Three ten and three seconds.

Tap.

Three ten and four seconds.

Tap.

Five, six, seven seconds.

Tap, tap, tap.

Gawd. Would the day ever end?

You know, Mom and Pops kept saying, “Don’t worry, bun. You’ll get so used to the job that the hours will just fly right by!” They insisted on it from day one with the same depressingly perky tones, as if waitressing at a sticky old pasta shop were some grand calling. It wasn’t. It never would be. Even the folks had to accept that eventually. Maybe they were, considering they just recently started dropping hints about moving on to “bigger and better things.”

Bigger and better things, huh? Like another useless job?

“Hey, honey? You listening?”

Lucy jolted. She lost rhythm with the time, her pencil falling silent against her notepad. Slowly, her eyes drifted from the analog clock hanging over the kitchen door down to the elderly woman in the booth before her.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Spaetzel and cream sauce.”

The woman scrunched her already wrinkled brow. “No, dear, I think I asked you for the fettuccini in marinara sauce. Or was that the oil and garlic? Oh my, I forget. Harold, what did I order?”

Across from her, the old man muttered, “Oil and garlic, darling.”

Making a few jots that mostly resembled words, Lucy nodded dully before tucking the pencil behind her left ear. “Sure thing, Mr. and Mrs. Totter. I’ll get the order right in.” Leaving them a fleeting saccharine smile, she turned heel and wandered into the kitchen. She dropped the waitress act with a sigh, relishing in her misery, and let a natural frown creep onto her lips. Up went the order ticket on the barren ticket line. “One o and g fettuccini, nix the dressing on the salad, and a bowl of house soup,” she droned, getting a brief syllable of acknowledgement from the cook.

The girl leaned against the nearest blank space in the wall, examining her teeth through the reflection of the stainless steel refrigerator beside her. Stupid braces, she thought to herself. Stupid fridge. Stupid job.

Maybe she would be in better spirits if the shop were actually busy today. But with all the fuss the police were making across the street, no one seemed to be interested in getting themselves boxed in by irregular traffic for the sake of one little hole-in-the-wall pasta joint. (No one except Mr. and Mrs. Totter, anyway, but they weren’t exactly special interest customers.) This whole murder business was really cramping their style.

Although, on further consideration, no— she would not be in better spirits, because she was still stuck at this noodle shack until four thirty. Four thirty on a Saturday! Gawd! She should have been at the mall or on the internet or… somewhere that wasn’t work and involved spending money. This whole waitress business was only to keep the folks happy, really. But what about Lucy’s happiness? “You’ll make important friends,” promised her parents.

Sure, business friends. That’s all Pops ever wanted to see from her: pocket money. Between the first grade organic lemonade stands and the second grade sustainable stationary brand and the third grade— wait, what did she sell in the third grade again?— it was always about the money. Why? It wasn’t as if she needed money. What good was a job when your family was, like, stupid rich?

Geez, parents. She would never understand them.

A hushed groan left her lips, almost distracting her from the sound of the front door bells clattering. She hoped it was a real customer this time, and not some waist-high kid looking for a sponsor for his whatever-or-another school project.

“I don’t know why you’re being such a stick-in-the-mud!” chirped a voice floating in from the entrance. Lucy immediately decided she didn’t like this girl, a judgment usually reserved for after tallying the tip money. She was too… alive. Lucy didn’t do energetic people. “Since when do you try to pass up an opportunity for soba?”

Smugly, the waitress smiled. The boss man was out for a supplies run, so she felt comfortable enough to let Ms. Chipper sweat it out for a few minutes.

“Believe me, Cykes-dono,” replied a separate, smooth, accented voice. Lucy’s heart skipped a beat, and she almost choked on air. “Even you will be able to figure it out eventually.”

Oh gawd. There was only one person that came into this dump with such a glorious, devil may care timbre; only one stud of a man who threw around foreign honorifics like they were rice at a wedding.

