Over the Counter Prequel: Staring Straight Ahead

Disclaimer: I do not own the Twilight Saga. No copyright infringement is intended

I'm pretty sure my bra is trying to amputate my arm. It's digging in, right there, with every swoop of the bread – fast enough that no slices flip-flop off – before it's shoved in the bag. I'm pretty sure I feel blood oozing down my back. I feel my bra cutting through muscle and tendon soon.

And I'm not even done cutting bread. I'll never be done. There's enough carbs on one silver rack to feed a third world country. Maybe two.

It doesn't help that breadcrumbs are filling my bra, and I just want to scratch the crap out of my boobs. I feel sunflower seeds and oats there, too. I just want to go home now.

Actually, I wanted to go home before I even left for work. I hate it here. It's boring and annoying and I've developed an allergy to people. Sadly, no amount of epinephrine can help me.

Grain and raisins and wheat – oh my! If I ever see a flax seed again, it will be too soon. The little brown fuckers look like ants to the undiscerning – daydreaming – bakery clerk.

A customer – what a nasty type of human – comes as I'm stomping on would-be insects. One part fear, two parts temper tantrum fuel my mad stepping. I'm side-eyed and questioned silently, but I don't care. It's better than adjusting my brassiere, which happened minutes before he appeared.

He's quite the creepy fucker. Dirty beard, frazzled, pube-like hair and milky eyes. He's rotund in a gross way (not that I hate), but in that "I live in my mother's basement and play WoW twenty-three hours a day" way. He has serious Zac-breath (when your mouth smells 'zactly like your ass) and I smell it all the way over the counter. I wonder idly if it could curdle the whipped topping. I'm listening enough to gather he's looking for bread, and did I have some?

Sarcasm is not the answer. It does not put Dominick's at the top for its reputable customer service. But I want so badly to answer, yes, I suppose I do have some bread, considering it is a bakery. Instead, I point to his motherfucking right, where there's a wall of bread. He lingers at the counter for a moment, his stanky breath for two. I'm so disgusted I could puke.

The dude in fish is looking over, head cocked to the side and studying my customer. He gives me the sympathy nod and continues descaling salmon or whatever.

I sell a bunch of cupcakes to two cute kids; they make me not hate my job so much. And when they ever so sweetly ask to have a cookie, I go ahead and tell them to take two because they were baked fresh that afternoon.

Maybe it was that morning, but still. Fresh cookies in the cookie jar are rare.

I finish on time, considering it's a Saturday night, and the bakers get stupid-busy with the amount of crap they make.

It's nine-oh-one when I walk out of Dominick's, the late-night cashiers giving me that envious look.

It feels so good to be finished with this place for another night.

~:~

I'm trying to enjoy my morning. But at the ass crack of dawn, listening to coworkers whine about other coworkers is not helpful on only two cups of coffee and spit for breakfast.

That, and all these undercooked croissants look delicious. And I can't have any, not even one. Not even a crumb… er, flake.

I should try to survive mornings in this place on a little more. Spit can only get you so far.

I yawn more than usual, and the coworker from hell, Maria, is quick to notice and jab – "choo hab a lay night with a boy?"

Why is it a late night with a boy? It's like she's rubbing my pitiful love life in my face. It hurts. I decide not to answer, instead focusing all my attention on these crusty rolls.

"I see," she mumbles.

I'm rather exasperated that she's trying to steal my bitchy thunder. I'm tempted to tell her I was with a girl, doing things, instead of the truth – which was a pile of Nora Roberts, sex scenes only. Fuck yeah, missionary.

"I stayed up reading a good book."

"I hoos to read lots."

I nod and mmhmm and uh-huh when she takes a breath, catching every other vaguely English word to figure out that she was, in fact, studying to be an engineer in Mexico, before she was knocked up.

My boss is in, the dickface. He's picking on everyone: giving orders, swiping at people, giving more, conflicting orders. I mostly just ignore him.

And then I totally ignore him when he makes a comment about phones and boyfriends. What kind of fumes do the ovens give off?

