AN: What up, Internet? I'm back with another chapter! Yay! Hopefully the two people out there who are reading this story so far will enjoy it.
Special Thanks goes to rentheadwhovianandgleek4life, for being the first person to review. You really made my day. I'm sending you a Virtual Cookie!
Disclaimer: If RENT were mine, I wouldn't be writing a fanfiction about it. The only thing I own is the character of Grace. All other credit goes to the late, great Jonathan Larson.
Chapter Two
"Welcome to the Life Café; what can I get for you?"
Grace Harrison self-consciously tucked a loose strand of bright red hair that had fallen from her braid behind her ear and stared down at the strange women seated before her, clutching a pen and notepad tightly in her hands.
The woman –who had dark purple hair, a gold tooth, and seemed to be of Asian descent –glanced up from her menu. "I'll have a Caesar salad, with the dressing on the side please."
Grace nodded, biting her lip, and scribbled the costumer's order on the notepad, her hands shaking. "Coming right up," she whispered just barely loud enough to hear.
She quickly turned on her heel to make her escape to the kitchen, but was stopped on her way a teenage couple sitting nearby. "Hey, can we get a refill of ice tea here?" The boy asked rather obnoxiously while his girlfriend examined her nails.
The waitress managed a silent nod before pushing her way through the doors to the kitchen, leaning against the wall and breathing a sigh of relief. So far, so good…
Grace was a young artist who had been living in Alphabet City for almost a month, and had been struggling to find some work ever since she arrived. After several weeks of selling her paintings on the street, Grace finally landed herself a job waitressing at a local restaurant called the Life Café. It was only her first day, and she was absolutely terrified that she would do something to screw up and get fired. She had always been an overly anxious person, as well as terribly shy and insecure, which probably explained her sweaty palms and her racing heart.
Grace shook her head and straightened the black apron tied around her tiny waist. She was being silly. She just had to calm down before her nerves got the better of her, or else she would never make it through the day. Okay, she thought, I can do this.
She moved across the kitchen to give the chef the purple-haired woman's order, and then grabbed a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. Grace hesitated for only a moment before taking a deep breath and heading back out to the dining area. She spotted the couple who had asked for the tea, and slowly began to make her way over to their table, gripping the handle of the pitcher so tightly that her knuckles turned bone-white.
Don't mess up, don't mess up, don't –
Unfortunately, a man seated just in front of her abruptly pushed his chair back to stand up, causing her to stumble and trip, the tea in the pitcher sloshing out all over the floor and onto the person sitting at the table next to her.
"HEY! Watch where –!"
Grace gulped nervously. I am so fired…
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" she cried, setting the half-empty container on the table. "I wasn't looking…"
Her voice trailed off as the costumer looked up to face her, and Grace suddenly found herself getting lost in the bluest pair of eyes she'd ever seen, staring at her through a pair of rectangular-framed glasses.
Mark wasn't sure what exactly had happened. He'd stopped at the Life Café during his lunch break for a sandwich, and the next thing he knew, somebody was spilling a whole pitcher of ice tea all over his front side just as he had finished eating.
"HEY!" he shouted in frustration. "Watch where –!"
However, Mark stopped talking when he caught sight of the waitress who had been carrying the tea. She was young –couldn't be any older than twenty, by the looks of it –and tiny, being incredibly thin. Her skin was pale and her fiery-colored hair was pulled back in a long braid.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! I wasn't looking…"
The waitress's voice trailed off as her wide, emerald-green eyes met his, and she chewed on her bottom lip, her cheeks flushing. It was clear from the way she was trembling that she was petrified.
"Um, no, it's okay," Mark responded gently. "It was an accident."
"Here," she said, grabbing a handful of napkins and blotting his sweater dry. Soon, all that was left was a large, slightly damp brown stain.
"Alright, that's good," said Mark, urging her to stop. "Thank you," he added.
"You're welcome." The waitress stepped back, tucking the soiled napkins into the front pocket of her apron, and then looked back up at him. "Do you want me to pay for dry cleaning?"
The filmmaker was so taken aback by her kind offer –something that was incredibly rare in the East Village, especially when it came to money –it took him a moment to respond. "No," he answered. "Thanks, but you don't need to do that."
"Are you sure? It's no trouble." The look on her face said otherwise.
"Really," Mark assured her, "its fine. I never liked this sweater anyway."
"You didn't?" she asked, looking relieved.
"No. It was a present from my mother for my birthday last year." He grimaced, and she actually giggled. "Sometimes I don't know what that woman is thinking…" After a moment of silence Mark finally stood up, offering the waitress his outstretched hand. He noticed how short she was, too; the top of her head only reached his shoulder, and he wasn't exactly the tallest person. "I'm Mark. Mark Cohen," he introduced himself.
She shook it, offering him a shy smile. "Grace…Harrison."
Mark let go of her hand and examined her face carefully. "I don't think I've seen you around here before, Grace," he said.
"Oh, I'm new," Grace explained hurriedly. "This is my first day working here."
"How long have you been in New York?"
"I've had an apartment on Avenue A for, um…about a month now."
Mark nodded.
"I mean, it's not exactly the most glamorous place to live," she continued. "It's really small and could use some repair work, but the cost is cheap, and it's manageable. Besides, it was either that or…" Suddenly, Grace stopped talking, biting her lip again and giving Mark an almost apologetic look. "Sorry. I'm rambling, aren't I?"
"Oh no, you're fine," he answered, glancing down at his watch to check the time. "Damn!" he muttered.
"What's wrong?" asked Grace, concerned.
Mark sighed. "I have to get back to work soon. Sorry." He wrapped his blue-and-white-striped scarf around his neck, and then grabbed his jacket off of the back of his chair, slipping it on. He fastened the buttons so the stain from the tea was no longer visible. I guess I'll just have to keep my coat on all day then, he thought. He reached into his pocket and pulled out enough crumpled dollars to pay the bill, setting them on the table.
"Well," he said awkwardly, turning back around to face her, "I guess I'll see you around then?"
Grace nodded.
"It was, uh, nice to meet you…however unfortunate the circumstances."
"Yeah," she replied quietly, "you too."
The filmmaker made his way outside, the cool November air washing over him. He unlocked his bicycle from the nearby streetlamp he had chained it to, relieved to see that it hadn't been stolen. He climbed on, and glanced once more at the redheaded waitress through the café's window before peddling off down the street.
AN: So, what do you think of Grace? I'm trying really hard to not make her too much of a Mary-Sue. Tell me what you think! Please review; I have Virtual Cookies to give away!
