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Weekly Contest #207
I twisted my fingers in the pocket of my apron, my stomach knotting. The restaurant manager looked at his clipboard, then at us, and then at the clipboard again. Adam was probably the best manager we’d had in years, but his resting-bitch-face always made me sweat. His dark, bushy brows drew together in concentration. “Chelsea,” he said, in his cold, commanding voice, and Chelsea, who stood beside me, straightened her spine. “You’re on clearing.” “No problem,” Chelsea said, but I noticed the slump in her posture. No one enjoyed clearing dut...
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