Free We All Looked Up by Tommy Wallach

stood just inside the door, looking over a reservation book the size of an atlas.
    â€œVolunteers?” she asked.
    Peter nodded. “I’m Peter Roeslin. This is Samantha Roeslin, Cart—”
    Peter’s sister interrupted, “I go by Misery.”
    The hostess looked Misery up and down—from her Sharpie-­embellished sneakers to the wisps of emerald hair sticking out from under her black woolen cap. “Nice to meet you, Misery. I’m Keira. Everyone follow me.”
    Stacy tugged at Peter’s sleeve. “What’s going on?” He just smiled innocently and shrugged.
    Keira led them across the restaurant floor and into the kitchen, which was already about a thousand degrees and bustling with ­people who didn’t look remotely pleased at the arrival of a bunch of high school students. A radio played something Spanish-sounding—all plinking guitars, piercing trumpets, and tight harmonies. Keira tapped the shoulder of an enormous mound of human being, who turned around as if pushing his way through a heavy revolving door. Where most people were made up of ovals and circles, he appeared to have been constructed out of cubes—a cube head on a cube body. He had a small goatee and long sideburns, and delicate vines of ivy-green tattoo spiraled from the top of his white collar halfway up the trellis of his neck. He held a large, gleaming knife made small by his huge cubic hand.
    â€œKids, this is Felipe, our head chef,” Keira said. “Felipe, these are your kids. Enjoy.”
    Cartier watched her go, unconsciously letting out a low whistle. He turned back into the unsmiling mug of the head chef.
    â€œYou checkin’ out my girlfriend, ese ?”
    The room went silent. In the years Peter had known Cartier, he’d never seen his friend physically intimidated by anyone. But staring into the eyes of an enormous, knife-wielding chef with more tattoos than a player for the Denver Nuggets, Cartier seemed to shrink.
    â€œDude, I’m sorry. I didn’t know she—”
    Suddenly Felipe emitted a laugh proportional to his size, and the rest of the kitchen joined in.
    â€œI’m just messing with you, man! You shoulda seen your face, though. Woo!”
    One of Cartier’s best qualities was the ability to laugh at himself, and his smile was genuine as he took the knife that Felipe offered him, handle first.
    â€œDoes that mean she’s not your girlfriend?” he asked.
    â€œShe’s like my little sister, man, which still puts her out of your league.” Felipe led them over to a low counter of white plastic, gouged and stained and gored with tomato pips. “So we’re gonna be moving you around a lot tonight, station to station, depending on what we need. Most of the work you’ll be doing won’t be for dinner, but this catering gig we’ve got tomorrow. For now, you’re all on vegetable duty. You wash, you dry, you peel, you chop. Basically, whatever I or anyone else in this kitchen tells you to do, you do.” He handed a black hairnet to Stacy, who held it as if it were a dead spider.
    â€œI have to wear this?”
    â€œHealth regulations,” Felipe said.
    â€œJust me?”
    â€œYour friends got hats on already. Speaking of which, any of you touch your hair, your face, your ass, or anything other than a knife or a piece of food, you wash your hands. You’re gonna be washing your hands all the time, starting right now. And use some fucking soap, yeah?”
    Felipe waddled off toward the range.
    â€œI like him,” Cartier said.
    â€œI can’t believe this,” Stacy whispered, wrapping her hair up into a bun and slipping the hairnet over the top. “It’s probably, like, never been cleaned.”
    â€œVery white trash chic,” Misery said.
    â€œShut up.”
    â€œMake me.”
    They cleaned and chopped vegetables for close to an hour; then Felipe split them up. Peter and