I shove my hands into my apron like that will erase the offending digit. “What are you doing here?”
“Kitchen. Now.”
I follow her back, dragging my feet. She pushes straight through the back door into the alley between the diner and the gas station.
“What was that?”
“Just … goofing off.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “We can’t afford to goof off!”
I fold my arms, take a step back from her. “I’m not getting paid. So goofing off is about all I can afford.”
“Ay, Maria, we’ve talked about this. We’re a family. Everything we earn goes into the same account, so—”
“We haven’t talked about it! We never talk about anything. What do you need all my money for? So you can live in a crappy, nowhere town, in a crappy, freezing duplex, with your crappy, tightwad boyfriend. Yeah, Mama, I get it.” I turn away from her, slam into the kitchen and past Ben, who is leaning over the stove so intently I’m positive he heard every word.
* * *
My mom stuck around for a while, talking to Ben about his weird food supplies requests. He convinced her to go along with it. I guess he can afford to goof off. Meanwhile, she ignored me until she left for the mine. When I finish closing, I’m going home, straight to my room, to recount the tips I’ve managed to save. Angel left me fifteen bucks tonight, which still blows my mind. That puts me at exactly $2,792. Three years of working every day, and that’s all I have to show for it.
I turn around to find Ben, yellow bucket filled with hot, soapy water. He squeezes the excess out of the mop.
“That’s not your job,” I snap.
But he shrugs and gets started without a word. With his help, the restaurant is clean in record time. Ben and I shove the cleaning supplies back into the closet.
I hang up my uniform. “I’m still mad at you. I should have won that bet.”
He pulls out a tray of cookies. “Eggnog-chocolate-chip peace offering?”
“Follow me.” I take him out back, where a rusting ladder is bolted to the side of the building. We climb up to the diner’s flat roof. I show Ben where to step to avoid tripping on the peeling tarpaper as we make our way toward the two lawn chairs that Candy and I hauled up years ago. She hasn’t been here with me in ages.
The last time I climbed up was Christmas Eve. My mom and Rick took an extra night shift for overtime. We “celebrated” early, but sitting by myself in Rick’s duplex was too depressing. So I came here, alone, and glared at the junky buildings around me, hating Christmas and Christmas.
The night is cold. Our breath fogs out in front of us. During the day it’s warm enough, but at night the desert temperature drops. We sit, and Ben passes me a cookie. It’s obscenely good. Warm, bright bursts of chocolate, with the creamy comfort of eggnog.
“Show-off.” I elbow him in the ribs. I keep finding excuses to touch him.
I need to stop that.
I lean back, looking up at the sky. That’s the one benefit to living in a census-designated place. The stars don’t have any light to compete with.
“Everyone had to help at my juvie center,” Ben says, without preamble. “Laundry, cleaning, kitchen duty. I’d never cooked anything before, but I had a knack for it, and, before long, they put me on permanent kitchen rotation. The staff was great—they want the kids to get better and have good lives—so they let me play around. I loved it. I’ve never felt anything so right as I did when I was making food for other people.”
I shiver deeper into my jacket. “How do you guess what people want to eat?”
He looks at me sideways, eyes hooded. “What do you mean?”
“The woman with the macaroni that first day—no one even took her order. Don’t think I forgot. Angel and the random Mexican food. And this weekend, that horrible green Jell-O with whipped cream, pineapple, and shredded carrots no one in their right mind would ever order, but that you made special for Lorna. She cried. You made Lorna cry with Jell-O. None of this is normal, Ben.”
He shifts uncomfortably. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“You willingly moved to Christmas, California, to work in our dump of a diner. I already think you’re crazy.”
“Fair enough. I figured it out while I was in juvie. Kind of like … a sixth sense? For what would make someone happy to eat. I see someone and I just sort of know.”
“So you’re a food psychic.”
He cringes, his friendly face shifting into something defensive, shielded. I don’t like that look on him, so I hurry on. “My mom’s aunt could tell every disease or health problem someone had by looking at their eyes. I kid you not. She had a perfect track record.”
“Really?”
“We lived with her for a while in Los Angeles when I was little. People were constantly dropping by to have her diagnose them. So. Having a food sense seems way more pleasant than her eyeball trick.”
He relaxes, more at ease now that I haven’t dismissed him. “I think if you can find the right food to connect yourself to a happier time, or a happier version of yourself, it can help you remember. Help you get back to who you were when you were happy. It can change everything. For example, when did you start liking me?”
I stammer, grasping for some response other than The moment I saw your face. Is it that obvious?
Ben answers for me. “When I made you the gingerbread cookies. That’s when you decided to be my friend.”
“Right! Exactly. Yes, gingerbread.”
He gives me a look that makes me think maybe he was saying more. Maybe he wants me to. But I don’t know what to say, so he turns away again. “I like using something I’m good at to help other people. Even if it’s something silly like cooking.”
“That’s not silly. You know what you love, and you’re good at it. I wish I had something like that.” The moment stretches between us, too honest, and that sore-muscle feeling wells up in my heart again. I clear my throat. “Besides, as long as you keep making cookies, I don’t care if it’s magic or not.”
He balances a cookie on the tips of his long fingers. His ring finger is bent at an odd angle. Like his nose, it’s a testament of broken bones in his past. “If you were a food, you’d be a gingerbread cookie. Spicy enough to keep life interesting, but with just enough sweetness to balance it out.”
I laugh. “I’m not sweet.”