Avenging the angel

1

Fifteen minutes until my shift ends, and it can’t come soon enough. My feet ache from being on them for the past ten hours—it doesn’t seem like any pair of sneakers is comfortable enough to keep them from hurting after almost two years of this. My hair reeks of grease. I’m pretty sure the smell is coming from my pores, too. Just another day at the diner.

My books are spread open in the back corner booth—the one we use for prep work and breaks. A calculus exam looms over me, and I wish it didn’t. Math has never been my strong suit, and calculus might as well be written in hieroglyphics. I can’t seem to crack the code, but I need these credits if I’m ever going to graduate. It’s bad enough I’m already graduating years after everyone else my age since I can only afford to take classes part-time.

“Ready for your exam?” Tess, one of the diner’s old-timers, winks as she hauls a tub of plates and glasses back to the kitchen.

“I could study for another month and still not be ready.” I rub my eyes but resist sitting down; I know I won’t get back up if I do. Today’s shift has been nonstop. Usually, the rush settles between lunch and dinner, but not today. Now it’s almost nine, and things have finally calmed.

“I can’t imagine how I’d survive a full course load,” I add.

“You could, you know,” Tess says, setting the tub down. “You don’t have to be so stubborn.”

This again. I hold back an eye-roll, mostly because I like Tess. She’s been like a mentor since I started here, and I’d have drowned in the chaos of diner life without her. Still, there’s a lot she doesn’t know about me, and I remind myself of that before I respond.

“I’m not going to let them take out a loan for me.”

“They’re your parents,” she says gently.

“Foster,” I correct, hating how bitter the word tastes. “And I wouldn’t ask biological parents to do that, either. It’s a scam. They’d be paying it off until they die, and they don’t deserve that.”

Tess comes over and places a hand on my shoulder. “They want to. It’s a parent’s privilege. And you’re like a gift to them. They’ve wanted kids for so long.”

I know she’s right. Pam and Hank are in their sixties and couldn’t have kids of their own. For three years, they’ve treated me like the daughter they never had. I love them like they raised me from birth. That’s why I can’t let them take on debt for me. They’ve already given me so much. But Tess doesn’t need to hear all that. She doesn’t know how bad things were before the Hendersons. That’s the thing about growing up like I did—you learn to filter what you tell people. There’s nothing worse than seeing someone’s face glaze over when you overshare. It’s mortifying.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, lying to end the conversation. A glance at the clock tells me I’ve got ten minutes left before I can finally leave, scrub the smell of grease from my skin, and dive back into studying.

The bell over the front door jingles, and I’m about to tell Tess she can take this one when I look up and freeze.

It takes a moment to process who just walked in, like my brain refuses to accept what my eyes see. Everything in me wants to pretend it’s not him, to turn away and hope he doesn’t notice me. Last I heard, he was breathing prison air. I didn’t think he’d be out for another two years at least. Maybe he played nice behind bars, even if he never did outside.

I duck my head and slide into the booth, praying this is some cruel coincidence. He wouldn’t be dumb enough to come after me while on parole. Would he? Then again, what do I know? He might’ve spent three years fantasizing about what he’d do to me once he was free. Three years is a long time to plot. Plan. Dream.

Like it’s my fault he used me as his punching bag.

What was I supposed to do? Stay silent? Let him beat me to death one night when he stumbled home drunk and pissed at the world? He didn’t need a reason to be angry—an overcooked steak, dishes in the sink, a ball game rained out—it all set him off. He was zero-to-sixty, no warning.

A sixteen-year-old doesn’t confess that kind of thing lightly. It took months of sleepless nights before I finally told Mrs. Jones, my social worker. I was terrified he’d find out and finish the job.