When We Collided(47)

“Dude, she would eat you alive.”

“What!”

“Ellie takes zero shit.” I put the corn bread in the oven. “And you are full of it.”

He and Gabe live to joke around in the kitchen, and I have to admit they’re funny. But, as if to prove my point, the kitchen door swings open. Ellie sticks her head in. “Hurry it up, you clowns.”

The restaurant stays packed through the lunch hour. Bread in the oven, bread out, season the chicken broth, on and on. My mind numbs in that way I’ve only ever found in the kitchen. And with Vivi. Despite the frantic pace, I sneak a moment to peer out the kitchen door. It’s a swinging door with a Plexiglas circle window out to the dining room. When I was little, it made me think of a submarine. There are families at every table. Lifting spoonfuls of soup to their mouths, slathering butter on their bread. Heads leaning back in loud laughter. The restaurant is busy, but the world feels slow. No one is hurrying because there’s nothing to hurry to. They’re together. I miss my dad so much that my stomach almost heaves. I have to keep moving, keep working.

By 4:00 p.m., they’ve cleared out, and the dinner-prep shift has started to overlap with our finely honed routine.

“Go home, both of you,” Felix tells Ellie and me. “You worked a good day.”

“Okay,” Ellie replies, leaning over to kiss her dad on the cheek. She turns to me. “Are you walking home? I have something to show you.”

“Yeah, uh. Okay.” I glance back at Felix to see if he looks in the know. He looks amused.

“You’re a dick,” Jack says, pointing at me.

Outside, Ellie’s waiting. The rain has stopped. The air still smells like wet dirt and ozone. As we walk out the door, she hands me a folded sheet of paper, which is covered in the blue ink of her neat handwriting.

“Some notes. Well . . . observations, I guess.” She points to the first line. “I spent some time thinking about trends in my interactions with customers as their waitress. Because, you know, they ask me about certain dishes or tell me which ones they’re trying to decide between.”

I start at the top. Overview. Types of Customers: Townie Regulars, “Something Light and Healthy” Vacationers, and People Who Just Want the Most Possible Amount of Food.

My eyes jump to the bottom of the page. Conclusions:, it says, like this is a paper for school, Create an official kids’ menu with a few simple offerings, expand our salad menu so customers can add grilled chicken or shrimp, designate meals on the menu that are vegetarian and gluten-free, and also create a few more options that are vegetarian and gluten-free . . .

There are more. “Uhh . . . wow.”

Ellie clears her throat. “After today, I also think we should consider a sandwich-and-soup combo for the lunch hour.”

“Yeah, great.” My word bank has depleted after the dizzying lunch shift. This is great. And unexpected. I know Ellie said she wanted to help, but I had no idea she cared this much. “Great.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m stepping on your toes! After we talked at the bonfire, I realized I have some insight about our customers and what they seem to want.”

“No!” I say. “This is great. I mean, wow. It’s so organized and . . . clear.”

Ellie looks momentarily embarrassed, though her easy smile makes me think I imagined it. “What can I say? I was inspired.”

“I’m glad. It’s great.”

Say great again, self. Seriously.

“One last thing. I think, for vacationers, it’s unclear what kind of restaurant Tony’s is. I know it’s a big change, but I was thinking . . . what if we called it Tony’s Bistro?”

“Huh.” I consider this. “Yeah. That sums it up. Casual but nice. You think your dad would go for it?”

She nods. “I really do.”

I fold the paper and slide it into my back pocket. We pass the pottery shop, and I glance in to look for Vivi. Only Whitney is in there, and she waves to Ellie and me. I check my phone for texts, but there’s nothing to find. It’s not like her.

“So,” Ellie says. “How’s your mom? I’ve only seen her at church once or twice since I got home from camp.”

“Oh, you know . . . fine.”

Most people nod solemnly, relieved to have the awkward social obligation of asking out of the way. Ellie is quiet, so I glance over at her. She’s narrowing her eyes. I can hardly see past her heavy eyelashes.

“Jonah.” She slows her pace considerably, and I do, too. “How is your mom really?”

We both stop. We’re standing on the sidewalk outside the park. I cross my arms. I open my mouth to say fine again, more convincingly this time. But saying it again seems like even more of a lie. Ellie’s dark eyes study me, waiting, and I finally confess. “Not good. At all.”

I start walking again, making a getaway from those four words. I broke the barrier between our family and the outside world. Exposed us. Ellie catches up, right beside me.

“Like how not good?” Her whole face is soft. Being pitied makes me feel pitiful.

“Like barely gets out of bed, okay?” My voice sounds mean even though I would never intentionally snap at her. “Sorry. It’s bad. It’s . . . I don’t know.”

I expect her to ask why the hell I haven’t gotten my mom some help. I expect her to judge the entire way I’ve handled this situation as harshly as I judge myself for it.