She flew out of the kitchen, nearly slamming her nose against the door when she came in too hot on the swinging door, trying not to trip or drop her notebook or smile. There at the reception counter, an obnoxious daffodil of a girl (nope, definitely older than Lucy by at least a couple years, so girl graduated to hag) stood next to the man of Lucy’s dreams. They both stared with rapt attention. On Mr. Simon Blackquill’s account, she didn’t mind. (Daffodil could go mind her own business.)

“Welcome to Use Your Noodle. Oh, hi Mr. Blackquill,” she sighed, struggling not to sound too out of breath. “L-long time no see.”

Ah! His apathetic eyes were dreamier than ever, seeming to gravitate towards her name tag. “Hello… Lucy? I can’t say that I’ve been in the vicinity lately.”

She wished that were true, but she knew her dear Simon well enough to realize that he was putting her down easy. “No, I get it,” she returned woefully. “Your true love has always been Whet Soba. But I don’t— I mean, we don’t mind being your rebound once in a while.”

Hovering too close to Simon’s elbow for Lucy’s liking, Daffodil was watching with a raised eyebrow. “Are… we still talking about noodles here, or something else?” Simon shrugged, to Lucy’s disappointment. At that, Daffodil threw off her confusion with a grin. “Hello, by the way! I’m Athena Cykes. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple questions.”

Ugh, how dare she be perky and cheeky and polite! Lucy grabbed for her pencil; yet she was so flustered that she reached for her right ear instead, grasping her spare spoon. She stared at the silverware for a moment as the realization hit her. Geez, what a thing to do in front of my main squeeze! She put the spoon away and slipped the pencil into her hand, tapping the lead against her notepad until the graphite started to crumble away.

“If you want answers, you have to order something,” she insisted, eyes narrowing. It made Daffodil redden unattractively, so she could consider it a successful counterattack.

“But— you don’t even know what I want to ask! What if it was a question about the menu?”

“It’s only fair, Athena.” Simon, like the dark and mysterious anti-hero he was, saved the day by putting Daffodil in her place. But hold on— why was he with this pest anyways? Simon never came in with other girls, especially not perky, obnoxious ones. Was there… something between them? Lucy’s heart clenched. Simon Blackquill was not allowed to have a girlfriend! He was her stud, not this hag’s! Gawd!

His voice, however, brought her anger down with his British wiles. “If you please, Lucy, we’d like a seat.”

She nodded, a strand of curly black hair escaping from her messy bun and drooping over her forehead. “Of course.” Stepping out from behind the counter, she beckoned them in the direction of the farthest, dimmest corner with a point of the pencil. “I’ll set you up at your usual table, Mr. Blackquill.”

Behind her, she could hear Daffodil whisper, “You didn’t tell me you had a ‘usual’ table, Simon! Here I thought you just liked Whet Soba’s noodles.”

“I don’t have a ‘usual’ anything. It’s hardly worth crossing the entire bloody city when you’re starving. Use Your Noodle makes passable food, so I save myself the trouble.”

“I see.” A pause. “Hey, Simon, do they have squid ink spaghetti here?”

They arrived at the table. Using the corner of her apron, Lucy wiped the table and rearranged the menus before gesturing for Simon to sit. He nodded his thanks (man, her heart was dancing the samba right now!) as he slid into the nearest chair. “I’ve never asked. You have the taste for it?”

“Yeah, I just…” Daffodil, weirdly enough, was staring at Lucy. Lucy struggled not to glare, brushing the loose strand of hair aside only to knock two more out. Ugh, this chick was making her lose her cool! “I don’t know why, I’m just craving it all the sudden.”

“Well, we don’t serve it,” Lucy clipped dryly. A quick inspection of her order ticket revealed that she’d scribbled on half the page out of oblivious irritation; she calmly slipped her fingers under the paper and ripped it out, letting it float to the floor. “What do you want?”

Noisily, Daffodil went over the listing. “Ooh! Okay, I’ll have a glass of water for starters, and a Caesar salad, and, hmm, is the angel hair with sun-dried tomatoes any good?”

Lucy blinked. “Maybe.” She made the appropriate scribbles. “Mr. Blackquill, is it going to be the soba with shrimp again?”