The pinnacle of the early morning occurs when I have to write "Happy Shave Day" in pink for someone named Dave. It's at eight o'clock, and the chick asking for the cake looks like Jersey Shore cast member. I forgive her overly tan looks and cow-chewing-cud method of attacking her gum because the cake is just hilarious. I giggle through the rest of the preparation work, in time for some of my favourite things: Danishes, garlic bread, cream cheese muffins and hot cross buns. While the first three include hands-on, dirty and disgusting work, hot cross buns are mostly gross because of the candied fruit.

"I need you to fill up the assorted bun bins, Bella." He snorts at his alliteration.

"Sure thing, Alec." I hope something heavy falls on you.

Maria used the shittiest ten-rack available. A wheel is smaller than the others; one of them has a hair net or something caught in the axle. It takes all of my upper body strength to make it go, and my entire body to make it stop. Usually, by stepping in front of it.

I don't escape such a moment when a wild baby carriage is pushed in front of me. I'm only vaguely aware of the possible accident before I feel the edgy frame dig into my back.

Something falls on my head. I wince, tears coming to my eyes without my say so. The stay-at-home dad and the baby roll away, none the wiser, while I sniffle and fill the stupid baskets.

Sometimes, I just hate it so much here; it festers and burns my throat like the acidic sting of vile.

It's painful, sometimes, to be at Dominick's.

~:~

Senior year is in complete parts boring and nerve-wracking. I have to deal with stupid things like prom, graduation, college applications, my life, and my future.

It's in those moments of emotional and mental distress that working at Dominick's is okay, because it's safe. When everything else in my life crumbles, I know I have the comfort of slicing bread and icing cinnamon buns as a fall back career. I'm hoping to get a promotion – one day – that will make me Bella Swan: cake decorator.

I can already cut and fill cakes like a pro.

I'm studying for a test and looking at school brochures when Angela slides into a chair across from me – and then almost slides out of it.

"We cool?"

"Sure," I reply, snorting. She works in fish. She smells like scales.

"Stupid anti-slip, grip shoes."

"Suuure."

"What are you looking at?" I pass her the brochure, and stick up the textbook. There's a beaker and some blue foamy stuff spilling out of it.

"You took chem?"

"Needed a science to graduate. I like it." I don't say that it's more math than anything in grade twelve and I'm beginning to hate it.

It's the kind of class that makes a paper-cut on your eyeball appealing.

"What are your plans for next year?"

"Staying yokel. You?"

"Probably heading to the big city. That's the plan, anyway."

I think of her parents, pulling her out of private school and sticking them into the hell of public education (just for the hell of it) and making her work. I think of her new car and spiffy Blackberry, and know that New York won't break her bank.

"You gonna keep your job with this fine establishment?" I know the managers sometimes let students keep their job, so long as they work once a month or something.

"I don't even know. Maybe?"

I'm keeping my job. I'll be working here forever.

"We have time. It's only January."

I flip through my chemistry book, confusing my Halogens with my Inert Elements. Well, I think I am.

I take a break on my break – studying the cheesy-happy faces of students that were probably so poor, they were glad to accept the non-payment payment to smile in a place they hate. The University of Chicago's campus is lovely – much more attractive than Northwestern's, I think. It's near and in the city, but it doesn't feel that way. I can commute, which is fucking awesome.

I finish both my breaks at the same time, when Felix – my breakout boy – stomps up the stairs, begging me to deal with a customer.

The customer is red-faced and pimply. I'm pretty sure it's a fifteen-year-old boy, trying to impress his girlfriend's parents.

I dislike him on the spot. And when he asks for the cannoli, I grab him three with the skimpiest filling.

He doesn't say thank you when I'm finished waiting on him. I don't say, "have a goodnight." He doesn't deserve it.

Sometimes, I think I'm petulant and whiny. Sometimes, I think I'm jaded. Mostly, I just think I need to get the fuck out of here, for my wellbeing.

~:~

I've been invited to a work-related birthday dinner. Apparently, Jessica up in Front End talked about me a lot. So here I am, sitting in this dinghy Pickle Barrel with work people.

They're all cashiers. I don't know why I'm here, really. I feel like an outsider.

I go to school with Irina; I stick to her like used gum. She's quiet, shy. Very nice. We talk and we whisper, and that's when I find out that she's an even bigger gossip than Jessica.

