The next night when Ambrose came to work there was another message on the board: Pancakes or Waffles?
Ambrose circled pancakes. About an hour later, Fern stood in the doorway of the bakery. Her hair hung in curly disarray down her back and she was wearing a pale pink T-shirt with white jeans and sandals. She'd taken off her bright blue Jolley's Supermarket apron and had slicked some gloss on her lips. Ambrose wondered if it was the flavored kind and looked away.
“Hi. So . . . I like pancakes too.” Fern grimaced like she had said something incredibly embarrassing or stupid. He realized she was still a little afraid to talk to him. He didn't blame her. He hadn't been terribly friendly, and he was pretty scary looking.
“You aren't working tomorrow night, right? Doesn't Mrs. Luebke come in on Saturday and Sunday nights?” she rushed, the words tumbling out as if she had practiced them.
He nodded, waiting.
“Would you want to come with me and Bailey for pancakes? We go to Larry's at midnight sometimes. It makes us feel like grown-ups to have pancakes past our bedtimes.” Fern smiled winsomely, that part obviously wasn't rehearsed, and Ambrose realized she had a dimple in her right cheek. He couldn't look away from that little dent in her creamy skin. It disappeared as her smile faltered.
“Uh, sure,” Ambrose said hastily, realizing he'd waited too long to respond. He instantly regretted his words. He didn't want to go to Larry's. Someone would see him and it would be awkward.
The dimple was back. Fern beamed and rocked back and forth onto her toes. “Okay. Um, I'll pick you up at midnight, okay? We have to take Bailey's mom's van because, well, you know . . . the wheelchair. Okay, bye.” Fern turned and stumbled out the door and Ambrose smiled at her retreating form. She was extremely cute. And he felt like he was thirteen, going on his first date to the bowling alley.
There is something so comforting about pancakes at midnight. The smell of warm butter, maple syrup, and blueberries hit him like a gale force wind and Ambrose moaned at the simple pleasure of unhealthy food at an ungodly hour. It was almost enough to take away his fear of curious stares and the attempts people made to act like there was nothing wrong with his appearance. Bailey led the way into the sleepy dining room and motored to a booth in the corner that obviously worked for his wheelchair. Fern followed him and Ambrose brought up the rear, refusing to look left or right or count the number of patrons in the place. The tables around them were empty at least. Fern paused, letting Ambrose choose his seat and he slid gratefully onto the bench that allowed his left side to face the room. Fern slid across from him and bounced a little, the way a kid automatically does when sitting on something with some spring in it. His legs were too long and crowded hers beneath the table, and he shifted, feeling the warmth of her slim calf against his. She didn't move away.
Bailey maneuvered his chair right up to the end of the table. It hit him at chest level, which he claimed was perfect. Fern carefully propped his arms on the table so that when his food came he could lean forward against the edge and kind of shovel the food into his mouth. She ordered for the two of them, Bailey obviously trusting her to know what he wanted.
The waitress seemed to take the three of them in stride. They were definitely an odd trio, Ambrose realized. It was midnight and the joint was almost empty, just as Fern had promised, but he could see their reflection in the windows that surrounded their booth, and the picture they made was comical.
Ambrose had covered his head with a black, knit stocking cap. His T-shirt was also black. Combined with his size and his messed up face, he looked more than a little scary, and if he hadn't been accompanied by a kid in a wheelchair and a little redhead in pigtails, he could have passed as someone from a slasher movie.