A Want So Wicked by Suzanne Young

My eyes are red-rimmed, and I splash cold water on my face, pulling myself together. Something is happening to me, something unnatural. I know I can tell my father, think I should, but at the same time—the idea terrifies me. I don’t know what I’d do if he didn’t believe me.
    I have to try to figure this out on my own. Or at least try to. But I can’t do that locked in the bathroom of a Mexican restaurant.
    â€œNot to sound insensitive,” Abe says, his voice echoing off the door as if he’s leaning against it, “but Santo is probably going to hassle you for the outburst. And you’re sort of late for work now. Is there—”
    I open the door, and Abe nearly falls in, catching himself at the last second. He’s pale as if stricken with worry.
    â€œSorry,” I say, trying to sound normal. “I’m obviously off my meds.”
    He laughs, looking unsure of my stability. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Maybe counseling would be a good next step.”
    I move past him, careful not to meet his eyes, not to give away my fear. I go to the time clock, punching my card. But as I hang it back up, I feel Abe’s hand slide onto my shoulder.
    â€œIf you need to freak out about something,” he whispers, “I totally understand. But you should try to keep it together today. I don’t want you to get fired.”
    I close my eyes, his smooth voice setting me at ease. His hand steady on my shoulder, holding me still. He’s right. I don’t want to get fired.
    Abe smiles when I look at him. “Better?” he asks, studying my expression. When I nod, he brushes the backs of his fingers gently over my jaw. “Good.”
    And then he turns and leaves the kitchen.
    Â 
    As I start my shift, I find that my panic has settled into a soft dread—something manageable. And it seems that work helps to keep my mind focused, almost as if I’m able to forget about earlier by acting normal. Acting as if it never happened.
    I avoid a lecture from Santo, sneaking past his office to meet Abe out on the floor. It’s nice to be able to throw myself into work, even if I’m still following Abe as part of the training. But he lets me take the orders, standing at my side like my own personal Mexican food encyclopedia. He interjects only when I really mess up my pronunciation. I’ve taken to just pointing at various things on the menu, but Abe is hip to my game and makes me try to sound them out.
    â€œThere is nothing difficult about the word albondigas. Say it with me, Elise.” He squeezes my mouth and moves it in tandem with the syllables. “Al-bon-di-gas.” I make the attempt, but then forget immediately when I’m at the next table telling them our soup of the day.
    We dive into the shift, the evening passing quickly as Abe explains how to garnish a plate, how to act offended when customers order a cheeseburger. Santo’s is especially busy, and Abe tells me it’s never been this crowded. He says they must be here for me.
    The job is fun, though. With so many customers it’s all a blur of smiles and half-filled iced tea pitchers. Between tables Abe’s got me cracking up, introducing me with a different name to each patron. I was Doris, Consuela, and even Godzilla—which he told them was my nickname. I think he was taking a shot at my five-eight height, but he says he wasn’t. Either way, I was a little annoyed after that one so he went back to calling me Elise.
    I’m pouring myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen when Abe comes up, smirking. “How will you ever sleep tonight?”
    â€œI still have an hour here,” I say, glancing at the clock to see it’s almost nine. “And besides, I haven’t been sleeping all that well.”
    â€œYou’re the hardest-working woman in the restaurant business.” He takes a packet of sugar and hands it over to me, leaning against the food