Page 25 of Distortion
Shit.
Where am I going to get the money for that? I suppose I’ll have to ask Shade to lend me some as John will have already left for that conference in Zurich.
I put the papers back inside and notice the small envelope that I vaguely remember from yesterday on the floor. I pick it up and glance at the clock, hastily shoving it into its larger counterpart when I see it’s already eight. I need to meet Lu soon.
I hurry into the bathroom and quickly brush my teeth before I head downstairs with the small box of teabags I was able to liberate from The Heath before I left. When I get downstairs, I start taking in a lot more of the house than I did yesterday. The stairs are carpeted, but the foyer to the kitchen is hardwood. I slink into the sleek, modern kitchen and grab a delicious-looking pastry from an open box on the black counter, not thinking much of it as I hunt around the matching glossy cupboards for the kettle.
‘What the fuck?’
I glance over my shoulder to see one of the juniors from the games room yesterday, and my heart ratchets up a notch. What does he want?
‘You might be staying here, but you aren’t one of us. You don’t get to eat our food.’
I glance at the pastry that I’ve already taken a bite from and push back the mortification that rises fast.
‘Oh. I’m terribly sorry,’ I say. ‘The box was open, so I thought?—’
‘Girls like you shouldn’t think,’ he snarls.
My head shakes a little and my embarrassment is replaced quickly with confusion. ‘Girls like me?’
‘Yeah.’
But he doesn’t elaborate.
I turn back to my task. ‘Do you have a kettle?’ I ask.
‘A what?’ he snarls.
I hold the teabags up. ‘To make hot water for the tea.’
‘Uh ... there’s a microwave right next to you, genius.’
For a moment, I think I’ve misheard him, or perhaps he doesn’t understand.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Surely he can’t mean that they usethe microwaveto boil water.
He points at the microwave next to me and I cast my eye over it. Then, I turn back to stare at him, hoping he sees the expression on my face for what it is: Horror and disgust.
Is that what they do to make hot drinks here? Granted, when I left the US I was only just thirteen. I’d never had a cuppa before then, but I just assumed kettles were a thing everywhere. Clearly not in this house, though.
Savages.
But I want my morning cup of tea, so I do what he seems to think is normal.
I know he’s watching me as I look around in the most logical cupboards for a mug and when I fill it with water from the tap ...faucet. He’s still there when I get the microwave to work and while I stare at it as it turns slowly under the light inside. It bings a minute later, and I take it out, copying the microwave’s ‘bing’ aloud and then wincing because I’m not supposed to do that. The junior doesn’t say anything, though, and I steep the tea, working it with a spoon because I like it strong before I add just a splash of milk.
When there’s only silence behind me, I assume he’s gone, and I’m startled when I find him still watching me as I turn back to the counter.
I frown at him and take a sip, instantly regretting listening to a word this idiot has said.
Microwave?No. The taste is awful. A kettle is clearly needed. Perhaps this important information was somehow lost here when the Colonials dumped all the tea into the Boston harbor that time.
I tip the mug into the sink with a sound of disappointment.
‘Never mind,’ I mutter. ‘I’ll do without.’
