8: Loose Threads

☽ Peter ☽

After school, I head to the hotel. Typically, in September, the guests are minimal, so my shifts are often spent doing my homework and reading. The building is as familiar to me as my house—some of my oldest memories come from spending my time at the front desk with my father as I spun in circles in his office chair and watched him diligently keep track of each guest by hand.

The outside of the hotel is marked by the neon vacancy sign; I pull into my designated spot before grabbing my keys and hopping out. My boots crunch into the gravel. It might not have snowed yet, but soon enough the town will be covered in a blanket of it.

Ducking into the lobby, I spot my father behind the crescent-shaped reception desk. The dark wood is the same shade as the wall, making the whole room look like a rustic cottage. The painting on the wall in front of me is a rendition of Northwood from a couple of decades ago, if not longer. The town consisted of mostly trees encircling it, and a strip of road for the downtown area. Train tracks connect it to the big cities, which still cut through the back roads and bring traffic to a halt. The ocean rests in the distance, a vibrant shade of cerulean that sometimes acts as the only reminder that there is life outside of Northwood.

"Salut, Pierre," my dad greets, standing to let me pass. I place my backpack against the desk and nod in return. "How was your day?"

He doesn't know yet. I consider whether I should tell him, but I don't particularly want to lose the sense of normalcy. He isn't looking at me with pity. I haven't been apologized to in a few hours. "It was fine. The usual. I have a physics test to study for."

"Ah, well, if you've got a question about that, I can't help you." He chuckles a little. "Ask your mother."

"Where is she, anyway?" I ask.

"She got paged. Some transplant for that patient she was telling us about," he tells me, moving to tap his book of records. We have a computer that tracks the reservations, but he is nothing if not committed to the habit. "You've got five guests to take care of. Two have reserved a table at the restaurant, so do the turndowns while they're out. Take fresh towels to the guest in room 105. That's about it."

"Got it." I flash him a smile and pin my name tag to my lapel. The moon in the corner of the tag shines with reflective silver; at the right angle, I can see my distorted reflection in the logo.

"You sure you'll be okay?" Dad asks. "You know that if you need anything, just call me. Don't let it be a repeat of what happened—"

I nod again and cut him off. "I can do it."

As he heads to the door, I breathe a sigh of relief. I set out my worksheets and tackle the problems, my pencil scratching against the page. I'm not like Nicole—she never studies, yet somehow manages to coast through school as though perfect grades are easy. We used to be competitive about it, although now I've accepted that I can never beat her at mathematics and computer technology. She could text me to tell me she'd hacked into the government files, and I wouldn't even question her.

As I finish reading over my notes for physics, two hotel guests appear from the elevator to ask for directions. I point them past the ballroom to the Lotus restaurant that takes care of our catering.

I wait a few minutes before grabbing my cleaning supplies from the back room. The elevator is stuffy, but reliable enough that it doesn't bother me anymore.

Cleaning is a solid distraction. It's better than dealing with customer service, and I get to listen to music. I slide on my gloves and press the play button on my playlist, resuming it from the last time I worked.

While I tackle the bedsheets and replace them with a fresh set, my thoughts begin to wander back to the Astronomy Club.

At least the first meeting wasn't a total failure. Nicole seems to think it was perfect. It took all of my restraint to correct her. She wouldn't notice that there was anything happening with me, nor that Evan kept averting his gaze from mine. I didn't even know his name until he appeared at the doorway, but he may as well have hit me over the head with his jersey.

I don't know. Why else would he come?

It just seems like the team isn't finished with me yet. I want it to end, but the whispers that erupt when I pass the cafeteria are endless. At least the messages to my blog have stopped. I'm back to posting in relative peace, but Suzanna was right. It isn't the same as before. My secrecy serves no purpose, and starting fresh would only restart the cycle.

If Evan McKenna is spying on me for Sam, he's not doing the best job at acting innocent. There are too many coincidences. Too many connections for it to work.