"People are gonna be moving around in March or April."

"What do you mean?" Maybe I can get that cake decorating position. Maybe I can get out of bakery.

"Yeah. I think some department managers are about to be shuffled around in the district. And there will be promotions – maybe demotions! – and new hires. I think it's because a new store's opening up."

"New hires?"

"Yeah. Expect lots of new faces here. Apparently, the manager at the new store gets to pick who he wants. It doesn't sound fair, but who knows?"

"Maybe Shelley will go."

"I hope so. She's a wicked bitch." Irina giggles at her curse.

"Right? I remember this time I started cleaning early – I had a lot to do, you know? And she chewed me out for doing that, and then I ended up staying until 11:30."

"I hate her."

Jessica comes around the table, hugging people as she goes.

"Bella! Thank you so much for coming!"

"Thanks for having me, Jessica," I reply.

She presses my head into her chest. She smells of Bounce and Eau de Desperate Older Woman. Unattractive.

"Guess what I heard?" Jessica whispers

Irina and I both perk up.

"Bella, this mostly pertains to you. Your manager –" she says it like he's my possession "– is dating Marcus's mother!"

I'm so disgusted. "But – what – yuck."

"Gross." Irina wrinkles her nose, shaking her head.

Alec has chode fingers.

"Yes." Jessica's eyes gleam as she shares. "It's why he's allowed to get away with as much shit as he does."

He's such a turd. I always wondered why no one fired his ass. I know he spends half his shifts smoking outside. And he can get away with it because he bones someone's mother? I hope their family dinners are awkward as fuck.

I hope Jessica likes the gift I got her – a gift card to Dominick's. It was that, or an iTunes one, and I'm pretty sure she thinks computers are from the devil.

"What's up on the dating front for you, Bella?"

I think Jessica thinks she's a maternal figure for me or something. Maybe a big sister. I have no idea what planet she's coming from, but every time she asks a personal question like that, I cringe. What the hell is going on in her head?

I bet it's all that cash she deals with. It smells after a while. It's affected her brain.

"Nothing, Jess."

"Lonely?"

One way of putting it. "Yup."

"What a shame. You're a cutie. Just wait, okay? The boy for you is out there."

"Okay." Sure? I guess? I try to smile to make up for my lame response, but it hurts after a few seconds. It's worrying.

"She's really weird with you," Irina whispers as Jessica moves down the table.

"Right? Freaks me out. But she gives good gossip."

"That she does."

~:~

Working on or near a holiday always sucks donkey's balls. But working Valentine's Day, at night, with people getting last minute gifts? It is the single most painful thing in the world.

I hate it.

And if another person asks me to write "Happy Valentine's" or "Be mine, Valentine" or some other Hallmark bullshit, I will smash a fucking cake in someone's face.

I'm not bitter, I'm not jealous. I'm bored. I'm busy. I'm stressing.

There's so much to do. There are a million muffins to do, plus Kaisers and pizza buns. Alec the idiot never thinks the store will be as busy as it is, and I'm stuck with everything.

I'm also pretty sure that last loaf of bread I had to slice filled my bra up with crumbs. I hate that feeling.

"Hi, I'd like a flan, please." He's kinda good-looking. Just a smidge too short. At lease I have good daydreaming and fantasy material, now.

"Would you like any writing done with it?" I smile, or try to. My lips sting, and my cheeks try to flatten it.

"That would be nice, thanks. 'Happy Valentine's Day, bunny', please." He checks his phone twice while he says it.

"Would you rather have a sign?" I hold of the Tupperware container, filled with every type of Valentine saying and cliché. Please pick a sign, please pick a sign.

"Do you mind writing it? 'Bunny' is something special to us." He's sliding the screen up and down, up and down.

My hand twitches. "Sure thing."

I decide he isn't that hot, after all. And bunny is a loser pet name. Very unoriginal.

I write his message in the ugliest colour I can find, this putrid yellow that looks more vomit than mustard.

He doesn't even care. He just fiddles with his phone, clearly waiting for his Bunny.

I don't say, "have a nice night" because he doesn't say, "thank you".

It's when I'm outside and on the floor, cleaning up the assorted buns when I see big-breasted Kate.

