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As Fox settled into his seat, a couple of the girls nearby giggled. It was typical high school behavior—a new kid, especially a good-looking one like Fox, always drew attention. I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. Starting over in a different school might be hard, but being the center of attention on the first day could be overwhelming. I needed to pair him up with someone. I took the copy of his schedule from a smiling Sally and glanced at it.
“Who has honors Math, room 201, first period?” I asked. Clarke’s hand shot up, then Ainsley’s, and I was quite pleased it was just them, so I didn’t have to choose. They were both good kids, best friends, and connecting them up with Fox seemed like a good thing.
“Clarke, can you see to it that Fox gets to first period?”
Clarke shimmied at his desk. “Brainiacs for the win.” He smiled, high-fived a less exuberant Ainsley, then gave me a thumbs up before he turned to Fox and did the same to him. I’d have a word with Clarke later, but checking Fox’s timetable, I saw he was honors Math, honors English, and yeah, his science grades were good as well, all at the same level as Clarke and Ainsley.
I redirected the class’s focus to today’s schedule, ensuring Fox didn’t feel too much on the spot. But in the back of my mind, I knew he’d be having a hard day, and I wished I could make it easier for him.
Then, maybe he’d go home and tell his dad that I was the cool teacher.
And we’re stopping those thoughts, right there.
I caught up with Fox again in the last period of the day, honors English, for those kids who were so bright they made me work hard. He walked in with an animated Clarke on one side, and a quieter Ainsley on the other, and I think I even saw a hesitant smile at whatever Clarke was talking about. I caught the tail end of it, something about Picard being a better captain than Janeway, which with my limited knowledge of not much at all, I assumed was one of Clarke’s science fiction shows.
“Okay, guys, settle down.”
I waited until all the muttering and notebook opening and pencil case shutting had stopped.
“Today, we’re starting our final week with John Steinbeck’sOf Mice and Men. Fox, I’m not expecting the essay due at the end of the week from you, but bullet notes on impressions would be good.” Fox nodded as I clasped my copy of the book, its worn edges showed how many times I’d read it, and also, how often I’d taught it. I knew virtually every word by heart, every lesson that could be pulled from it—the background of the Great Depression, delving into the heart of the American Dream, and into the lives of George and Lennie.
Wheeling myself between the rows of desks as best I could, not wanting to be stuck at the front, I continued: “So, we’ve already ascertained that Steinbeck’s writing isn’t just about the plot. So, for Fox’s benefit, what else does the story cover? Lisa?” I called on one of my quieter students, who shot me a look of horror.
“Struggling for a better life,” she half-whispered.
“Absolutely. How about you, Luca, can you add anything else?”
“Friendship, or bonds that tie us together,” Luca said, a little more confident than Lisa.
“Exactly. His language is simple, but powerful, and paints a vivid picture of the Salinas Valley and the people who inhabit it.”
I stopped near the back, happy to see everyone scribbling notes, and wheeled back to the front. “In your final essays, due in two days, guys, I’ve asked you to think about the characters, their motivations, their dreams, and their struggles, but also the larger world it’s set in, so I want to see neat handwritten essays covering those main themes.” The class groaned—I was one of the only teachers who wanted to see the kid’s using writing skills and not relying on computers. “Okay?”
As I finished speaking, they all nodded at me, some saying “yes, Mr. Sheridan,” pens poised for more, and my gaze flicked to Fox, who was still taking notes.
“Fox, I should have asked, have you covered this book at your previous school?” I hadn’t had a chance to read his transcripts, but from a brief glance at the top list of bullet points, he’d attended a private academy outside of Columbus, Ohio.
An academy that probably had a fully funded baseball team.
Fox answered. “No, sir, I mean, Mr. Sheridan.”
The class laughed, but it wasn’t nasty, and even though Fox went red, he smiled when Clarke leaned in to whisper something to him.
“Okay then, who wants to talk about the symbolism of the rabbits?”
And goddamn it, Clarke’s hand went up so quick I thought he might start flying. No one else even got near, so with a nod, Clarke began to give us his ideas, and I settled back in my chair and listened.
ChapterNine
Noah
After spendingthe last three days cleaning the kitchen until it shone, and attempting the same for as much of the diner as I could, plus organizing all kinds of inspections from wiring to health, I was about ready for a break. On and off, I’d been adding to the balanced and considered draft menu for the opening, but I had to choose a moment to stop because getting this place fixed up seemed as if I was pushing an enormous stone up a big hill. At least, I’d gotten the first coats of paint over the graffiti, but this was the first moment I’d had to myself, the boarding coming down from the windows had been a message to the entire town to visit and meet me and reminisce about Lily.
I was the perfect professional in all things diner, and talked up my vision of the place, asked what people wanted to see on the menu, and made as many new friends as I could. I was thenew-guy-in-the-diner, and I knew it was curiosity and the chance to gossip about me that got people through the door to visit, but also, I hoped they’d come back when I did the soft opening in a few weeks.
The menu was informed by what people said they’d loved in Aunt Lily’s time, and what I’d drawn up was a blend of classic diner food and something a bit extra, a touch I hoped would set us apart. I couldn’t do much about the breakfasts, they were standard fare, but with herbs and sauces, I could elevate them. On my list was to employ a line cook, or someone to work the counter, but that was way down to when the diner started making money. For now, when we opened, it would be all on me. My expertise lay in desserts and pastries, but I’d worked in enough kitchens, that I could handle most things. My gaze lingered on the section for pastries and desserts—my personal passion project for the diner’s grand opening, planned for the beginning of March. I was missing good coffee, not wanting to offer the diner stuff that was so generic it was nothing, but I had plans for that.
I spent half an hour fixing the jangling bell at the door, which was a case of bending the kick plate until the door hit the strip of metal and poked at the leather on a broken bench forlornly—that wouldn’t be such an easy fix. I researched making the step handicapped friendly, ordered the work from a local contractor who promised he’d be out the next day. Done.
