“Okay, be serious. Are you a drug dealer? Is that why you were in juvie?”
He laughs, stirring something on the stove range. “No. Not drugs.”
“I’m pretty sure you spice your cookies with something illegal.”
“Cinnamon is not a controlled substance.”
“That should be the title of your memoir.” I reluctantly button my uniform over my tank top and leggings. Candy comes back as I’m clocking in.
“Hey!” Ben’s eyes are bright and hopeful. “I made you something.”
She puts a hand over her stomach. “No, thanks.”
“I think it’ll help.” He holds the to-go container while she removes her apron and hangs up her uniform.
She takes the container. “Okay. See you tomorrow.” She shuffles out.
Ben goes to the window, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Then his shoulders stoop, his whole body turning down in disappointment.
“She gave it to Jerry, didn’t she?” I ask.
“It wasn’t for him. It was for her.” He frowns. “Tomorrow I’ll make her something at the start of her shift, instead.”
Animatronic Santa ho-ho-hos at a customer, and I’m swept up for the next few hours. Ben more or less cooks what people ask for, and no one complains. My feet are sore from how busy we are, but my tip-collecting pockets are happy.
Angel has moved to the corner booth, leaning over the back to chat animatedly with Lorna, the gas-station owner. He’s drawing pictures on her napkin. I’ve never seen them so much as glance at each other before. But the way they’re acting, you’d think they were best friends. They’ve been in here every day. A lot of the locals have been coming more frequently than new-cook curiosity can account for.
“Bennett,” I say.
“Not short for Bennett,” Ben answers.
“Do you have Angel’s order?”
He puts up a tray, and I frown. “This is not his.”
“It’s for him.”
“He ordered chicken-fried steak. He always orders chicken-fried steak. This is … what is this? Fruit salad? Have you seen Angel?” I gesture toward him: hulking, tattooed, shaved head with several prominent scars. “He’s not the fruit-salad type.”
“It’s beets, carrots, jicama, and fruit with a citrus dressing. Ensalada Navidad! And here.” He presents a second plate.
“Tamales.” A sort of pain, like a sore muscle, pulses through my whole body. I’m filled with an inexplicable need to hug my mom. “We don’t serve those here.” The sudden ache inside my heart makes me sad. I scowl at Ben. “Make him the stupid steak.”
“Maria. Trust me. Take it to him.”
“No.”
He sighs. “How about this: if he doesn’t like it, you don’t have to share your tips with me for the rest of the week.”
“And you tell me how you learned to cook in juvie.” His eyebrows come together so I raise my hand. “Not why you were in juvie. Only the cooking part.”
“Deal.”
I take the plate, surly but certain of victory. Angel has ordered the same meal for as long as I’ve worked here. When I set down the food, he looks shocked.
“I didn’t order this,” he growls.
“I’m sorry, it’s the new cook, he—”
“Are those tamales?”
I still have my hand on the plate, ready to whisk it away. “Yes?”
He leans forward. His eyes wrinkle upward in a smile. I swear his skin creaks, having to force decades of grim frown lines in that direction. “Y ensalada navidad! Mi madre siempre…” His hard black eyes soften, looking far past this dinner.
“So … you want the food? Because I can take it back!”
“No!” He leans over it protectively. “I want it.”
“Great. Let me know if you need anything else.” I scowl at the kitchen window, where Ben is giving me his full-wattage smile. I give him the finger down low, where Angel can’t see it.
“Maria!” my mom says, aghast.
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.