Chapter Two - Camilo

"Camilo, what did you get on the chemistry exam?" Miguel asked, setting his notebook down across from my open physics textbook.

"94," I replied.

"94...you only got six questions wrong?"

I nodded and continued to write down notes for the next class. Miguel was always trying to one up me when it came to our grades, and he often fell short by a few points. This common pattern frustrated the hell out of him, but it kept him through the nursing program.

"You win. I got an 85," he said, pulling back the chair in front of him and taking a seat across from me.

I glanced at him. "It wasn't a contest."

He shrugged and scrolled through his phone. Miguel and I have identical schedules, and we've had identical schedules since last year. We met during freshman orientation, and he hasn't left me alone since.

"Hey, did you see who we're catering for tonight?" Miguel asked.

"No, I haven't checked."

"It's for that big shot attorney," he said. "The one that's married to that hot actress!"

"How do you even know that?" I asked, my focus broken by my curiosity. "We aren't allowed to know the client we're working for until we get there."

"It's in the group chat." He handed his phone over to me. I pushed it away and went back to reading my textbook. Miguel and I are waiting staff for a catering company, a job that he was much too eager to help me apply to. It's a popular catering company in Los Angeles, so we get booked by celebrities all the time, but we're not informed of who the clients are due to security reasons.

But word spreads fast, and usually a day before the event.

"I wonder if she'll be there."

"Who?" I ask.

He sat up straight and smirked, pulling up a picture of an actress I had seen spreading online recently. I could understand his appeal since her face was relatively attractive with big green eyes, full lips and a near perfect nose. She looked too beautiful to be real.

"I know you're not into girls, but she's hot, right?"

"She's like 40," I said, my attention returning to the textbook.

"She's 41," he corrected me.

"She's old enough to be your mom," I said.

"I wish she was." He smirked. I paused for a moment to think of any innuendo that could explain his response.

I looked up from my books and glared at him, "Gross."

He shrugged and continued scrolling through his phone. I was already two hours into studying, and my eyes felt like they were going to pop out. Usually, I can stare at pages for more than 4 hours, but I didn't get any sleep last night. I rested my head on the table and set my pen down to take a break.

"She has a kid though." Miguel sighed longingly. "I'm not ready to be a father."

"Good, you'd be terrible," I mumbled.

"The kid is like our age, so it would be weird fathering a 20 year old."

"Don't be dumb," I said.

Miguel patted my head, resting his hand on my hair. "The kid is a total brat. The only reason he's famous is because of his mom. I mean, seriously, his mom is Hollywood royalty and he thinks just because of that he's the shit." He paused for a moment and chuckled. "You know, I heard from one of the film majors that he's a pretentious asshole."

"Yeah, they were probably making things up." I shook my head in disapproval of his rant.

"We're in L.A.," he says. "People here meet celebrities all the time."

"I don't care," I muttered. "Just read me back my notes so I can study in my dreams."

"Nah, we should get going." Miguel tousled my hair aggressively, and I reached my arm over to slap his hand away. "They told us to be two hours early to set up. So, we gotta catch the bus."

This is what life is like, at least for us. Study, take exams, eat, work, sleep, study, take exams, eat, work, sleep, etc... Sometimes the sleeping bit doesn't even happen, but we somehow manage.

The bus is crowded by the time we get on, but thankfully there's two open seats in the back. It's inconvenient to take the bus since a 20 minute trip takes nearly an hour with all the stops, but Miguel's car is in the shop, and I'm still saving up to buy my own. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as Miguel had his head resting on my shoulder.

I glanced at him and watched the drool dripping from his lips. Miguel's always tired, he finds any time he can to take naps. I don't blame him, he goes to school full time and works two part time jobs to pay for his tuition, and help out his folks. Him and I, we're not that different.

I turned my head back to the window, watching the city pass by. There were people sitting outside the overpriced restaurants drinking and laughing. I wonder what it's like to live comfortably, and not have to work so hard to get what you need. Those people are so far from us, we're opposites of a spectrum. It's easy to imagine when you're on the outside looking in, but they'll never be able to imagine what it's like for us.

I nudged Miguel awake, and he blinked a few times before stretching his arms out and asking, "Are we there yet?"

"Yeah, let's go." I stood up as the bus came to a stop. "We're late."

"Fuck," he muttered walking off the bus platform. "Let's find a bathroom first."

...

"Camilo, you're passing out the drinks," Carrie said, holding her clipboard.

