"Papá, open this." I handed him the glass jar of apricot jam that my abuela had lovingly prepared and instead of twisting the lid, he absently began pulling it from the top. With a buttered toast in his mouth, his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder and his eyes focused on the television news, he looked comical. I let him struggle for a while for fun.
"Carajo!" he swore loudly, the toast dropping on the floor and his fingers turning crimson from all the forceful pulling.
"Give it," I said complacently with a little smile, opening the lid with one jerk. "See, it's easy. I was testing you."
He started insolently, "I don't have time---" Then he inhaled deeply and relaxed to a placid countenance, holding back his tension. "I'm sorry for snapping. I was talking to a potential customer and he's not picking up the call. Hijo de puta---"
He was interrupted by the phone's ringing and he hastily picked it up, his demeanour changing like the switching on and off of lights. Sometimes, I wondered if he was my father or simply my mother pmsing under the guise of hairy arms and legs. He greeted as politely as a butler from a five-star hotel, "Oh hello sir . . . No it's quite alright, of course I understand . . . "
"Camaleón," I mouthed playfully and he shook his head, rare laughter twinkling in his otherwise joyless eyes.
He disappeared to the bedroom, talking about the specifics of his services and soon emerged with another unaccustomed, triumphant smile. I stared dubiously at him and he nodded smugly, confirming my thoughts. I squealed in delight, clapping my hands childishly, giving him a loud high-five and he sunk on the sofa, pulling me beside him.
"This is only the beginning Mariana, I bet we'll get many more customers that it'll be a daily occurrence," he said proudly and his optimism was honestly a breath of fresh air. I didn't want to spoil his cheerful mood by adding my pessimistic comments, so I remained quiet. He ruffled my silky hair, sighing. "What will I do without you?"
You won't have one mouth to feed. But what will I do without you?
"The credit all goes to you papá, I did nothing. Seriously," I said truthfully and he seemed to appraise my words as modesty rather than honesty.
"Let's go out for dinner!" he said impetously and I raised my eyebrows.
I tried to contradict him as delicately as I could, "Don't you think we should wait for the money to come first---"
"Money will come and go dear, happiness like this comes once in a while."
"In our case, once in a long while."
"Right," he admitted abashedly. "You didn't have to remind me that. So we're going!"
* * *
I was ardently writing a review on the movie 'Marriage Story' after watching it for the hundredth time and getting mesmerized by Scarlett Johansson and Adam Driver's performances. A pessimist like me thrived on movies which captured reality as effortlessly as this movie did. I published it on my blog and although I wasn't famous, I accumulated a dedicated bunch of followers over the past months and received their lovely comments on it.
I was deeply engrossed revelling in my few minutes of positive feedback and glory that I completely forgot about my day job and the necessary money that it brought home. I bolted to Bailey's Nuts armed with a box of tissues for protection against the manager's tsunami of spit which would inevitably follow as a result of my lack of punctuality. In the corridor itself, I nearly bumped into my next-door neighbour Abel who chuckled in his gruff voice and humorously asked me to slow down.
"I have work to go to, unlike you," I said in an unintentional snarky way which had an effective way of hurting him. He masked his real vulnerability by a mock hurt look, brushing it off with an air of derision. I found pleasure in making him squirm in discomfort, the way his greying hair and young face made me feel. Out of place.
"Well, I'll be the one to get out of here before you!"
"Challenge accepted." I smirked, striding briskly out of the corridor, yet intuitively, dread swirled in the pit of my stomach like spicy, burning curry being stirred in the bottom of a pot. Whether the dread was from the crazy look in his round, blue eyes or from the fierce competition of making it into the world, I didn't know. Whatever it was, I certainly didn't like it.
"Ah, Sam!" I called out to the lanky figure hurrying to the compound while I scurried after him. "Hey!" He halted abruptly and spun around, his movements agitated. "Where are you running to?"
"A date, fuck," he swore under his breath as he lifted the sleeve of his black bomber jacket up to check the time. "I'm so late, I'm definitely not getting laid tonight."
