Hannah's Touch by Laura Langston

figuring out what was happening. And what I could do about it.
    She pressed a slip of paper into my hand. “Call him.”
    I stared into Marie’s warm brown eyes. She was just trying to help. Even if it wasn’t the kind of help I needed. I shoved the paper into my pocket. “Thanks.”
    Alan swaggered into the cooking station and plopped his bag onto the counter. Bottles clunked. “I’ve got everything we need for the sangria,” he said.
    Tom’s crutches thudded softly against the floor as he hobbled to Alan’s side. “For the virgin sangria,” he said. The two of them broke out laughing and started shoving each other sideways to get at the bag.
    If Alan and Tom brought booze, I was going straight to Drummond. I glanced at Marie. She was chewing her lip; she knew how I felt. Barely breathing, I watched them unload the ingredients: purple grape juice, apple and lemon juices, club soda, some oranges. No booze in sight. I started breathing again.
    Smirking, Tom leaned against the counter. “So, Hannah Banana, what can I do for you today?”
    The suggestive tone in his voice set my teeth on edge. But if we started arguing, we’d lose marks, and there was no way I’d let that happen. Ninety minutes, I repeated to myself. Ninety minutes and I’m free.
    I grabbed an onion, slapped it down in front of him, along with a cutting board and knife. “Peel and cut,” I ordered. If he was going to be an ass, I’d give him the nasty jobs.
    â€œI’ll peel your onion any day.”
    Alan snickered.
    Pretending not to hear, I reached under the counter for the grater. “I’ll grate the cheese.”
    â€œCheese, please,” Alan said. The two guys laughed like they were watching a special on the Comedy Network.
    I had the cheese grated in less than a minute. I set it aside, oiled a pan and glanced over at Tom. I wanted to brown the onion along with the green pepper and chicken. But the way he was goofing off with Alan, he was going to be a while. He’d put his crutches down, and he was having trouble standing. “Why don’t you sit at the table and cut,” I suggested, surprised by the jolt of pity I felt.
    He glanced at me. There was an odd, pinched look on his face. “Sitting is for wusses,” he said.
    Whatever. I washed and chopped the pepper, opened the package of tortilla wraps, greased the casserole dish.
    â€œYour onion,” Tom said when he set the cutting board on the counter beside me a few minutes later. He was bobbing all over the place like a sailboat in a storm.
    What a hack job, I thought. The pieces were way too big; I was going to have to cut them again.
    â€œProblem?” Tom asked.
    I glanced up, prepared to lie, and that’s when I smelled it. Booze. Something must have shown on my face, because Tom’s smirk deepened. “Have another job for me, Hannah Banana?”
    â€œYou’ve been drinking.”
    â€œSssh.” Tom shot a look to the front of the room, where Drummond was talking to a couple of other kids.
    Startled, Marie looked up from the flan crust she was rolling. Alan bolted to my side.
    â€œIt’s not even nine thirty in the morning,” I said.
    â€œYou got a problem with that?” he asked.
    â€œI’ve got a problem with you .” My anger boiled up, dark and heavy, choking my air, erasing all thoughts but one: Tom’s drinking had killed Logan. How dare he walk in here drunk and remind me of that?
    I poked him with my finger. “You’re an asshole, Tom Shields. A selfish prick. You don’t think of anyone but yourself. Ever. You only do what you want. Party hearty, that’s your motto, right? Well, that motto killed Logan, and if you keep it up, it’s going to kill you.” There was a blank, unreadable look on his face, and it inflamed me. I poked him again, harder this time.
    â€œDon’t touch me,” he snarled. His face