“Hello, Molly.”
“Hi,” I said, and I hoped my apathy was as clear as the bright blue sky above the restaurant’s roof (which needed to be replaced). I immediately left to serve the other tables and to help my dad with prep, which he should have done this morning (but I could tell from the mess in the kitchen that he had also arrived here late).
We were busy, as always. But I did watch the diner at table nine, that Shane guy. He was glued to his tablet again—mostly. I saw him glancing around a few times, and once when he did that, I happened to be looking back and our eyes met by mistake. He smiled but I was already turning away, and then I went into the kitchen.
“Molly,” I heard my mom call a little later, and her tone was different. It didn’t sound disappointed. It was cheerfully phony.
“You better go see what the hell she wants now,” my dad advised. He sounded just as grumpy as always, no change there.
The dining room was almost empty and I would have assumed that she wanted me to start cleaning, as we always did. But the guy standing in front of the counter, Shane Bishop, made me think twice.
“Was there something wrong with the food?” I asked. With the mood that my dad was in, I wouldn’t have put it past him to adulterate it somehow.
“No, of course not!” my mom answered quickly. “Your friend wanted to say hello.”
“Hello,” he told me.
“Take your break,” she suggested, and I stared.
“Sure, ok,” I said. When had we ever taken those? But I got myself a cup of water and walked with him over to table nine. I picked up some napkins along the way and straightened three saltshakers.
“I didn’t see you at last week’s Junior Woodsmen game,” Shane told me. He took his former seat and I took the chair facing him.
“No, I didn’t go. I was working here.”
“They won,” he let me know.
“Great. That’s thrilling.”
He smiled, shaking his head. “You sound genuinely ecstatic.”
“So do you,” I pointed out, and he shrugged.
“I don’t care about the outcome of their games. I’m there to evaluate the players, that’s all.” But he paused and then added, “I admit that I’m getting a little invested. I do want to see them win.”
“Not me. One of those guys keeps doing the ketchup trick, hiding a mess of it under a cup so it spills everywhere, and I can’t figureout which one it is. Until I do and then punish him sufficiently, I want them all to suffer.”
“I know their coach. I’ll talk to him about that.”
“Really? You’ll tell on them?” I thought only for a moment. “No, don’t. We want them to come and eat, even if they are screwing with our ketchup.”
“They’re football players, so they have big appetites. They must be spending good money.”
“Yes, and out here in boondocks, we don’t get a lot of people driving past,” I pointed out. “We depend on the Junior Woodsmen right now and then on the Woodsmen coming in the summer for their preseason. Those guys also bring fans, a lot of extra customers, but the Juniors don’t.”
“They seem to draw a fair number of spectators,” he noted.
It was true that last weekend after their game, we had experienced more traffic than usual, with a lot of normal, non-football people. “I hope they get a huge fan base,” I said fervently, “but only because it would benefit us. I don’t actually care about their condiment-wasting butts.”
“They’re playing in Gulfport this Saturday, so they won’t be around.”
I knew that, of course I did. I kept track of their practice and game schedules so we could staff and purchase accordingly. “It will be quiet here,” I said.
“And I won’t have to watch them. Since neither of us will be busy, I thought you might want to show me around the area. I’m new here,” he reminded me.
“Wow, what an offer,” I answered. “You thought you would volunteer me as a tour guide?” I remembered the last time I’d seen him, which had been at the Junior Woodsmen game. I had left before the action even started and this guy hadn’t seemed to notice.
But he had been working, so it was a bit understandable. Also, he was still a connection to the Woodsmen, which I didn’t have otherwise. “What do you want to see?” I asked.