"Get used to rejections too," I teased and paced with him towards the narrow streets. He gave a small salute to the rowdies loitering near the bikes and they acknowledged him with a nod of their heads. "Wow, you talk to them now?"
"They're saner than half of the rich folks you have started to hang out with," he commented resentfully, then again habitually glanced at his cheap, brown strapped watch as if he expected a big revelation in the time passed between stepping out of the compound to crossing one street. "Do you think a girl would leave if a boy is forty . . . no, fifty minutes late?"
"Don't ask me, I'm likely to be late too, that's why we are friends," I smugly reminded him and we both giggled quietly, remembering the day when we both planned to go to the cinema, but neither of us showed up till the interval. "Sam, I have to go this way. Bye, bye . . . And have fun-no, actually you're super late, so I'll rather tell you happy being burnt alive by whichever angry girl is waiting for you!"
"Ha, ha, Mariana! I bet you, I'll still get laid tonight!"
"I admire the determination!" I shouted humorously at his spindly form running towards the subway. Sighing, I retrieved the tissues clumsily stuffed in my pockets for the gift that the manager would shower me with whenever I arrived late which was pretty frequent. I headed towards Bailey's Nuts and hopelessly pushed through the sticky glass door, my eyes glueing to the pot-bellied manager like iron towards a magnet.
He was whirling around on his new swivel chair with his large head tipped back that wobbled like a bobblehead doll.
He was blissfully unaware of my presence and taking advantage of that, I soundlessly moved like a ghost to the pantry. I found Tony, Lola and Isaac huddled together on the island, their innocent faces clouded with trepidation. I tapped on Tony's shoulder who let out a surprised squeak, his eyes wide then seeing that it was me, he placed a hand on his heart and murmured a prayer of gratitude and relief.
"What are you all plotting here?" I asked amusingly.
Lola said reproachfully, "I left these boys to look over my babies in the oven for a few minutes and they did this."
There were four batches of undercooked, gooey doughnuts on the white granite surface, all deformed and unfortunate looking.
Isaac said sheepishly, "Tony and I were worried of burning them so we thought of taking them out . . . "
"Sweet Jesus Christ, help thy children," Tony anxiously prayed, perspiring heavily.
"We can't put them back in or they'll be overcooked and worse," Lola said despairingly. "Oh my dear sons, what have you done to my babies!"
I clicked my tongue. "Very bad Tony."
Tony would have helplessly burst into tears right then if Isaac hadn't butted in. "I'm sure we can cover up before the manager finds out . . . "
"Oh, he would know! He would know!" Tony cried out like he was a decade younger than sixteen-years-old. "I can't lie to him!"
"Oh, excuse me pussies." I grabbed the bowl of whipped cream. "Add loads and loads of cream on what you call your babies- it's donuts by the way. This is the only way to save your whiny asses."
Lola and Isaac instantly followed my commands while Tony refused to take part in my devious ploy till I gave him one threatening look and he was devoutly creaming the mushy holes of the doughnuts.
An hour later, four of us wearily stood behind the counter with doughnuts that had Tony's best prayers and topped with towers of whipped cream so that they leaned on one side and I cleverly named them 'the leaning tower of Pisa' on today's special.
Isaac greeted the next unsuspecting customer with a convincing smile and I carefully lifted today's special leaning tower of Pisa with my tongs and placed it in the pretty box.
* * *
A/N :
I hope you guys still remember the A/N in the beginning of this book. In case, you all have forgotten it, I'll add it here again-
This book contains four parts which are to be believed to be written by the protagonist, Mariana, in her diary. She writes these four parts as a way of showing how things could have gone if she had behaved a certain way and chosen some different decisions when in crisis. All the four stories have a similar plotline (not same!) and are interconnected in terms of characters, their traits and their growth. However, the four stories are independent of each other in the way things tie up together and end.
E.g.- If "a" gets killed towards the end in the first part, "a" will be alive in the other parts unless mentioned that they're killed.
However, the character traits of "a" will be almost the same and grow throughout the four parts.
So whatever happened in the previous part (especially towards the end), Mariana's father in the hospital, Abel's disgusting assault etc never happened in this part.