I nodded, placing a stack of plates on the white table cloth. The guests were starting to arrive and Carrie was trying her best to put the food and drinks out. The Lombardi family were clients of high prestige, another way of saying they gave us good business. It was in our best interest for this event to run smoothly.

"Camilo, I've talked to you about your hair." She pushed my curls out of my eyes. "You need to tie it back or style it in a way that it doesn't look so—disheveled."

"Sorry, I forgot."

She shook her head, dropping her hand. "This is a warning," she said. Miguel walked up to me as she left, heading towards the table of pastries.

"I don't think your hair is that much of a problem. I think you're gonna get lots of tips from a lot of Hollywood creeps," he said.

I shook my head, picking up a tray full of champagne. "That's not comforting."

"I know, I just wanted you to laugh."

I glanced at him and muttered, "Haha."

"I'll be working the table on the right side of the ballroom, so just come find me if you wanna switch stations."

"I'll be fine," I said, glancing at the guests entering the ballroom. "Get to your table, or Carrie will badmouth us again."

Within the next half hour the ballroom was full of guests. Many of them dressed in cocktail dresses and tuxedos. I recognized a few faces from movies I had watched with my mom when I was a kid. I'm assuming they were older actors in the industry with connections to Eva Lombardi.

I began my rounds, holding out the tray of champagne as I squeezed myself between groups offering refreshments. I was actually very good at maneuvering large crowds and slipping in and out without being noticed. The only time my short height comes to an advantage, when most of the time it's an inconvenience.

"I'll take a glass, young man," an older man said. I nodded at the man and handed him a glass, flashing a quick smile.

It was nice when the guests treated us like actual people. Sometimes they just take things from our trays without even looking at us, or sometimes they ignore us when we offer them food or drinks.

Sometimes they act like we're inanimate objects.

I've gotten used to it. I don't let it get to me too much, but it doesn't feel good. Being ignored never feels good, but being perceived by these types of people also sounds terrifying.

I backed up with my tray, turning to the guests beside me, offering more drinks. Before I could finish my thought, my leg stumbled back and I stuck my hand out, grabbing the nearest arm I could find. The tray of drinks in my hand flipped over and splashed all over a pair of freshly pressed gray pants, and the two glasses fell onto the carpeted floor.

"What the fuck is your problem?" A deep voice shouted in frustration.

I let go of the man's sleeve, and glanced down at his pants. The champagne had spilled all over the inner pant leg, sharing a similar resemblance to a child who had wet himself.

"I apologize!" I exclaimed. "I didn't mean—"

"Do you have any idea who I am?" He snapped. There were people glancing at us, some whispered into one another's ears.

It was then when I finally had the guts to look at the person I had dropped $150 worth of champagne on.

His expression read disgust by the way his eyebrows furrowed, and his brown hair fell over his eyes which narrowed down at me.

The heat climbed its way up to my cheeks, and it felt like my heart was going to pop out of my chest by watching this guy brush his hair away from his honey colored eyes. I continued to stare at him as the words coming out of his mouth were drowned out by my thoughts.

"Are you fucking listening?"

His question shook me out of my trance.

"I-I'm so sorry!" I said, resting the empty tray by my side as I stared down at his stained pants.

"Uhm—I can—can..." I trailed off, unsure of what I could actually do. My body was frozen, I was never this clumsy, and I had never seen anyone so good looking in person. Another glance at his face and I might just stop functioning all together.

"Can't finish a sentence?" He snapped. "Are you fucking kidding me? What's your name? I need it so I can fire your—"

"There's a restroom!" I said, grabbing his arm. "Come, it's just outside the ballroom!" I pulled his sleeve and began running towards the lobby, clutching onto his wrist as I dragged him behind me.

He's yelling at me, but I couldn't understand with all the adrenaline coursing through my body. I pushed open the door, letting go of him once we entered the restroom. I quickly pulled out the paper from the towel dispenser, and handed it to him.

He grabbed the paper dabbing it onto his pant leg, muttering to himself.

"I'm really sorry," I said.

He glanced at me, nearly stopping my heart, and shook his head. "No "sorry" is gonna save you from getting thrown out of here. Let alone catering any other Hollywood event. Are you always such an idiot?"

And in that moment the feeling in my stomach and chest stopped. No more fluttering, or churning, it was replaced with the sudden urge to punch him.

"Excuse me?"

He threw the wet paper towels at my feet, standing up straight, a few inches above me.

"I asked if you were an idiot," he sneered. "But from the way you can barely form a coherent thought, I think you are."

I furrowed my eyebrows and tilted my head, "What's your fucking problem?"