Religious Education, task 7: Write about someone getting a job.
Word Count: 1683
Piers doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until his chest begins to sting. Wincing, he exhales, hoping Mr. Davenport doesn't notice his weird behavior. He forces himself to breathe, to act normal as his potential employer looks over the application one last time.
He's going to find something wrong, some reason not to hire him; Piers just knows it. Maybe it will be his lack of experience. Maybe Mr. Davenport will realize that Piers is one of those kids and decide to protect the store's reputation by sending Piers on his way.
"There's a fair bit of lifting required," Mr. Davenport says, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard as he studies Piers for a moment, no doubt taking in how scrawny he looks. "Are you sure you're up for it?"
Piers nods, grinning. "I'm stronger than I look," he assures him.
Mr. Davenport doesn't look convinced, but he shrugs. "Very well. You can start tomorrow," he says.
It takes every ounce of restraint not to jump up and scream his excitement. Piers just nods and stands up, shaking his new boss' hand the way he sees them do it on the telly. "Thank you, Mr. Davenport. I won't let you down."
The older man nods curtly before releasing Piers hand. "See to it that you don't."
…
"You didn't have to actually go out and get a job," Max says, pushing his dark curls back and securing them with a blue bandana before pulling down the mixing bowl. "We aren't struggling."
Piers shrugs. "Yeah, well, we aren't doing great, either," he points out as his cousin begins to carefully measure the ingredients.
Piers watches his guardian, and it makes his chest hurt. Max has sacrificed so much. He should have his own bakery by now, but Piers has gotten in the way of that. Now he struggles, working every double shift he can, trying to make ends meet. The least Piers can do is try to take some of the burden and carry it himself.
Once he's mixed the cookie dough until it's smooth, Max looks up at him, blue eyes bright. He offers him a smile. "I'm proud of you," he says.
Piers feels his cheeks heat up, and he turns quickly, too proud to let anyone catch him blushing. "Thanks."
…
Piers can't help but pause when he passes by a bit of reflective glass. He looks so strange in his white apron and blue-and-white striped hat. When he sees himself in his uniform, he sees a tall and gangly boy who is ready to prove himself, not some wannabe thug who hangs around the park and steals lunch money from weak and unsuspecting kids. His thin lips pull back into a toothy grin. Maybe there's hope for him after all. He doesn't have to be some street punk. This is a beautiful new start, a chance to make something of himself.
He fumbles with the black tie, adjusting the knot. It's perfect, of course. Max had taken the time to teach him how to properly tie a tie. Still, Piers adjusts it over and over, worried it might give him away, and Mr. Davenport might change his mind.
"Breathe," he tells himself before swiping his bony knuckles over his forehead and wiping away the beads of sweat.
It isn't easy to put on this act. Piers isn't a clean-cut, rule-following, productive member of society, and he very much doubts he ever will be.
Still, he knows he has to play his part. If he doesn't, everything can fall apart. If that happens, he will have let Max down.
…
"Who's he?"
Piers glances up to see an older boy–maybe nineteen or twenty–with dark green eyes and meticulously styled brown hair, also wearing the store's uniform.
Vince, the middle-aged man charged with supervising them, gestures at Piers. "Our newest worker. Don't look like much, but Polkiss is a hell of a worker. You could learn a thing or two from him, Iverson."
Iverson's pale skin turns an angry shade of red. He huffs and stalks toward Piers. Piers tenses automatically, prepared for trouble.
The other boy stops a little too close for Piers' comfort. For several moments, he just stares at Piers, tapping his foot restlessly against the concrete floor. "Polkiss?" he says at last.
Piers nods and turns away quickly, returning to work. The last thing he needs is for this bloke to distract him and make him look like he doesn't want to work. "What's it to you?"
"Not a common name," Iverson says, following Piers' movements, though he isn't actually doing anything but running his mouth. "Used to work with a Polkiss at Landrum's."
Again, Piers nods. He remembers Max working at the little cafe. He had loved that job, but Piers had gotten sick, and the owner didn't want to let Max have the day off to look after him. "My cousin."
"Are you a queer like ole Maxine?" Iverson asks. "I hear that's catching."
