Jeremy Fitzgerald shouldered his backpack and pulled his gloves on tighter. As he left the Physics classroom, someone's foot jumped out to catch his own, but he wasn't falling for that trick. He quickly jumped over the attempted trip and rushed down the hallway, trying to lose himself in the crowd.
Five o'clock. He was free. He could go back to his dorm, finish his homework, then he could draw all the rest of the day. Or at least until eleven. Then he had to go tell his life problems to all the homicidal animatronics. Dang, even insentient robots wanted to bully him. Rude.
He stepped out the front doors and into the fresh air, breathing deeply. Great. He survived another day. Now to survive another night... He wasn't feeling confident.
Stay optimistic. Stay optimistic. You're getting better at the night shift, Jeremy. You're going to show up, survive for six hours, leave, and get paid. Everything is great! You are feeling confident!
Jeremy let out the breath in a groan. Tell that to the blur in his vision and the circles under his eyes. Maybe he'll sleep instead of draw. But it was as if he had insomnia, and he probably did. He closes his eyes and two seconds later they're open again, insisting he stay awake just a few hours more.
He was just about to cross the street to get to his dorm when somebody jumped in front of him.
"Gah!" Jeremy fell backwards unattractively, dropping his bookbag.
"Aah, I'm sorry." A familiar voice apologized (Apologized? Did someone really just apologize to Jeremy?), and Jeremy looked up.
Mike Schmidt.
At first Jeremy just gawked like an idiot. When he found his voice all he could manage was a lame, "Mike! Whoa!"
"Sorry." The other night guard repeated guiltily, extending a hand. Jeremy stared at that too, suspicious, for a considerable amount of time before finally taking it.
"What are you doing here? I thought you weren't allowed to come back to Harvard!"
"I'm not. Just wanted to say hi. That's what friends do, right?" Mike shrugged. "Scott Cawthon-he's a guy that works the day shift at my place-he actually invited me to participate in this 'employee day' thing. We're going to a basketball game at some sports arena a half hour away, then we're going back to the pizzeria-our pizzeria-to hang out with the robots before the night shift starts for me. Scott says the robots have some 'special' songs planned for the us. Anyway, I don't know my coworkers very well and I thought I'd have a little more fun if you came too."
Jeremy was taken aback. "You want... me... to go with you?"
Mike nodded.
"...But... you're this tough, cool guy! I'm just a... well, you know. I'm pretty sure if you showed up with me... I don't know... They'd probably think I'm only there because you pity me." Jeremy gave him a look of suspicion. "...You aren't pitying me, are you?"
The other night guard shook his head and raised his eyebrows. "No, Jeremy, I'm not. And for the record... I'm neither tough nor cool." He sighed. "Hey, it's fine if you can't make it. I just thought since you're always working all the time, you could use a break-"
"No, I can make it. I'd love a break." Jeremy felt his spirits lift for the first time in months. "When are we leaving?"
They left at six o'clock, in Scott's trashy van. It was one of those Mystery Machine type cars that opened in the back to reveal a long bench on the right and left sides that fit four each. Participating in this group trip were three cooks, four waiters/waitresses, two mechanics (including Scott, who was driving), and one night guard plus one, giving the van just enough room to hold them all.
Mike and Jeremy didn't know anyone so they just sat next to each other on the left bench, along with two of the waiters from the pizzeria, whose introductions passed right over their heads. Across from them sat the remaining waitresses and two of the cooks, whereas the last cook just sprawled out on the ground and called it good. Scott drove and shotgun was the other mechanic.
The half hour drive down was noisy, but strangely enough, not annoyingly so to the outcast guards. The other employees' ages ranged from twenty to thirty, so their conversations were more like those of college dorm-mates (which Jeremy could relate to) rather than businessmen and women. He even struck up a genuine conversation with a few of them. In spite of himself, he was really enjoying all the praise and questions he received from these people.
"You're going to Harvard? Dude, that's incredible for someone your age. I hear the administration is like curing cancer and ending world hunger and stuff. Lucky duck. I'm up in Cambridge University. It's a good college, don't get me wrong, but I hear Harvard has got a plethora of smart-people classes." A twenty-two year old waitress told him. "What field are you in? I'm in forensic science."
"Forensic science? That's amazing!" Jeremy couldn't ever find the strength to take those classes - he heard that field involved a lot of blood, and he wasn't very good with blood. "I'm in the Arts and Science sector. I'm taking psychiatric classes, along with a few to improve my art."
"Art? Can I see?"
Jeremy immediately felt something in his chest drop. Last time someone took his sketchbook, they didn't plan on giving it back. Then again, this woman seemed nice, and she was only curious. Pushing back his concern, he unclipped his bookbag and handed her the sketchbook. "I'm not as good as my brother. His drawings are pretty legendary."
But after seeing the lady's eyes - as well as everyone else's on the bench - widen, Jeremy felt it was good enough for them.
"How old are you? Seventeen?" The woman's waitress friend asked with a laugh. "You have got a gift, my friend."
"Look at this! What's this?" The cook on her other side pointed at a pencil sketch and they all stopped to look. The woman turned the pad around for Jeremy to see. "What's this one of? It's beautiful. I love the features - gives it a satisfyingly dark atmosphere."
Beside him, Jeremy felt Mike do a double take.
"That's one of the robots at my place." Jeremy explained with a small shrug. "We call it the 'Puppet'."