29/08/12: This chapter has been edited.

Thanks to BrambleBriar for the amazing banner at the side!

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“Spillage over at table three.”

I resist the urge to groan as Dad throws a checked dishcloth in my direction. By now, I’ve come to the conclusion that the people over at table three are determined to make my shift hell. The chubby seven-year-old boy has already spilled his drink three times, and seems incapable of keeping his food inside the rim of his plate. It’s only made worse by the fact the parents seem to find his antics utterly hilarious, continually laughing and cooing over him as I run around their table, cleaning, wiping and refilling.

What is it this time? Upon glancing over, I realize that the family of three have now moved onto dessert, and in front of the spoiled boy lies a huge chocolate sundae – one that will probably end up on the floor before he gets halfway through.

“Do you want me to get it?” my best friend, Ava, offers from a few tables away. Ever the good employee, her arms are full of serving trays and she’s skirting through the labyrinth of tables expertly. “After I’ve brought this stuff over to table six.”

As tempting as her proposition is, I don’t want to load my own work onto her. “No, it’s fine... I got it.”

The restaurant is bustling – with it being seven o’clock on a Friday evening – and there are only a couple of vacant tables. Mainstream pop music plays over the speakers, which mixes with the chatter of customers and various noises from inside the kitchen area, where Dad’s at work. For obvious reasons, this shift is one of my least favorites. Not that I particularly enjoy any of them, but there’s something about walking into the place on a Friday that brings with it a feeling of dread.

Sighing, I head over to table three, where the parents are now giggling hysterically over their precious son’s latest masterpiece – in other words, the smeared ice cream trail he’s left over the table. However, at Howard Grill, “service with a smile” is guaranteed, so I’m forced to suck up my irritation and grin at the customers with (false) enthusiasm.

“Can I get that for you?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Thank you, dear!” The woman beams at me as I lean over to wipe away the melting chocolate trail. She squints at my name badge. “You’ve been a great help... George.” She frowns. “Hmm. That’s an unusual name for a girl.”

“It’s Georgie,” I correct her. “You know... it’s short for Georgia?”

Her perplexed expression is enough to tell me she doesn’t get it. “Well, whatever your name is... you’ve done a good job. Do you like working here?”

No, I hate every minute of my shift with a burning passion and would rather be anywhere but smiling at irritating customers all evening is the most truthful response I can come up with. However, I don’t want to do anything that might damage my chances of a generous tip, so I fake a smile.

“Of course,” I answer, scrunching up the cloth in my hand. “It’s great. Um, can I get you anything else?”

She glances at her husband for a second before turning back to me. “No, that’s fine. We’ll just take the check now, please.”

“Sure thing,” I nod and smile, but the moment my back is turned, my face twists into a grimace. I head over to the cash register like the good employee, ready to total up their order and print the receipt, but Dad intercepts me before I can get there, beckoning Ava too.

“You two can finish up here,” he says. “I think you’ve worked hard enough today.”

Oh, thank God. I thought this nightmare was never going to end. If I spend one more minute in this stuffy restaurant, my sanity will be on the line. There’s only so much fake smiling you can take without going crazy, and I’m way too close to that limit.

“Thanks, Mr. Howard!” Ava chirps.

I nod thankfully in response, but that’s as far as my gratitude stretches – officially, my shift’s over, and that means I am no longer required to plaster a cheesy smile on my face. Thank God. Finally, the muscles in my mouth will be able to get some much-needed rest.

Ava and I waste no time in pulling off our aprons and tossing them to the side. In a matter of seconds, we’ve abandoned our name badges and grabbed our bags, heading out of the restaurant’s front door as fast as humanly possible.

Outside, the air is chilly and I curse myself for not thinking ahead and bringing a jacket. The black uniform shirt emblazoned with the restaurant’s logo is made of completely flimsy material and useless at maintaining my body temperature. I think I might be warmer wearing a bikini. And as if the freezing temperature isn’t enough, a light drizzle is falling too – coating my curly blonde hair with a layer of moisture that will make it frizz unattractively the moment I get inside.

Brilliant.

The end of the street is where Ava and I part to go our separate ways home. Quite frankly, the weather conditions make me want to sprint back to my house as quickly as possible so I can curl up on the couch with some hot chocolate and the Gossip Girl box set, but I don’t want to be rude to my best friend. Especially after she’s spent three hours picking up my slack on the restaurant shift.

I should probably stop doing that.

“Do you want to hang out tomorrow?” she asks, pushing a strand of jet black hair from her face. “I swear we hardly see each other now outside school or work.”

“Yeah,” I answer dismissively, not keen to get into a long discussion at the current time – or temperature. “I’ll call you.”

She nods in response and we bid our fleeting goodbyes before I set off down the street again. The darkness is a little unnerving, being alone, but I try to push the thoughts aside. If I wasn’t so unfit, I might consider sprinting the rest of the distance. However, I’m well aware of my regular performance in gym class – my grade serving as sufficient proof – and know that the only thing running will achieve is riding my bra up.

