If You're Out There(2)

I’m still observing Eddy, mildly impressed by the boldness of his sleep, when he pops up. “Hey? Zan,” he says, as if suddenly confused. “Where’s your other half?”

The words sting. “She moved,” I tell him under my breath.

Se?ora O’Connell turns around, the Spanish trailing off. She surveys the room and glances at the clock: still ten minutes before the bell. “Oh whatever.” She sighs, her shoulders slumping with the sweet relief of English. She nods to a kid up front and holds out a stack of papers. “Pass these back, will you?”

“Uh. Hello?”

When I look up, a boy is standing in the doorway, all legs and sunken chest, his grown-out blond hair swept back into a short knot. He takes a step inside the room. “I think I’m supposed to be in this class. I was in AP by mistake and it was over my head.” His eyes settle on Eddy, who has since resumed his nap. “This seems . . . more my speed.”

La Se?ora tucks the flaps of her cardigan around herself. “I’m going to choose not to take that personally. But hey.” She finds a sheet of labels on her desk. “?Bienvenido!” she pronounces, a dry-erase marker flying from her hand as she slaps a name tag on his shirt pocket.

I find myself mirroring the boy’s curling lips as amusement flits across his face. “?Gracias?” He bends down to grab the marker from the floor and catches me watching him. I don’t look away, and for a moment, he doesn’t either. “I think you dropped this,” he says, returning the marker to our teacher.

La Se?ora studies him a moment, through narrowed eyes. “You’re one of the nice ones, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re one of the nice ones.”

The boy smiles. “I’m one of the nice ones.”

“Manny! Where are my buffalo wraps?”

It looks like a head of purple cabbage has exploded at the salad station.

“Manny?” I had to run to make my shift after school let out, shoving past hordes of Cubs fans as they spilled out from the Red Line. It felt good to run, to think of nothing but the clock. Now I’m hacking away at veggies while my tables wait, enjoying a familiar rush of frazzled self-importance.

“Hello?” I crane my neck as I chop. “I need one seitan and one tofu. And table six wants more veg gravy for the meatless loaf.”

Manny shakes his head and pulls a basket of zucchini from the deep fryer. “I don’t understand these people.”

“Just cook the food,” says Arturo, entering the kitchen through the swinging double doors. Manny grumbles something in Spanish and reaches a tatted arm to raise the volume on his banda music, which, to my untrained gringa ears, sounds a little like polka and mariachi had a baby.

Arturo slides his messenger bag onto the counter by me. “Busy out there.”

“Seriously,” I say. “Who knew so many vegans liked baseball?”

He chuckles, wiping the grease from his glasses with the bottom of his checked shirt. “How was school?” he asks. “First day back, right?” My face must give me away. “Aw. Poor Zanny-poo.”

“Stop,” I say with a deadpan expression I hope will discourage any further sympathy. I scrape a mound of cabbage into a plastic bin and slot it into the salad bar. “I’m handling a serious salad shortage over here. Not to mention a major meatless loaf emergency. The lady at table six says it’s dry.”

“Wonder why that could be,” mutters Manny.

Arturo yells over the trilling trumpets, “You do know I could fire you, right?”

“Your own uncle? Please. You don’t have the cojones.”

Arturo sighs, resigned. “Never work with family, Zan.”

I bend down to grab cucumbers from a box on the floor. “Well, related or not, you need to hire another person to do this prep work. This is well beyond a waiter’s job description.”

“I know,” says Arturo. “I’ve been meaning to. I think I just got used to . . .” He grimaces.

“What?” I say.

“Priya was always doing prep in her downtime. Said she found it therapeutic.”

“Yeah, well,” I grunt, carrying an armful of cucumbers to the sink for a rinse. “I find it to be a pain in my ass.”

Arturo laughs. “You’re right. I’ll post an ad.” He clears his throat as I begin to chop. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t bring her up.”

“It’s fine.”

He hesitates. “Well, I guess . . . While we’re on the subject.” He fishes through his messenger bag and pulls out an envelope. “Priya’s last paycheck keeps bouncing back in the mail. She must have given me the wrong address for the new apartment. Or maybe I took it down wrong. I don’t know. Do you have it?”

I swallow, my saliva thick, and wipe my hands on my apron before pulling out my phone. After a quick search, a June email from Priya comes up.

I know I shouldn’t, but I read it anyway.

Your semi-weekly love letters may be sent to: 418 Bellevue in Santa Monica, Apartment C. Care packages welcome. Send cake. We have one week left, Zan. One week! Wait a minute. WHY AREN’T WE EATING CAKE RIGHT NOW? Okay fine, you convinced me, I’m coming over.

Over my shoulder, Arturo looks back and forth from the phone to the envelope. “It’s the same address I have,” he says. “I’ll check with the post office. Maybe I need the extra zip code numbers or something.” He frowns suddenly, looking me over. “Who’d you sit with today?”