Piers' blood turns cold, and he stops. The box slips from his hands, spilling its contents onto the floor.
"Polkiss! Iverson!" Vince calls sharply. "Quit goofing off! Pick that up!"
Piers takes a deep breath and kneels, picking up the oranges and checking each one for damage. Iverson doesn't kneel or try to help at all. He stays close to Piers, checking a label on another box.
"It's okay. I can see why you wouldn't want to talk about it. I'd be ashamed if someone in my family turned out like that."
Piers looks up, blinking rapidly. Who the hell does this guy think he is? "Excuse me?" He digs his nails into his palm, trying to keep calm.
Iverson scribbles something onto a piece of paper before setting the box aside. "I'm just saying that I understand. It's disgusting, and I don't blame you for being asha–"
Piers doesn't even make a conscious decision to act. Before Iverson can finish his sentence, he pushes himself up, using his body's momentum to make the punch hurt. His knuckles connect with the other boy's mouth. Iverson's head jerks back.
It should be enough; he's made his point. Piers can't seem to stop himself. This is so natural to him, and instinct takes over as he punches Iverson a second time. Iverson falls to the floor, managing to break his fall. Piers doesn't give him a chance to get on his feet again. He lunges, fueled by anger and a fierce protectiveness. His fists fly without a thought.
How many times has he fought like this? How many people have laughed at him, so sure he can't do anything without Dudley or the others to support him? He isn't just some skinny streak of nothing. He isn't some clean-cut kid who will let some bastard talk to him however he damn well pleases. He is Piers Polkiss, and he is a wannabe thug, a bully, a fighter.
Strong arms grip him, pulling him back. The anger slowly fades, and he looks down to see his knuckles are covered in blood. He doesn't know if it's Iverson's blood, or if his knuckles have split. It doesn't matter. It's over.
…
His satisfaction doesn't last long. Piers finds himself in Mr. Davenport's office. The meeting is brief and to the point: Piers no longer has a place at the store.
He tries to pretend it doesn't hurt, but it does. Somehow he manages to keep his head held high. "Smug bastard deserves it."
Even Vince agrees. As he had escorted Piers out, he had confided that no one likes Iverson, but no one ever cared enough to knock him down a peg.
Despite the disappoint and the lingering fury, Piers can't help but feel proud.
…
"Shouldn't you be at work?" Max asks when Piers walks into the kitchen and tosses his hat on the table.
"I was fired."
Piers feels tears sting his eyes. He doesn't care about the job. It's just a way to kill time and earn money. Having to admit to Max that he's failed, though… It hurts more than anything else has ever hurt before. Shame sours his stomach, and he can't look Max in the eye.
"What happened?"
It would be easier if Max sounded angry, but he's just so Max. No matter how much Piers has screwed up since moving in with his cousin, Max has always been good. When Piers had been arrested, Max hadn't even raised his voice. He'd gotten Piers out and told him he needs to work on himself.
"My coworker knew you," Piers mutters. "He said he didn't blame me for being ashamed of you."
Max raises his brows, gesturing with his hand for Piers to continue. When Piers remains quiet and uncertain, Max says, "You got let go because some bloke was talking to you?"
Piers shakes his head. He wrings his hands together, biting the inside of his cheek until he can taste the faint metallic tang of blood. "I punched him," he admits. "A lot. I lost control, and…"
He trails off, unsure of what to say. How can he explain to Max that it felt so good to hit Iverson? Max is too pure, too good. He could never understand.
It doesn't seem to matter. Max crosses the room, standing on his tiptoes and pulling Piers into a tight hug. It still feels like everything is ruined, but his cousin's hug makes him feel like maybe everything will work itself.
When Max pulls away, he squeezes Piers' shoulder. "People are always going to talk about me," he says softly. "I've had to deal with it since I came out at sixteen. God, I know it hurts. But I am not a maiden in need of defending, Piers. I appreciate that you stood up for me, but just remember that people can be so shitty sometimes, and you can go around punching people for it."
Piers wipes his eyes before the tears can even cling to his lashes. He nods. "Okay."
Max grins. "Come on. I was just about to start lunch."