Chapter 5

My co-members and I have successfully done it. We've passed the project and been graded the highest. I'm grateful for the universe it doesn't go against my wish for today. As I drop the canvas I painted on, I go to my co-members and together, we crack up each other because of the good output.

"I knew you guys could do it," I say with a jolly tone.

"Thanks to you, Stella," the girl in front of me says. "Without your encouragement, we couldn't have done it."

"Oh, come on," I deny. "We've all done it because we believed in ourselves, in our best."

The boy beside me claps twice. "That's why I'm treating you guys for today."

Everybody cheers, still under their breath.

"And you'll go with us, Stella, alright?" the boy adds.

"Sorry, guys." I purse my lips, an expression of apology plastered on my face. Everybody sighs in dismay. "I really want to spend some time with you guys, but I have work," I utter in addition.

"It's fine, Stella. Prioritize your needs," the blonde girl says.

"I'll for your shift today," the boy adds, again.

"That would be lovely, but I don't do that, dude," I say while wiping the drops of acrylic paint on my palms with wet wipes. "Anyway, I'm off. I'm proud of you guys."

"Stay safe, Stella."

"Safe road ahead then."

"Thanks again. Bye-bye."

And with those words, I put on my backpack and get out of the campus. I run across the rather busy street and stride to Aunt Hilda's block. "Auntie," I say while knocking on the door.

The door then opens in some seconds, revealing the newly woken-up Marco inside. He yawns noisily and raises a brow at me. "Mom and Dad aren't home. Why?"

"I'm just getting my bike." I'm about to leave when I suddenly think of Reign Hayes. "Marco, by the way . . ." I trail off, "Have you told Reign your feelings yet?"

"Stella, why would I?" he spits out. "I don't want to get rejected on-site."

"Um, okay?"

"Was she present?"

"She's always been."

"Oh," he says. "Okay."

"Anyway, I'm hitting the road now." I wave at him.

He just nods and says, "Be careful on the streets."

I interject an 'Aha' and get on my bike. I start pedaling across streets and alleys until I get to our building. I find Om transferring a cactus into another pot. She smiles at me and greets me a good afternoon. I throw my bag onto the couch and hug Mom from behind. "I've been having a good day, Mom. How are you?" I whisper to her.

She rubs my hand with her chalky palms. "I'm fine. Just a little back pain earlier."

"Have you taken your medication?"

"I did. I always have."

"Don't worry." I stand beside her and put the remaining soil into the other pot. "After I pay the rent, we'll visit the neurosurgeon for a checkup."

"It isn't needed, Stella," she rebuffs. "I'm all good, enjoying good health."

"Don't worry about the money, Mom. I can work on it."

"Thank you, sweetie, but I need you to focus on your entrance examination." She dusts the soil off my palms. "I need you to do great in college, and worrying way too much about me isn't going to help you."

"Mom, don't say that."

"But—"

"I'll just prepare your dinner." I walk away. "I'll be heading early to the restaurant."

Mom just shakes her head. I kind of don't like this side of her. There's no problem with exhausting my body for her. I love her, and I know she knows that, so I'll risk even my soul just to give her a better, bigger life. My father didn't give him that, and neither did Sean, so I'll do it, voluntarily and gladly as my body still can.

Our fridge is almost empty. I prepare a plate of quinoa salad with avocado mayo and make another bowl of salad out of broccoli, collards, and beet greens. And there we go — the vegetables are finally out. I put the dishes in the microwave and serve them on the dinner table together with a glass of grapefruit juice. After I change into the uniform, I remind Mom of her bedtime and then kiss her goodbye.

"Take care, Stella," she says sweetly.

I nod and smile. "I will. Lock the doors and windows, alright?" She nods. "I'm off," I say as I shut the door.

After getting out of the building, I hail a taxi and arrive at the restaurant a bit late because of the heavy traffic tonight. I put on the thin apron and start getting the guests' orders. The manager comes to me and orders me to get the orders of the outdoor diners.

As I get out of the building, the autumnal bleak wind greets my already-cold frame. I cheerfully greet the guests and take their orders. The schedule tonight is hectic. When people leave, a group or two shows up.

A man in a neat dark blue suit with gray sideburns smiles at me as he enters the restaurant. "Is there any available table still, miss?"

I look around and see a crew of girls leaving a four-seat table. "I'll just clean it up, sir."

"Sure, sure."

I smile and then take off. I briskly swipe the table's mess into a tray and then sanitize the surface. I dry it with a thick towel and lead the man in a blue suit to the area. He quickly grabs the menu and then orders a Penne Pomodoro and two servings of tiramisu. His deep dray irises seem to smile at me as I lay his meals on his table. I give him a cheap beam and am about to leave when he utters "Hey."

I turn to him. "Yes, signore?"

"You're in your first college year?" he asks.

"Oh, no, sir," I respond. "I'm graduating from high school next year."

"Oh, I see."

I slightly bow. I don't know what I did that.

"You come off as an industrious person, kid," he says. I'm quite weirded out by the word 'kid.' Nobody calls me that except my father. The man then continues speaking, "I'd like to invite you to work for my company, if you just want to."

Woah. This is an opportunity to earn more needfuls. I just . . . don't know this man though. He seems like a nice man. Did he say 'my company?' That means he's a boss. I'm talking to a boss. I turn my gaze around and back to him. I say, "What are the requirements, sir?"

"Just a little experience in personal assistance," the man says while poking his pasta. "Have you had one?

