Future Shock

Elizabeth Briggs

Albert Whitman & Company
Chicago, Illinois

Dedication

For my mother, Gaylene,
who never gave up hope

Part I: The Present

Part I

The Present

Wednesday

I can already tell this is one of those moments I’ll later wish I could forget. But like everything else, it will be burned into my memory forever.

“Elena Martinez, correct?” The pasty-white manager looks over my application with a frown. I stare at a piece of lint on his hunter-green polo shirt and shift in the hard wooden seat.

“Yes.” Remember to smile, I think and force my mouth to curl up. A dusty, round clock ticks overhead. 3:56 p.m. Two minutes faster than the watch on my wrist.

A waitress in a red skirt the size of a belt heads to the table next to us. If they hire me, I’ll be wearing that uniform too. Ugh. But I’ll take whatever job I can get at this point.

As the waitress takes the couple’s order, the woman’s high-pitched voice slices through the restaurant noise. “Can I get the bacon cheeseburger, without mayo but with mustard…” She goes on for another thirty seconds, replacing and adding so many items that she might as well make up her own menu item.

“How old are you?” the manager asks me, even though my age is right there on the form.

“Seventeen.” His eyebrows shoot up, and I quickly add, “But I turn eighteen in two months.”

He drums his fingers on the table and glances over my application again. My stomach growls at the smell of fried food wafting from another table. I haven’t eaten anything since the free lunch at school.

The air-conditioning kicks on overhead with a loud rumble, blasting cold air down on me. I rub my arms, wishing I’d worn a shirt with long sleeves. I would have if Los Angeles wasn’t in the middle of a freaking heat wave in the beginning of March, and if I had time to go home and change after school. No way was I spending the entire day in long sleeves, sweating all over myself. Besides, this is the nicest shirt I own.

The manager notices my movement and stares at my arms, his eyes narrowing at the sight of my tattoos. Definitely should have worn a different shirt. Why didn’t I bring an extra one to change into? Or a sweater?

“Have you ever stolen anything?” he asks.

“No,” I lie. Memories flicker through my head. At thirteen I stole five dollars from a foster mother’s purse to pay for food. At ten I took a chocolate bar from a different foster mother’s secret stash. At eight I swiped my father’s bottle of whiskey and threw it in the trash. But this manager doesn’t need to know any of that.

“Have you ever done drugs?”