Simon’s lips curled politely. “That’s quite the memory you have.”

She blushed. “And a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please.”

Ooh, he was so suave! She even let a little smile slip, forgetting about the braces for a split-second. “I’ll get your order in right away.”

The waitress was about to leave when Daffodil interrupted. “And then could I ask you those questions?”

Her fingers started to pinch the pencil a little too hard. “I already answered a question, right? One question per patron.”

“H-hey!” Daffodil wasn’t pleased. Lucy was.

“It’s about the incident at the tailor’s across the street,” Simon clarified and, for once, even he couldn’t make Lucy feel interested. She’d already been grilled by two cops and a reporter about this homicide affair. “Cykes-dono is the defense attorney for the accused. She wants to know if you or anyone else saw something last night.”

Quietly, Lucy puckered her lips. How would she go about this? “I’ve got another table to serve— I’ll be back. Maybe I’ll have something for your friend, Mr. Blackquill.” She turned about face so quickly that a draft slipped up her skirt, and marched towards the kitchen. Her hand met the door with a solid thump as she plowed out of the dining room.

“Hey, is the fettuccini and soup ready yet?” she pressed. The cook grunted negatively. “Ugh. Whatever. One shrimp soba with extra love and…” She stared at her pad. I’ll show you, Daffodil— closing in on my man! “One sun-dried penne with a Cobb salad.” Emphatically, she scratched out the original notes and scrawled the new, improved order before slapping it on the ticket line.

She grabbed a tray before momentarily tucking the plastic disk under her arm, shoved her notepad into her apron, and slid her pencil behind her ear as she poured tea out for Simon. Oh, Simon. Why did he have to go and be with another woman? Not fair! She then poured water for Daffodil, minding to dump an unnecessarily large column of ice into the glass. Inelegant words rolled around inside her skull as she centered the tray on her palm and weighted it with the drinks. Those words would stay internal, however. She was a high profile girl, after all— no bimbo could make her stoop so low! The thought imbued her stride with an unusual level of confidence as she made for the dining room once again.

“Say, Boyle!” The cook’s voice stopped her in the threshold, causing the door to close on her leg and interrupt the confidence. “The Totters’ usuals are ready.”

Lucy huffed, muttering under her breath. “Couldn’t you have said that before I…? Gawd.” Begrudgingly, she doubled back to the dishes being pushed her way on the counter. “Stupid job. Stupid orders,” she sighed, rearranging the drinks to make room for the elderly couple’s meal. Her eyes floated to the clock over the door, identical to the one in the dining room.

Three twenty-eight and thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two…

Another sigh. Thank goodness Simon was here, even if he was in the middle of breaking her heart.

She turned her attention back to the tray before realizing that she’d somehow stuck her fingers straight into Mrs. Totter’s fettuccini while moving the plates. Whoops. Rolling her eyes, she wiped her hand off on a spare apron hanging on a peg in the wall and set off for her destination before any other annoyances could come along.

As discreetly as she could (and without tripping over her own feet), the waitress kept tabs on Simon while on the way to the Totters’ booth; she had to abort that mission, however, once Daffodil turned her head and stared somewhat suspiciously in return. Ugh. Couldn’t a girl do a little sightseeing when she was working?

“Er, what’s this?”

Mr. Totter looked like he was about to doze off, but he still had enough energy to sound irritated.

Lucy replied flatly, “Your soup.”

He thrust a bony finger at the bowl that she set before him. “Does that look like chicken rotini to you? I ordered chicken rotini, not some… whatever this is.”

Gawd. “That’s wonton soup.”

“Like I said, it’s not chicken rotini! I don’t want it. Get me chicken rotini.”

Internally, Lucy sighed. You know, on second thought, maybe he hadn’t asked for the house special wonton soup and did want the same rotini soup he always ordered. But did he have to make a big fuss? Usually people would say, “You know what, I’m in a hurry, I’ll just eat it.” They didn’t try to hurt her feelings just because she got a tiny little order wrong.