Why else?

I finish cleaning the bedrooms, moving over to the tiny bathroom. All that I have to do is replace the towels and wipe down the glass shower, leaving another bottle of shampoo and conditioner on the sink. When I started, it took me almost eleven songs to finish one room; now I can do it in less than six.

I slide myself out of the door and return to my desk. I have the sign-up sheets in my backpack, so I remove Evan's to look at. I've already read it before, but the words are hazy in my brain. His reason for joining had nothing to do with the club. It was the day of the week.

In the about me section, there are no words. It's just a drawing of Evan, with his curly hair falling over the left side of his face. He's given himself a down-turned expression and doodled four objects to the side. A clock with its hands placed at lunchtime, or midnight. An hourglass, a paintbrush, and a pair of ice skates.

When Nicole saw it, she shrugged and pointed out that it was inventive, not necessarily against the rules.

I don't know what I'm looking for. A clue, a reason to feel suspicious. A loose thread to pick at.

I let myself get distracted by homework until the hotel guests return from the restaurant to ask for local tourist destinations. I give them a pamphlet as they wait for a taxi.

The lobby returns to relative silence. I figure now is the time to take care of the last item on my list. I head to the back room again, this time to fetch clean linens for the room on the third floor. The hotel holds a total of sixty guests, but we only reach full capacity during the summer.

It was a few years ago when I started working with my father instead of observing him; my first summer, in fact. Back then, I was running back and forth between rooms every day of the week, slowly draining my social battery until I had nothing left to give. The chain reaction of little events had piled up; a forgotten reservation in the morning, a broken tap that my father had to fix. The breaking point came when a particularly unruly guest shut the door in my face, pointing an accusatory finger at the door hanger, turned to the side that read 'Do Not Disturb.'

As the elevator doors sealed shut and for the horrible few seconds that it took for me to reach the ground floor, I held my head in my hands and tried not to cry. It was once, but my parents can't seem to let it slide.

I guess I kind of get it. Riding the elevator with the towels in my hands, I wonder why my father thought I could do this. Why I convinced him I could do it.

I rehearse the words in my head, walking over to room 105. Knocking quietly at first, but by the third time I've gotten loud enough that the person on the other side can hear me.

A woman answers the door. I hand her the towels at a speed so fast that I almost drop them. "Here you go. I—I brought those fresh linens you requested."

Ugh. The exchange takes no longer than the span of a few seconds, and the door closes in my face immediately.

When the elevator door slides open in the lobby, I spot someone waiting for my return. As I grow closer, I realize it's an employee from Lotus. She tosses me a smile and places a cellphone on the desk.

"I found this at the table while clearing," she says. Her eyes are pinned to the wall behind me, and she fiddles with the fabric of her robe. Her dark skin is flushed with a slight golden undertone, and her raven black hair is tied behind her head with a glittery pin in the shape of a dragonfly. "I think it belongs to... one of your guests."

"Probably. Thanks," I confirm, searching the apron she's wearing for a name tag. She points at it with a sort of reserved smile. Dina, the tag reads. "Ah... you're a student at North High, right?"

Dina nods. "Yeah. I'm in my eleventh grade year, actually, but my family just immigrated here. I didn't know any other students worked at the hotel."

Admitting that I'm the owner's son has never sat well with me. "I only ever work every few days, so it makes sense. You know, that we've never..."

She blinks, staring blankly at the picture mounted on the wall, as though scanning the town's history. "Um, do you happen to have a microwave I can use? I brought food from home, but I don't have anywhere to heat it up."

I point to the back room. "It's in there. The door isn't locked or anything."

Dina mutters her thanks under her breath and busies herself with the microwave. The spicy smell of the food she's making wafts through the room, and she perches on the chair to munch on it.

