He seems to want to say something else, then lets it go with a lighthearted sigh. “Only after you answer me one last thing.” He squints critically. “You got a date to Homecoming tonight?”
His unexpected question hits me as a joke, and I crack a smile. “Sorry, Coach Strong.” I can’t ‘Tanner’ him. It just doesn’t feel right. “Shift at Biggie’s. Gotta make money.”
“Bummer. Just promise me you’ll stay true to yourself, Toby,” he says. I give him a nod, then make my way for the door. “And I’m serious about seein’ me anytime about anything!”
His words and our strange conversation linger in my head all through the rest of what remains of seventh period. And when I’m joined by Vann for rehearsal right after, I can’t help but fret over what Coach Strong meant by taking action regarding Hoyt. What is he planning to do?
What has he already done …?
I’m still thinking about it during my shift at Biggie’s, where we repurposed the restaurant with candles and mood lighting so as to appeal to all the Homecoming couples stopping here for a bite before or after the dance—and also to compete with the fancy, distant restaurant of Nadine’s. Twice Mrs. Tucker asks me what’s on my mind, and twice I paste on a smile and tell her I’m fine. And I’d say she’s at least halfway convinced, if it wasn’t for the sassy look she keeps giving me each time I rush back to the kitchen to deliver an order, or take one out.
When 11:15 rolls around, Vann comes in, having parked his bike because he got impatient waiting on the curb. I apologize to him. “Forgot I work late tonight because of the whole—well, all this.” I gesture at the busy place, post-dance.
“There’s nowhere to sit,” Vann realizes. “I guess I’ll just circle the block a few times, or—”
“I might be here ‘til one.”
“Oh.” He fidgets, pocketing his keys and frowning.
“I’ll understand if you don’t want to hang around. But if you do, maybe you could, like … just sit back in the office? Behind the kitchen? I’m sure Mrs. Tucker wouldn’t mind at all. She knows you’re my ride.”
Vann gives me his usual shrug coupled with a, “Sure,” then follows me back through the kitchen, where he claims an empty overturned tub for a seat in the back, then pulls out his phone and busies himself. His happy moment of peace only lasts five minutes before Mrs. Tucker is upon him. “Y’know you aren’t allowed back here since you aren’t an employee, but don’t you see how busy we are out there? Y’know what, I think you could be put to some good use. Mick,” she calls out at the sink where he’s working, “get out on the floor and improve your social skills!” Mick stares at her, wide-eyed. “S-Social skills?” he asks before she goes shooing him out of the kitchen like a confused fly. Then she smirks at Vann. “Y’know how to wash dishes, don’t you?” She nods toward the sink expectantly. “And don’t forget your apron!” she clips before magically producing one and pitching it at him. Vann gives me a bewildered look, slips the apron on, and strolls up to the sink.
A whole hour or so later, I’m honestly shocked to find Vann still being put to work here and there in the kitchen. I figured by now he’d have stormed out the back door and thrown his hands. Instead, he’s scrubbing at a stubborn stain on a pot when I come by. “You don’t have to do this,” I whisper to him. “She just likes bossin’ around now and then. I can take over in a sec.” Vann just shrugs at me, says, “It’s not that bad. I’m bored anyway.” I snort, then warn him to be careful or else he might find himself on the payroll. He just smirks, then eyes me and says, “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.” And I’m left to wonder what he means by that as my heart races excitedly—and I struggle not to imagine the pair of us sneaking off into the storage closet or pantry for some private kissy-kissy time.
Actually, it might be the worst thing; I’d get fired in a blink.
Right around 1:05 AM when the place is finally dying down and just our last two tables are lingering, the kitchen door swings open and in walks Billy Tucker-Strong himself. He’s a handsome guy, full of youth, boyishly messy hair, but with a sharp look in his eyes, like he’s always puzzling something out that’s very complex and bothersome. When he spots me, however, his eyes lighten up and he grins. “Toby,” he greets me cheerily, and I give a tired wave back. He then spots Vann at the sink, which confuses him for a second before his mother stops him by the office. “Why, Junior, what’re you doin’ here?” He leans in, murmurs something in her ear, and she sighs. “Come in, let’s … Lord help us … let’s talk.” The two disappear into the office, the door left open a crack.