"Sorry, sir. I've only worked in eateries and art studios."

"Well, we can work that out." He shakes his head, smiles, and then hands me a small card with a contact number on it. "Here, we're hiring, especially college students who seek extra income for their studies and experience for future professions."

I shake his rather calloused hands and utter my gratitude, "Thank you so much for this, sir. I'll call when I'm ready. I'm Stella De Vega, by the way."

"Sure, kid." He beams a smile. "My name is Rusco Andreyev." His name sounds Italian or Russian or whatever.

I go back to the counter and distribute the orders of the other guests that have arrived. It's been a long night serving the customers, and it's all worth the effort. Our shift manager gives us some bonus cash. He tells us he's been reassigned to the newest branch opened on the other side of the city.

After finishing setting the seats on top of the tables, I head for the sidewalk while hailing a taxi. I want to have a car so badly. Even just a hatchback or sedan. Or even a micro. I'd love to own one. Soon, I guess.

My mind suddenly goes blank when Ryle appears in front of me. He's wearing, as usual, a leather jacket with sleeves folded up above his elbow, exposing his forearms that look almost big as my leg. His hands don fingerless motorcycle gloves. He pulls back his wet hair and stares at me like a freak he actually is.

I can't see his deep grays because of the dim surroundings. It's not that I want to take a look at it. "I thought we talked about this, mister," I break the silence. "I'll call the police regarding this constant stalking thing you're doing."

"I'm not stalking you," he replies, his jaws tightening. "I'm waiting for your service."

"Why would you even do that?" I step once to my side, away from him.

He sits astride on his seemingly high-end gray sport bike while frequently turning his head in my direction. He's being weird again. And the worst thing is he knows where I live. How long has he been following me? Is he an agent or something on a mission to assassinate me? Well, maybe not. I've gotten no riches at all, except my mother and my paint-smeared palettes. When will he stop? I need him to permanently leave me alone. I'm not walking the earth to play some kind of submission-toleration game, or whatever he's enjoying doing. I hope he's happy now that he's been successfully ruining my days. I was cheerful earlier, and now, it's all vanished. Thanks to Mister Freak himself.

The taxi finally arrives, the sight of the old driver somewhat giving me a sense of comfort from Ryle. I give Ryle a blank stare before getting into the vehicle. He just stares back at me statuesquely, the tight clenching of his jaws appearing to somehow emancipate. As the taxi moves along, he puts on his helmet and then screeches his motorcycle in the opposite direction. Thank God. I almost died because of his vexing presence.

I turn up in our apartment before midnight, and Mom is already in a tight sleep. I kiss her good night and then saunter into my room. Upon sitting on my bed, I open my laptop and search 'Rusco Andreyev' on the Internet. A website says he's the founder and market leader of the dominant luxury vehicle manufacturer in Russia called 'Doyarka.' Doyarka is most well-known for its tough off-road trucks and cruiser motorcycles. I'm shocked by these flooding achievements the company has attained. Mister Rusco Andreyev proposed a job for me in his company. I can't believe it. This is real, right? This is real.

I browse more about Mister Andreyev. When I enter Doyarka's website, an image of a woman in a framed picture on a small cupboard flashes on the screen. It says Doyarka is inspired by Mister Andreyev's late older sister who was a milkmaid in northeastern Russia. I open the menu bar and when I accidentally click on 'More about Rusco Andreyev,' I get redirected to an online businessmen's encyclopedia. Of course. When I feel lucky, the universe has to throw a misfortune at me. That's how life works.

I stare blankly at the picture, my brain exploding to bits in great silence. There he stands beside Mister Andreyev. Their deep gray eyes match so perfectly. Their facial features make them appear just like brothers. Their smile is weirdly identical. I heave a sigh of dismay. He's Mister Andreyev's son — Ryle.

*****

I wake up with my head throbbing. I take in a capsule of ibuprofen from Mom's cabinet and push it down with cold water. I slept early though. Well, a quarter past twelve is still early. Anyway, I prepare hearty sandwiches and cups of coffee and call for Mom. She sits across me and has her eyelids half-shut looking at me.

"Are you okay?" she asks worriedly.

I nod cheaply. "Yes. There's just like this bass drum beating up in my head."

"You know you can take a day off school and work."

"No, Mom."

"But you have to get rid of this headache." She stands up and lightly presses the back of his hand on my forehead. "Keeping up with the teachers' discussions and customers' orders are hefty for you."

"I'm fine, Mom." I take a sip of the coffee.

She sits again. "Okay. I just don't want you to tire yourself. You don't deserve it."

"Mom, we've already talked about this thing." I chew on my sandwich. "I'm doing this whether you like it or not," I say. "And Mom."

Mom just raises her brows in response.

"Somebody offers me a job in this big company," I say cheerfully, making Mom's shoulders slouch. "Why?" I ask.

"Another job?" she queries.

I sigh. "Mom, I can do it. Don't worry about me. Just relax here and I'm going to get your rich health back."

Mom doesn't reply. I know this is hard for her as well, witnessing her kid work hard for her sake. But if she wants me to stop for my own good, then I'll always deny that want. I have to get her out of this rather miserable life. I'll get her old, healthy self back. I promise her that.

After breakfast, I head to the shower and clean myself. While the heavenly, cool water floods down my body, my mind suddenly thinks about Mister Andreyev and Ryle's connection. Ryle is Rusco Andreyev's son. Ryle is a son of a billionaire, which blurs it all because he differs from him in terms of morals. I shrug the idea off and just finish my bath.