There is silence for a while. I set the phone aside, pinning a sticky note to it for later. Lotus closes after dinner service, but the hotel stays open all night. Normally, on weekends when we're expecting guests, I sleep in the master suite and wake up at seven in the morning for breakfast and check-out time.

"How is school?" Dina asks me. Her question causes me to jump slightly. "Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you."

A hollow laugh escapes me. Outside, the light has started to seep away, and the sky has turned a vibrant shade of violet. "It's fine. What did you say?"

"Oh, I was just wondering how school is going. You've been staring at the page in front of you for a few minutes now."

"Ah." Evan's application form is still underneath my nose. I've reread it five times with no luck, not that he would make it simple. I don't know what I'm expecting; certainly, if he was spying on me for Sam, he wouldn't be stupid enough to include a cipher in his introduction sheet. "It's not bad. North High is fine as long as you keep to yourself. It probably sounds dramatic, but it's true."

"Nothing like High School Musical, then," Dina replies with a heavy sigh. When I look at her, she continues, "What? It's a good movie. Not reliable at all, but then again, I was relying on pop culture to teach me about the real world."

"A fatal mistake," I say.

Dina stands to toss her plastic utensils in the trashcan placed next to my desk. "I should get back to work. We've got a lot of cleaning tables left to do."

"Aren't you short a staff member? I can help you, if you want. I know cleaning tables and rooms isn't exactly the same thing, but..."

"I can handle it. Thanks, though." Dina rounds the corner, and I'm left to return to my homework. I had hoped that it would have magically completed itself by now, but since that hasn't happened, I guess I should probably do it myself.

Eventually, I make my way through my assignments, and when I remember to check the time, it's far past midnight. I shuffle from my chair to close the blinds, catching sight of headlights approaching from the street. As the car pulls into the spot next to mine, I recognize it as my mother's. She climbs out of the driver's seat in her shoes, her hair tied into rows of braids that form a ponytail, and she gives me a small wave through the window.

"Give me that." Mom moves to take a cloth from my hands and joins me in cleaning the dust from the desk.

"How was the hospital?" I ask. "Did everything go well?"

She sighs. "Well enough. I'm sure your father already told you the patient. We found a compatible donor. I wanted to be here when you came home from school, Pierre."

I pause. My hand stops, my entire body coming to a total halt. I can't move if I tried. "Who told you?"

"I speak with the other parents and teachers, mon fils. I have a lot of friends who were calling about it. The whole issue... I chose not to mention it to your father. I wasn't certain if you wanted to talk about it."

"No, I don't," I reply.

"Pierre," my mother mutters, placing her hand on my shoulder, "I love you. We both do. Tu me comprends? Ça ne change rien." (Do you understand me? It changes nothing.)

"Je sais." (I know.)

She squeezes my shoulder. "In truth, I have something to tell you. I am not supposed to yet, but... I think you deserve to know. You see, your father has every intention of giving you the hotel once you graduate."

The hotel? "What? I thought it was going to his investor. You know, the one he was dealing with before—"

"He negotiated," my mother interrupts. The smile she gives me is fleeting. "I tried to convince him it was a bad idea. That it would be better to leave it for later, after you've decided what you want to do. Pierre, ne t'inquiète pas." (Don't worry.)

I thought I was clear. The hotel is a family business, and I don't mind taking care of it during the winter. But the summer—doesn't he remember what happened the last time I freaked out? I thought I could handle it. I don't know if I can.

More importantly, I don't know if I want to. "What are you going to do?"

"I'll handle it. You are in charge of what you do. Karim had that choice. He went to university, then returned to work with your grandfather. I think... it's only fair that you are allowed the same opportunity," she promises.

These days, it seems like my life has two separate pathways. There is the road already created for me to follow; the ideal way, where I start working at the hotel and never leave. Then, there is the option of leaving it all behind.

"Pierre? Do you want me to help close tonight?" Mom tilts her head at me and asks.

I shake my head. "I'm fine."

How many times do I have to say I'm fine before somebody believes me?