Part Harmony

Warnings for language and mentions of abuse.

Written for my first college creative writing tutorial. It's long and timey-wimey and ridiculous, but the characters slowly grew to mean a lot to me. I hope you enjoy!

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Later, when the tremors flee from her fingertips and sirens stop echoing in her ears, Daisy goes home and puts in the DVD.

She grabs a bottle of nail polish at random from the top of her dresser and sits at her desk, patiently giving each nail clean, expert strokes. Monochrome voices trade lines behind her, pouring from the small television propped on her bookshelf, distorted slightly with the quaint recording equipment of the late thirties. Remastered, remade, but always with that sharp bite of the old and overdone. She's watched this movie with her father. They had laughed at Dorothy's childish, pouting voice and decided that she was trying too hard. It was almost as funny at the time as the bad effects and cheesy acting of the witch.

Daisy overshoots on the pointer finger of her left hand. Pearly purple spills out onto her skin, gleaming up at her with a thick, sickly-sweet texture that somehow makes her stomach queasy all over again, and she wipes the entire nail clean. She'll do it over. And maybe the other ones, too; they could always be better.

Behind her, Dorothy argues with Aunt Em about Toto. A silly little girl, but how old was Judy Garland at the time? Old enough to know better. She and her dad have called it a sick pervert's fantasy before. The book isn't much better. Not that she would have known before last week.

She stops that train of thought and holds her nails up to the light. No, not good enough. The overlapping strokes are visible on the ring finger and there's too much gloop on the pinkie. She'd be better off starting from the beginning.

-x-

One week, two days, and nine hours before the event, Paul is not arguing with a customer.

"I put 'em both in there," he says, tacking on a "ma'am" as an afterthought. Two hours into his shift and he's ready to go home, and this bitch isn't making it any easier. The woman glares up though glasses filmed with filth at the menu of chicken buckets, chicken sandwiches, popcorn chicken, and thinly disguised chicken substitute. "Yes, it says right there. I get three sides. Two were mac and cheese. I only got one in the bag." Paul has never wanted to punch a middle-aged lady more.

"Ma'am," he forces out, "I don't think you counted right." He's not sure this is safe to say to a customer, but fuck it. He's not really sure he didn't forget the mac and cheese, but he's already miscounted two people's change today and Molly has been looking at him with those shape-up-stupid-or-you're-out eyes so he'd really prefer if this wasn't his fault for once.

"No. What kind of service is this? I deserve a refund. Where's your supervisor, I need-"

"Can I help you, ma'am?" Daisy looks as listless and unconcerned as ever. She's obviously unhappy to have been dragged out of her place in the prep area; Daisy seems to hate the front where she has to actually interact with human beings.

"Are you his supervisor?"

"No, but I can help you with whatever problem you're-" She is immediately cut off by an angry tirade about the state of service at this establishment and the rights of the customer. At no point while enduring this does Daisy change her flat expression or bother to look at Paul. She pushes past him to the register. Before the woman has finished her story she's mechanically counted and doled out the correct amount of money and handed her a refund form. Paul snorts.

Daisy finally gives him an annoyed look. She helps to get the line moving then retreats to her cave in the kitchens.

Well it's not Paul's fucking fault. Not everyone can be freakishly good at math. Sometimes the numbers just don't add up, and orders pour out of his head like sand in a sieve and that is not his fault.