Nice to know I'm not the only lonely sucker working Valentine's Night.

I bet she has a date with her boobs and some strawberries. I, for one, will be spending the night with chocolate brownie cheesecake. And pilfered booze. My parents are on a date.

Its nights like these when my solo pity parties spurn lovely fantasies of a Bella Swan life free of Dominick's. And it's those hours after a tough shit, when I'm cramming homework and studying and sanity, to balance it all that makes me want to leave.

I want to leave.

~:~

Shelley's taking a new group of untainted, future employees of Dominick's around. Those poor bastards.

I don't dwell, because I know they don't affect me in the least. I'm still here, and they will soon share in my misery.

I'm too busy surviving.

I'm not alone tonight, which is fucking wonderful. I'm with Felix and Jane, the lovely cake decorator. It's an okay night. There are jokes at Felix's expense, few customers and little work. I practice my cut'n'fill techniques for Jane. I make vanilla cakes my bitch.

"Oh, dude, you missed it." Felix is close to the swinging doors as I come in the bakery; I clip him with the edge.

"What?"

"Shelley brought the newbs around. Like pigs to the slaughter house or whatever."

"Poetic."

"Shut up," he laughs.

I punch him in the arm. He laughs again, shakes his head and goes up to the front to piss off Jane.

It's not until I'm pulling off the reduced items when Felix comes up to me with a racecar ring.

"You're a dork."

He doesn't respond, but goes back to breaking frozen bread out of their boxes, and loading up trays for tomorrow morning. Felix is sweet, but two years younger. Not. Happening. Even if he towers over me by about two feet.

I dance while I package up the bread. I laugh out loud when the produce doors swing inwards and bounce almost all the way out off of Kate's boobs.

I don't even mind when an older couple ask me where the crumpets are, even though we're standing in front of them. Their reactions are adorable. I smile as they wish me goodnight, and it doesn't hurt that much. I wonder if my issue is serious. Or even if it's an issue, at all.

Angela comes upstairs with me when I'm done. We giggle and gossip and she chews me out for not sharing the news I learned. She smacks me upside the head, to which I return with a punch in the arm.

"Seriously, why didn't you tell me? If there's someone who hates Shelley as much as you, it's me."

Shelley is leaving. Her training those newcomers is like her parting gift. Ugh.

"I didn't know if it was true or not. I didn't want to get your hopes up, okay?" Truthfully, I had pretty much forgotten that; I was too busy moping.

We're coming into the break room when he's coming out. And he is beautiful.

He's tall and lean and has this mess of copper-wire hair – curly and chaotic. His eyes are apple green and light, the clear focus of his head. Nice face – gorgeous face. Perfect face.

"Hey, I'm Angela." She goes up to him, hand outstretched. I'm still stuck at the door, the knob digging into my back.

"Edward."

"New, right?"

"Yeah. I'm in deli."

Deli. Deli. Salami. I work with buns.

We're basically making sandwiches, and he doesn't even know my name.

"Cool. I'm in fish. You're better off, dude."

He chuckles, clearly nervous. I am too, but probably for different reasons. "I gotta go. It was nice meeting you."

"Bye, Edward. Good luck here." She smiles.

"Bye," I say to the closed door.

"You're a loser." Angela shakes her head.

"Me? You were getting your flirt on, and you've got a boyfriend!"

"I wasn't stunned stupid."

"Shut up."

She shakes her head again, but leaves me alone.

He was… it was magical. Beautiful. How could I possibly leave now, when a reason to stay has brought itself to me?

The attraction is powerful – one-sided, doomed to heartbreak, but powerful. We are going to make sandwiches. Probably mostly in my head, but it's going to happen.

Edward, who works in deli. A boy, in deli. Deliboy.

I can put up with any shit, because I know there's his face to look forward to.

I have a reason to stay now.

~:~

Endnotes: Thanks to the organizers of this event. It was a lovely and amazing thing they did. Much love and hugs to my beta, jadedandboring and to my prereader shelikesthesound – they made the OtC prequel pretty and ready for the compilation :)

I'm working on a few things. Hopefully, I'll be participating in a compilation soon. Check my twitter and my profile for updates, in the off chance you're interested. See you later X