When It Rains

Chapter 15 - Teamwork Makes the Dreamwork

Crinae had tried to talk me out of seeing Greg. She told me I wasn't cleared to see him. I told her that wasn't going to stop me. She told me I was going to get in trouble. I told her that I've been in trouble many times before and have managed it so trouble is no trouble. After a long drawn out stretch and yawn, Crinae finally consented to let me see Greg. 

"You can see him tonight," she said.

 "Tonight? That's a bit fast, isn't it?" 

"Do you want to see him or not?" 

"Yes. I want to see Greg."

 "For all you know," Crinae said, "he might hate you." 

"Why?" I asked. 

"He fought for your freedom and look who you turned out to be. You ended up costing him his freedom." 

I'm thinking about that right now. I had no idea of knowing that I was related to Sebastian back then. I had no idea Mom was his sister and she was working on bringing us to Newtopia. I'm sure Greg will understand all of this. Right? Crinae said I have to dress in my cadet uniform to get access to the Funnels. She's going to use the excursion as a teachable moment. How awesome for me.

"Be outside at 4 p.m.," she said. "Sharp." 

"I'll be there," I said and then went to my room. I've been so busy that my stomach hasn't realized it missed lunch. Until now. My belly rumbles as I sit at the mirror, trying to make my hair look as nice as Crinae's. She has such nice, straight, straight hair that stays exactly in place and looks exactly the same no matter what time of day. My stupid curly hair is springing out all over the place and is a puffy, fuzzy frizz of an entity sitting on my head. I wouldn't be surprised if one day it jumped off my skull, said, "Thanks but no thanks," and bounced away. 

I give up on combing the beast and leave it as it is. A mess. 

"I wonder if Mom's stylist could help me?" I think. "Don't be ridiculous, Naia," I say out loud to myself. "Do you think Greg will care what you look like? Especially if he's in prison? Get a grip" To stop from pulling out all my hair, I go find lunch. Steam creeps out the kitchen door and when I open it, heat rolls out along with delicious smells of sugar and ginger.

The place is bustling with staff. There are cooks stirring huge pots on the range. Bakers roll and shape and cut pastry and breads and biscuits on long marble countertops. A red-faced chef rushes past me, large patches of sweat stain the back of her white uniform. 

"Excuse me," I say to her. "Is there anyone who can get me some lunch?" 

The chef stops and looks blankly at me. "Are you picking up the order for the Lieutenant-General?" she asks. "She only put it in a couple of minutes ago." 

"I'm not here for the Lieutenant-General," I say. 

"Oh, then you're here for Ms. Aliah. Her mother hasn't had her soup yet today. If you go to the back, I'll heat some up and put in a bowl for you. Bread or crackers?" 

"Excuse me?" I ask. 

"Do you want bread or crackers to go with the soup?" the chef says, putting her hands on her hips. 

"Um, crackers, please. The kind with the salt on top." 

"OK. I'll be right there. Just have to tell the pastry chef he can't put the croissants in the oven until the turkey is done." 

"Right," I say, moving out of the way of a man wielding a long ladle.

I weave my way through people, pots and pans and get to the back of the kitchen. There's an alcove with a green coloured range. On one of its burners, simmers a pot of soup. I pick up a red dishcloth and lift the lid. The rich smell of chicken, thyme and leeks wander up to greet me.