Angie knew when she’d been dismissed. She turned and went back into the empty dining room. She saw Livvy over by the hostess desk again. Her sister was talking to Rosa, the woman who’d started waitressing in the seventies. Angie waved and went upstairs.
It was quiet in her father’s office. She paused at the open doorway, letting the memories wash over her. In her mind, he was still there, sitting at the big oak desk he’d bought at a Rotary Club auction, poring over the accounts.
Angelina! Come in. I’ll show you about taxes.
But I want to go to the movies, Papa.
Of course you do. Run along then. Send Olivia up here.
She sighed heavily and went to his desk. She sat in his chair, heard the springs creak beneath her weight.
For the next several hours, she studied and learned and made notes. She re-read all of the old account books and then started on tax records and her father’s handwritten business notes. By the time she closed the last book, she knew that her mother was right. DeSaria’s was in trouble. Their income had dropped to almost nothing. She rubbed her eyes, then went downstairs.
It was seven o’clock.
The middle of the dinner hour. There were two parties in the restaurant: Dr. and Mrs. Petrocelli and the Schmidt family.
“Is it always this slow?” she said to Livvy, who stood at the hostess table, studying her talon fingernails. The bright red polish was dotted with pink stars.
“Last Wednesday we had three customers all night. You may want to write that down. They all ordered lasagna, in case you’re interested.”
“Like they had a choice.”
“And it begins.”
“I’m not here to criticize you, Liv. I’m just trying to help.”
“You want to help? Figure out how to get people through the door. Or how to pay Rosa Contadori’s salary.” She glanced over at the elderly waitress who moved at a glacial pace, carrying one plate at a time.
“It’ll take some changes,” Angie said, trying to be as gentle as possible.
Livvy tapped a long scarlet fingernail against her tooth. “Like what?”
“Menu. Advertising. Decor. Pricing. Your payables are a mess. So is ordering. You guys are wasting a lot of food.”
“You have to cook for people, even if they don’t show up.”
“I’m just saying—”
“That we’re doing everything wrong.” She raised her voice so that Mama could hear.
“What’s that?” Mama said, coming out of the kitchen.
“Angie’s been here half a day, Mama. Long enough to know that we don’t know shit.”
Mama looked down at them for a moment, then turned and headed for the corner by the window, where she started talking to the curtain.
Livvy rolled her eyes. “Oh, good. She’s getting Papa’s opinion. If a dead man disagrees with me, I’m outta here.”
Finally, Mama returned. She didn’t look happy. “Papa tells me you think the menu is bad.”
Angie frowned. That was what she thought, but she hadn’t told anyone yet. “Not bad, Mama. But change might be a good thing.”
Mama bit down on her lower lip, crossed her arms. “I know,” she said to the air beside her. Then she looked at Livvy. “Papa thinks we should listen to Angie. For now.”
“Of course he does. His princess.” She glared at Angie. “I don’t need this crap. I have a new husband who has begged me to stay home at night and make babies.”
The arrow hit its mark. Angie actually flinched.
“So that’s what I’m going to do.” Livvy patted Angie’s back. “Good luck with the place, little sis. It’s all yours. You work nights and weekends.” She turned on her high heel and walked out.
Angie stared after her, wondering how it had gone bad so quickly. “All I said was we needed to make a few changes.”
“But not to the menu,” Mama said, crossing her arms. “People love my lasagna.”
Lauren stared down at the question in front of her.
A man walks six miles at four miles per hour. At what speed would he need to travel during the next two and a half hours to have an average speed of six miles an hour during the entire trip?
The answer choices blurred in front of her tired eyes.
She pushed back from the table. She couldn’t do this anymore. SAT preparation had filled so much of her time in the last month that she’d started to get headaches. It wouldn’t do her any good if she aced the test but fell asleep in all her classes.
The test is in two weeks.
With a sigh, she pulled back up to the table and picked up her pencil. She’d already taken this test last year and gotten a good score. This time, she was hoping for a perfect 1600. For a girl like her, every point mattered.