But in the interest of keeping the peace and therefore keeping her job, which most importantly meant keeping the folks from having a cow, she nodded slowly and placed the bowl back on the tray. “Sorry, Mr. Totter. I’ll get your rotini.”

“Chicken rotini, Lucy!”

“Chicken rotini.” She swung her gaze over to Mrs. Totter. The woman had an odd expression. Oh, what now? “Is everything okay, Ruth?” Lucy droned.

“Well, I don’t know.” Poking at the pasta like it might jump off the plate, the senior citizen fished out a thin, oval-shaped object with her fork. “I think I ordered the fettuccini without any seafood, but there seems to be a bit of a shell here. Shrimp, maybe?”

Lucy blinked until recognition set in and took a horrified glance at her hand. Only nine perfect French manicured tips… That was no shrimp shell! She snatched a spare napkin from her apron, nearly spilling the contents of her tray, and plucked the fake nail from the woman’s utensil.

Geez, how could this happen? Now she was going to have imperfect hands in front of Simon!

“It’s fine now,” she insisted hurriedly. “All gone. Uh, I’ll be back.”

Walking the middle distance between their booth and Simon’s table, she took a pit stop at one of the empty tables. She wiped off all the oil from the cosmetic fingernail, but an overly optimistic attempt at replacing it on her finger proved to be fruitless. There was no fixing that goof now. Ugh! How completely mortifying! Daffodil would probably laugh at her, and make Simon laugh, too…

“UGH!”

Another strand of hair escaped her bun as she froze, wishing everyone in the room somehow missed that unintentional outburst.

Lucy sighed. Okay, so she’d been defeated in this battle. But she wasn’t giving up the war yet! She smoothed her hair with her palm, popped a strategic button on her blouse, and adjusted her pencil before picking up the serving tray. For her favorite customer, she could pull herself together.

Sashaying to the corner table, she grinned thinly at Simon, adding a little bow as she presented him with his tea. “For you, Mr. Blackquill.”

“Thank you.”

Daffodil looked up next, almost expectant.

Lucy let the glass hit the table with zero fanfare. “Here’s your water.”

“Um… thanks? So, about that murder last night—”

Sighing as the attorney prattled on, Lucy stared into the bowl of soup on her tray. Hmm. It looked pretty good, actually. If she had to sit through this, she might as well find a way to make the time worthwhile (Simon notwithstanding.) She whipped the spoon out from behind her right ear.

“— it doesn’t add up to the fact that Mr. Nim couldn’t have suffocated her with that sweater without wearing gloves, because he’s deathly allergic to sheep’s wool. Yet his fingerprints were found on the seamstress’ body. Anyways, I just want to ask—” Daffodil jerked her head back as her silly-looking necklace turned yellow. “… Are you… eating that old guy’s soup?”

Lucy shrugged a shoulder, taking a spoonful of wonton. “He didn’t want it,” she shot back, mouth half full. Hey, Chef did a pretty okay job on the filling today. “And I already told the officers and that pushy news anchor who came in here this morning, I didn’t see anything. I wasn’t here yesterday— I was at school halfway across the city, so you don’t need to ask me any questions.”

Daffodil frowned. “What about the staff who were there? Did they see anything? I mean, this place doesn’t seem all that busy, so it doesn’t seem unlikely that someone would notice something fishy right across the street.”

“I haven’t talked to the guy on shift yesterday.” She punctuated the sentence with a slurp. “But the chef did, and he told the cops what I’m telling you. Didn’t see a thing.” Oh, the look of disappointment on Daffodil’s face was priceless.

And then Simon piped up with that gorgeous brogue of his. “It seems this isn’t the lead you supposed it would be, Cykes-dono.” He smirked, and Lucy just about fainted. “I believe you gave me license earlier to say, ‘I told you so’?”

The waitress gestured with her spoon, gladly rubbing salt into the wound. “We make pasta here, not court cases.”

“Oy vey!” Looked like the Daffodil was wilting under the heat of Lucy and Simon’s combined brilliance. She took a sullen sip of her water, crinkling her nose at the tower of ice. “Did you at least know anyone involved? The victim? Dan Nim, even?”

