It is a working trip. But I have black pants and a silky cream top. That will do.
I chuck my jeans and sweater, shivering in the few moments between outfits. The new clothes are brutally cold compared to the ones I slept in.
My whole body feels like it is convulsing with the chill, but I move fast, sliding on flat black boots.
I don’t really do makeup, but I throw on some mascara and lip gloss. My hair! It’s in a messy bun. That won’t work.
I pull it down and perhaps because of some magic of the cold climate and my hot head, the elastic band has created soft waves.
I brush it, call it good, and snatch my key from the dresser. I shove it in my bra and race out the door.
The cold slams into me like a wall of ice.
Right. Wear your coat.
I look at the main building. It’s not that far. And I don’t want to fight the key, or figure out where to place my coat. I just want to get to the mixer!
So I make a dash for it, grateful for the clear sidewalks that don’t slush my shoes.
My hair flies out behind me as I run to the back doors of the lobby. My nose feels strange and full. I squeeze it. Is my snot freezing?
My fingers barely work as I pull on the door. My satin shirt is like wearing nothing at all, and I think my boobs might be turning to ice.
But then I’m inside, my hair down my back, and I take in a warm breath that doesn’t physically hurt like the ones outside.
Art spots me and shakes his head.
I know. Dumb American. Californian, no less.
I’ve learned my lesson.
My numb fingers don’t want to smooth my hair, but I manage to walk stiffly toward the restaurant door. A sign by the entrance reads, “Chef Mixer, private event.”
Maybe there will be a contact here who will be unconnected to my father, someone who will have new ideas, new places, and something to spark my next move.
Maybe today is the day I figure it all out.
I head inside the dim room, candles flickering at the tables.
A couple dozen men and women stand around, and I’m relieved to see a great variety of dress. Some fancy. Some in chef uniform. I fit in fine.
A server approaches with a tray of champagne flutes. I take one.
This is better.
Another server approaches with a tray of small plates, each one bearing a flattened bread sprinkled with cinnamon sugar and crisscrossed with a maple glaze.
I take one, ready to inhale it, when I feel the others watching.
What do they see about me first? My hair, my clothes?
Or my size?
