Cupcakes

Chapter 8: Enter Hayden

Chapter 8: Enter Hayden

June 17

“Hayden’s a little too young for the bakery. What do you think?” I asked Richter, wondering where the hell Jarr was, who happened to be late for his four-hour evening shift at the bakery. I held a substantial handful of cash in my right hand, which needed to be deposited in the bank before it closed at five.

“You make him nervous. Hayden is not too young. He’s eighteen, almost a mature adult, wet behind his ears, and sexually confused. The kid doesn’t know that he’s gay yet. Give him a break.”

Hayden Mitchell was our new hire at Cupcakes. He worked approximately thirty-two hours a week and attended part-time classes at the local community college. His major was undecided, but he was leaning toward medicine, and he called his position at the bakery his “summer job.” The kid had boyish looks with mussed black hair and wide eyes, didn’t have a girlfriend, and was somehow related to the obscure Trafford Gray, but Richter and I didn’t exactly know how.

“Jarr says he’s going to find out if Hayden’s too young. I’m not really sure what that means, but I would like to know.”

Richter smirked. “It means that Jarr is after the kid. He needs to leave Hayden’s skin alone if he knows what’s best for him.”

“You try and tell him that. The bedding between the two is going to happen in less than a week.”

“Did Jarr tell you that?”

I nodded. “He already said he wants in the kid’s shorts. Jarr drools over the boy and calls him sexually legal.”

“Employees are not supposed to sleep together,” Richter said. “This is how bankruptcy starts.”

I laughed because he knew more about icing than bankruptcy. “Let me do a one on one with Jarr and convince him to leave Hayden alone.”

“You do that. Now get out of here and get to the bank before it closes.”

“On my way,” I replied, and bolted out of the shop.

* * * *

I knew Hayden was a little too young to work in the bakery, fresh out of high school and unable to cope or function in the real world. I found such knowledge out later that afternoon. Our new hire was talking to himself while putting away a new shipment of fresh fruit in the cooler area: apples, pears, kiwi, pineapple, and lemon. He became frustrated with the work and started tossing bananas and plums in baskets, maybe discouraged with the work.

“Hayden,” I called to him in the cooler.

He looked at me like a deer might look into headlights on Backlot Road, which ran along the lake.

“Be careful with the fruit. I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, turning a shade of chalk white in his cheeks.

I trotted away smiling, knowing that he was maybe too young for the responsibilities that Richter and I gave him. The kid wasn’t ready to work and maybe needed his summer off like other guys his age. Some high school graduates were capable of entering the work force. Others weren’t. Obviously, Hayden was in the latter group.