Suddenly, the broth in Lucy’s stomach went sour. She composed herself as quickly as she could before responding in an even voice, “No, I don’t know anyone from the tailor’s… Not Ms. Ester or Mr. Nim.” She was impressed at her poise, wondering if she wasn’t fated to make it big in acting, until a disturbing expression crossed Daffodil’s face. It was a smug smile, wide and totally gawd-awful.

“I don’t know, Lucy. Your voice doesn’t match your words,” she taunted.

“Wha—?” Lucy’s throat clenched. Not one, not two, but three ringlets of hair fell from her bun. “W-what’s that supposed to mean?” Instinctively, she began to twirl the strands around her spoon, trying to keep them out of her eyes.

Daffodil made triumphant fists against the table, leaning closer to Lucy. “I bet you do know someone at the tailor’s! You sounded a little concerned when you repeated Mr. Nim’s name.”

Ugh! Can we not do this, please? I totally sounded believable! Lucy attempted to focus on her hair as it repeatedly fell off the spoon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know him or anything about him. Simon! Er, I mean, Mr. Blackquill!” She pleaded with him, staring past her locks at his inquisitive face. “Tell your friend she’s being mean!”

He tilted his head, aloof. What a time to get rejected! “Even I can tell you’re uncomfortable with the subject.”

“N-no, I just, like, I don’t know anything and she’s making me nervous!”

“She is still right here,” Daffodil huffed. “And I’d like you to answer my question honestly.”

Unfortunately, Lucy’s composure was about as jumbled as her hair. She wrenched her eyes shut as her spoon slipped out of her fingers and swung back to hit her on the nose. “I don’t owe you anythiiiiiing!”

Over the external and internal screams of her ego dying a horrible death, the waitress could hear Daffodil whisper, “Simon…”

Her beautiful betrayer sighed, and at that moment, she knew it was the end. “Lucy, if you would. Your answer could change Mr. Nim’s fate. Will you help Athena— for me?”

Despondent, Lucy slouched. “I…” That was it. She had survived missing nails and tangled hair but now there was no fight left in her, not after the request of her beloved. She had finally lost the war, by means of surrender to the sexiest samurai who ever slurped soba at Use Your Noodle. “For you, Mr. Blackquill.”

A long conversation (and a few trips to finally get a cranky Mr. Totter his chicken rotini soup) later, Lucy felt a little better, despite having sacrificed all her knowledge to Daffodil’s witchy clutches.

“So that’s why Mr. Nim wouldn’t tell me his alibi?”

Simon, nearing the end of his extra-love shrimp soba, cast his gaze aside. “Not many men hoping to stay out of this country’s law enforcement databases would like to admit to stalking a sixteen year old from outside her school.”

Lucy shuddered. “I never gave into any of his flirting, for the record.” Blinking coyly at Simon, she added, “My heart belongs to another.”

Daffodil gave an ick! sort of look, which made Lucy wish she hadn’t asked the cook to switch her order back to her actual request. “And you said Polly Ester had a fight on the sidewalk with the other seamstress last week?” The waitress nodded, trying hard to be the better woman. “Molto bene! I’ve actually got a case to work with now! Thanks, Lucy!”

“Yeah, well…” Lucy wanted to look away from that sappy grin as soon as humanly possible, making her eyes impulsively gravitate to the clock.

Four twenty-nine and forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty—! Wow, where had the time gone?

“Anyways, I’ve got to go. My shift’s over now.” She sighed. “Um… good luck on your trial tomorrow…” Quickly, she retrieved her notepad and her pencil and, without thinking, scribbled a chunky heart on the top page. She stared at it, ready to tear it out and shove it into Simon’s hands, but… But no. She already made him promise to come back soon. Alone. Confessing her love would be best done without his plus-one making silly faces on the sidelines. The page stayed put, hidden by her palm. “And, uh, thanks for ‘Using Your Noodle’ today.”

Gawd, she hated the mandatory catchphrase.

Oh well. The things we do for love.