Not something I’m a big fan of.

When my familiar medium-sized house comes into view, relief washes over me. I quicken my pace, eager to get inside and change out of my damp clothing. The prospect of my comfy bed and a mug of something hot is sounding incredibly appealing right now.

My mind is so focused on getting inside that I don’t even notice the guy in the hoodie walking towards me until it’s too late. It’s only when we slam into each other with unnecessary force that I realize I’m not alone on the sidewalk.

Whoops.

The guy barely wobbles, causing me to wonder if he’s got an inhuman sense of balance. Being my ever-graceful self, of course, I don’t manage to steady myself in time and finish up the act by tripping over my own feet. A second later, my face is pressed into the sidewalk and I’m sprawled in a position I can’t say I’ve ever attempted before. It takes a while for it to even register in my brain; then, when it does, I roll over to catch a glimpse of the person I’ve just rugby tackled.

And I’m definitely not expecting the sight that greets my eyes.

Because – and I have to say it – he’s not exactly unattractive. Probably only a few inches taller than me in height, he looks about my age, if not slightly older. A mass of dark brown hair flops over his forehead, and even from my position of the ground, the intensity of his brown-eyed gaze strikes me. The rest of his face is obscured slightly from the dismal darkness outside, but it’s still enough to catch me off guard.

Not that I’m ever on guard.

“Uh… sorry,” I mumble awkwardly, forcing myself to initiate a conversation. I’m kind of expecting him to offer to help me up from the ground, but when he continues staring strangely at me, I decide it’s probably best to rise myself. Particularly as I don’t want the damp pavement making my butt any wetter than it is right now.

I struggle to my feet as elegantly as I can manage, trying to force back the fiery blush that’s threatening to make an appearance on my cheeks.

“You should watch where you’re going,” the guy says. At first, I wonder if he’s joking, but his harsh tone of voice and cold stare tell me otherwise. As soon as his gaze lands on me, I feel myself shrinking, immediately intimidated by his dominance. “There are other people on the sidewalk, you know.”

“Sorry… I, uh, wasn’t really paying attention.”

His brown eyes narrow at me and I feel even smaller. “Clearly.”

Okay, so maybe it’s unreasonable to expect him to be overjoyed that I crashed into him, but is accepting my perfectly civil apology too much to expect? Half of me wants to snap back, but the other half is way too daunted by his attitude to do anything other than apologize profusely and hope for his forgiveness.

I want to avert my gaze to the floor, but something about his appearance is intriguing me. The longer I look at him, the more his appearance seems… familiar. It doesn’t make sense, though – I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen him anywhere before. In a small town like this, everyone knows everyone, so any new faces are usually subject to gossip. I don’t think I’ve seen him around at school, and I can’t picture his face anywhere – so why does he seem so oddly familiar?

Maybe those long hours in the restaurant have started to affect my brain.

“Um… I guess I’ll be more careful next time,” I murmur, in a feeble attempt to stop him staring at me so disapprovingly.

“You do that,” he says, shooting me an icy glare. With that, he starts walking again, making sure to shove my shoulder as he does so. I want to say something, and if I were a bit more assertive I would probably put him in his place, but this is overshadowed by the fear that he’ll physically hurt me if I challenge him.

He probably wouldn’t hit a girl, but I’m not going to take the chance.

I brush myself off, hoping that the wet patch on my butt isn’t too noticeable. The last thing I want is for the obnoxious guy to look back and notice it. Fortunately, I’m now almost outside my house, which means I’m able to hurry up the driveway and take shelter under the dry porch in under a minute.

Retrieving my key from my pocket and unlocking the door, I try to push thoughts of the guy out of my head. He may have looked familiar, but I can’t put my finger on why. There’s no point dwelling on it – even if I did find out the reason, it’s not like I’m ever going to speak to him again. He’s the biggest jerk I’ve ever met, not to mention he makes me feel about six inches tall.

Who would want to be friends with someone like that?

Shaking my head, I open the door and head inside, now more focused on the comforting warmth of my bed that’s beckoning me from upstairs.

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Hey guys! So here's the first chapter... and I was really shocked about the reaction of the prologue. It was up 3 days and managed to climb to #48 on Teen Fiction, and if you go on Teen Fic/Humor, it's 9th! Ahhh, I'm so happy.

But at the same time, I'm pissed, lol. I just spent ALL of the money I've been saving for months and months on an iPhone 4S. And then I get it home and... it doesn't work. Well, it kind of does, but I can't get any signal. I've tried almost everything they've suggested on the internet, and if I can't get it working by tonight, I'm going to have to take it back to the shop tomorrow. FML.

I paid £500 for a phone that doesn't work.

Anyway, that was completely unrelated. LOL. Remember to vote and comment if you liked it, and recommend it to your friends! <3