Chapter 7 - Tray Weight
The pass was too hot and too bright after the dining room. I slid back into line with my tray jacked under my arm and started plating salads I had already plated once. Doyle stood at the end of the steel counter with his arms crossed, watching my hands.
He didn't look at anyone else that way. I felt it every time I reached for the tongs. My face was still tight from crying and I kept my head down, hoping the kitchen steam would cover it.
"Emma." His voice cut through the clatter. "You're on the big trays for second course."
Rosa glanced over from the soup station. The big trays were the loaded ovals for the far end of the table. They took two hands and a shoulder to carry right, and Doyle knew my wrist had been taped since the banquet last weekend. He'd seen me rewrap it in the locker room.
I nodded. "Yes, chef."
He stacked three of them on my stand and started loading. Extra chargers he didn't need to send yet. Extra glasses. He didn't say it was punishment. He just kept adding until the steel bowed a little under the weight.
In the second rush, the line narrowed to just noise and heat. The dishwasher vented steam, the saute pans hissed, and someone kept calling "behind" every ten seconds. I worked left-handed when I could, trying to save my right wrist, but Doyle moved down the line and stood right behind my shoulder.
"Pick up your speed," he said, low enough only I heard. "Guests don't wait because you're tired."
My right hand shook on the edge of a water glass. I caught it before it tipped, my heart hammering so loud I was sure he heard it. The cut crystal was the same kind she held out there — Vivian with her stemmed glass — only these were empty and warm from the rack and they clinked too loud when my hand trembled.
Rosa bumped her hip lightly against mine as she passed with bread. She didn't look at Doyle. She kept her eyes on her basket and her mouth barely moved.
"He does this to new girls," she whispered. "Heavy trays till they quit or shut up."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Doyle was still there, checking my counts, and I knew if I stopped to talk he'd write me up for talking on the line. I lifted the first big tray onto my shoulder. Pain shot from my wrist up to my elbow and I had to lock my knees to stay steady.
Walking that hallway felt longer than before. The carpet swallowed my steps. The candlelight from the dining room looked soft from far away, but up close I could smell the wax and the roast and my own sweat under my uniform collar. My Peter Pan collar had gone limp with steam. I kept my gaze on the gold chairs, not on their faces.
I set the tray down at the sideboard without a rattle. That was the only win I got. My hand throbbed under the tape and I pressed it hard against the cold edge of the sideboard for three seconds before I headed back.
Back in the kitchen, Doyle was waiting with the second tray already loaded. "Again," he said.
Rosa caught my eye while she ladled soup. She mouthed, you okay? I gave her the smallest nod I could manage because the truth would have taken too much air. My wrist ached deep now, a dull pull every time I curled my fingers. On the third lift, the glasses slid an inch and I had to jerk my shoulder to save them. One tipped against another with a sharp ping.
Every head turned. Doyle stepped forward.
"Careful," he said. "You break it, it's on your check."
"I'm sorry," I said. My voice came out thin. "It won't happen again."
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He held my look a beat too long, like he was waiting for me to say more about earlier, about the dining room. I swallowed it. Rent was due Friday. My roommate had already covered me once. I couldn't afford a write-up, and I sure couldn't afford to be the girl who caused a scene at an engagement dinner and then accused the kitchen lead.
I lifted the tray again and carried it out.
