What Happens to Goodbye(55)

“You didn’t have to take a punch for me, you know,” he said. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
“You’re a freak is what you are,” I said.
He stuck out his hand. “Come on, slugger. Walk with me. You know you want to.”
And the thing was, despite everything I knew—that it was a mistake, that he was different from the others—I did. How he knew that, I had no idea. But I got up and did it anyway.
That afternoon, when I got home, my dad’s keys were in the door. When I pulled them out and pushed it open, I heard voices.
“Stop it. Seriously. This isn’t funny.”
“You’re right.” A p="1em" ali“It’s pathetic.”
There was some giggling. Then, “Look, if we rank everyone on the staff with the point system, and incorporate the evaluations like we discussed, then go off of that, then . . .”
“. . . we’ll have official numeric confirmation that we do, in fact, have the worst staff in town.”
I heard a snicker, then a full-out burst of laughter. By the time I got to the kitchen doorway to see my dad and Opal at the table, a bunch of papers spread out between them, they were in hysterics.
“What are you guys doing?” I asked.

Opal picked up a napkin from the bowl on the counter, dabbing at her eyes, then opened her mouth to answer me. Before she could, though, she broke down again, waving her hand in front of her face. My dad, across from her, was sputtering.
“Corporate,” Opal said finally, or rather gasped, “wants us to decide who our weak links are.”
“And the answer,” my dad added, snorting, “is everyone.”
They both burst out laughing again, like this was the funniest thing in the world. Opal put her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking, while my dad sat back, trying to catch his breath.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“That’s because,” my dad said, wheezing, “you haven’t been at it for four straight hours.”
“Four hours!” Opal said, slapping her hand on the table. “And we’ve got nothing. Zip, zilch, nada.”
My dad tittered at this. He sounded like a little girl. I asked, “Why are you doing this here?”
“We can’t do it at the restaurant,” Opal said. She took a deep breath. “It’s very serious business.”
My dad howled at this, throwing his head back, which set her off again. I headed to the fridge for a drink, wondering if we had a gas leak or something.
“Okay, okay.” Opal took a deep breath. “Seriously, this is ridiculous. I’m so slaphappy I can’t see straight. We have to finish like—oh my God! Mclean, what happened to your nose?”
I shut the fridge to see them both staring at me. It was a little more noticeable in profile, I guessed. “I collided with my locker. I’m fine.”
“Are you?” my dad asked as I came over, sitting down beside him. He reached to touch the bump and I flinched. “That looks pretty serious.”
“It was a lot worse earlier,” I told him. “The swelling’s gone way down.”
“It looks like someone punched you,” my dad said.
“Nope. Just a clumsy chain reaction.” I took a sip of my drink. He was still watching me. “Dad. I’m fine.”
Across the table, Opal smiled. “She’s a tough girl, Gus. Stop fretting.”
My dad made a face at her, then looked down at a stack of papers in front of him, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay, so here’s the thing. I know Chuckles pretty well,” he said. “He likes formulas and numbers, everythingaid out neatly on a spreadsheet. That’s why he uses this evaluation system. It’s totally cut and dry.”
“Maybe so, but it leaves no room for the human side of things,” Opal said. “Now, I’m the first to admit we don’t have the most capable staff. . . .”
I glanced at the yellow legal pad that was by his elbow. On it was a list of names, each one with a number beside it. Scribblings and notes filled the margins, along with scratch-outs and smudges.
“But,” she added quickly, “but, I think our people do add a flavor and personality to the Luna Blu experience that cannot be quantified on a piece of paper.”
My dad looked at her. “Today at lunch,” he said, his voice flat, “Leo sent out a chicken sandwich with yogurt on it instead of sour cream.”
Opal bit her lip. “Well,” she said after a moment, “in the Middle East, yogurt is a popular sandwich condiment.”
“But we’re not in the Middle East.”
“It’s a mistake!” she said, throwing up her hands. “People make them. Nobody’s perfect.”
“Which is a fine philosophy in a preschool,” my dad replied. “But in a working, profitable restaurant, we need to aim for better.”
She looked down at her hands. “So you’re saying we fire Leo.”
My dad pulled the legal pad closer, squinting at it. “If we go by Chuckles’s formula, yes. By the numbers, he and everyone else we’ve got listed here in the top spots should go.”
Opal groaned, pushing back from the table. “But they’re not numbers. They’re people. Good people.”
“Who don’t know the difference between yogurt and sour cream.” She rolled her eyes, and he added, “Opal, this is my job. If something—or someone—isn’t working, then we have to make changes.”
“Like the rolls.”
He sighed. “They were a cost suck, took up too much prep time, and gave us no return. It could be argued, in fact, that they lost us money.”