Things for Nerds

My mum made us both tea that evening. I usually let my tea cool down a little before drinking, because I tend to make a mess when putting things in my mouth, and I didn’t exactly want to boil my face off. For that reason, I think offering me tea is my mum’s way of saying that she just wants to chat with me, because otherwise I would generally just head straight to my room.

“So when you said dad was coming home, how soon is that going to be?”

My mum took a sip of her tea. “Very soon. Tuesday, I think. You should tell your boss you’re busy around that time if you want to see him, not that you have to see him.”

I decided to say nothing. I did want to see dad, and not just because he gets me things from England. His eccentricity clears up the stale routine of life where nobody says what they’re thinking and people pretend they care about things. As it turned out, getting a part time job wasn’t the panacea to all my social woes that I'd been thinking about. Well, woes is a strong word. I still have my internet friends, and I don’t mind my hobbies. I really don’t know why I expected it to be different from school. Mr. and Mrs. Shimizu make it worth it, though. Nobody outside of my family treats me like a normal person other than them, so even if we have little to bond over, it just feels relaxing to pretend I’m a human being for once.

I felt the cup with my hand. It was cool enough to drink now.

“You look sad, Yorito,” my mum said.

“I’m a bit sleepy, actually. I think I’ll go to bed.”

The next two days I didn’t go into work, mostly so I could enjoy myself a little. I wanted to ease into things a little, and I wasn’t used to having my free time eaten so much. School was pretty uneventful as usual, although my new paints did arrive on Saturday, which meant I could spend the afternoon touching up the São Gabriel. Someone on one of my Discord servers told me that the colours were slightly wrong, and it was my duty to rub it in their face. Most people probably find it hilarious that grown adults want to nitpick a model ship made by a teenager, but I appreciate that at least some people know what quality is when they see it.

My mum slid the door open.

“Yorito, do you want to do some baking again today?”

I looked up at her, still holding my paint-stained brush. “Eh, I’ll probably be baking something at work tomorrow. We could have done it yesterday, but I’m painting now”.

“Oh right,” she replied. “I didn’t think of that.”

Sunday was my first weekend shift, and I had to wake up early. Normally, my schedule runs like clockwork and I’m never late for anything, but waking me up on a weekend is a cardinal sin. I muttered curses under my breath as I thrashed my bedtime table to try and reach my phone. I hadn’t changed my alarm sound in about three years, so at this point, even the first note of that ghastly song triggers violent impulses in me. After twenty seconds of bashing around, I was finally able to find my phone, and drowsily tapped in the passcode.

After an incredibly rushed morning where I certainly did not have time for breakfast, I somehow managed to catch my train, and arrived at the cafe only two minutes late. I clocked in as being on time, because nobody really cares about these things, and changed into my uniform.

“Hello Mr. and Mrs. Shimizu,” I said to the couple as I walked past them. I pulled out some sheets of paper, and laid them on the table.

“Here’s some recipes I thought we could try making for today,” I explained.

“I don’t know much about these sorts of things,” Mr. Shimizu laughed. “It’s all very exotic. But what you made yesterday was pretty tasty, so I trust your judgement!”

“I used to watch my mum make this sort of stuff in England, and I eventually picked it up myself. It’s quite simple, really. I tried to choose stuff we already have ingredients for, but next time I can put a shopping list together”.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea!”, said Mrs. Shimizu. “Aren’t you clever? Well, I’ll leave you to it. Mr. Shimizu is going to help make some coffee today, just so you’re not too busy doing things by yourself!”.

I noticed in the corner of my eye that Una was watching our conversation. She had this weird sort of stare that made me wonder if she was really listening to us or if she was just wandering into space. I got the feeling she was the sort of person who liked to know everything going on. Fortunately for her, her coworkers are an elderly couple and a nerd: two demographics famous for doing a lot of exciting things.

I made my way to the back and started getting to work. Mr. Shimizu was helping fulfil orders, whilst I was trying to cream butter and sugar with one of the flimsiest spatulas known to man. Una, who initially walked in to place some cups and plates near the sink, began watching over my shoulder. After an awkward thirty seconds, I sighed.

“If you’re so interested in what I’m doing, you can do it instead,” I huffed sarcastically. Her judgemental attitude was starting to get on my nerves, and I don’t like when people watch me work.

She reached for the spatula, and I exhaled slightly, not actually expecting her to actually take me up on my sarcastic suggestion. I stepped aside, and watched her scrape the sides of the bowl. My arm was getting a little tired, so I didn’t mind rinsing things and putting them in the dishwasher for a bit.

“This is quite fun, actually. I like scraping all the stuff off the side of the bowl,” she said, staring intently at the bowl.

“You do realise you’re also meant to mix up the stuff in the middle, right? I was just scraping the sides because stuff was getting stuck there,” I replied. She clearly didn’t know what she was doing, but as long as she was having fun and enjoying herself rather than making some jab at me, I was quite content to continue cleaning for a bit.

“Hm, but that sounds less fun. You have to actually put force into it.”

She began jamming and stirring the spatula into the sticky, buttery mixture. After stabbing it too deeply into a rather large chunk of butter I probably should have cut up more, she yanked it out with too much force, and separated the head and the handle of the cheap spatula.

I stopped what I was doing, and walked over, picking up the handle, and pulling out the head, which was still stuck in a clump of butter. “You really should be less heavy-handed.”

That advice was, of course, aimed at her personality. But I suppose it could be useful for not breaking the cafe’s only spatula, too.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, unenthused. “I didn’t mean to break it.”

Part of me wanted to make some witty riposte, but I knew she’d take it far too literally and then get upset. It was a shame, I thought the joke I was going to make was quite funny.

I tried my best to put on a reassuring tone, but I choked on my words a bit and just sounded like an idiot. “Well we ca-,” I garbled, before slowing down and speaking more carefully. “Well, we can always put it on the shopping list. Are there wooden spoons anywhere? I’ll just use that as a replacement.”

She looked around the room, opening cupboards and drawers with energetic confusion. “Hm, I don’t go back here much except for plates and cups. Erm, can’t you just use your hands?”

I scoffed. “Don’t be barbaric.”

I turned over to look at her, and realised her energy had died down a little. Realising she probably took me seriously, I laughed awkwardly a bit to myself. “I’m just playing around. It’s just hard to wash butter off your fingers. It’s basic chemistry, that's all. That’s why I’d rather use a spatula or a spoon.”

“You sound like a bit of a nerd,” she responded very matter-of-factly, as she continued opening drawers.

“Well if butter being hard to wash out of your hands is groundbreaking science to you, wait until you hear about coke and mentos.”

I saw her smile a little at the remark, before quickly looking in the other direction. As my eyes followed the area she was facing, I noticed one of the drawers.

“That drawer says ‘Utensils’ on it, right? Do you think they have spoons in there?”

Una opened it up, and her expression sank. “Oh. I probably should have looked in there first. Yeah, there’s one in here, I’ll pass it over.”

Part of me wondered if she would have been more efficient at her job if she decided to read things before rushing head-first to open half the drawers in the kitchen. But then again, that involves reading. And if you read things, aren’t you a bit of a nerd?