"Irina will make you anything you want, Mom. Name it."
She narrows her eyes at him. "Corn and a big, juicy steak."
Mr. Reynolds shakes his head and chuckles. "Mom, you have diverticulosis and a heart condition. Try again."
"You're no fun, Lou."
"And you're a barrel of laughs. Just sit down at a table. Wait ... follow me and you can meet Linda's daughter. You've never met her before."
I look down at the pie, trying not to give away the fact I've been eavesdropping on their conversation.
"Maggie, this is my mother," Mr. Reynolds announces. "Mom, this is Linda's daughter Margaret. Everyone calls her Maggie."
I smile and hold out my hand. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Reynolds. Are you the Auntie Mae?"
The old lady takes my hand and shakes it. "Dearie, Mae was the name of my son's first dog."
No way! I look to Mr. Reynolds for confirmation. He's smiling sheepishly.
"It's true," he whispers. "Shh, it's a secret. If the town finds out I named my restaurant after a dog, this place will be deserted within a week."
I highly doubt that. Auntie Mae's is crowded almost every night. Besides, there's not another diner within a ten-mile radius.
"I didn't know Linda had a daughter. How old are you, Margaret?" she asks, ignoring the fact that her son told her everyone calls me Maggie.
"Seventeen."
"She just started her senior year of high school, Mom," Mr. Reynolds announces loudly, as if his mother is hard of hearing. "And she's going to Spain in January for school. Why don't you sit with her while she tells you all about it. I'll go in the back and have Irina fix you something to eat."
"Tell her not to make it too healthy," Mrs. Reynolds orders before sitting down on the opposite bench from me. She eyes my plate. "Lou, tell Irina to cut me a generous slice of that pie, too."
I don't think Mr. Reynolds was listening to her last request, or maybe he wanted to let her think he wasn't listening.
The old woman places her purse beside her in the booth, then looks at me. She doesn't smile, she doesn't frown. She tilts her head, as if trying to figure out what's inside my thoughts. "Why do you want to leave Paradise so badly?" she asks, almost as if she really can read my mind.
"I just do," I say, hoping she'll leave it at that.
She makes a tsking noise with her tongue. "If you don't want to talk about it, just say so. No sense in beating around the bush."
I had been busy chipping the nail polish off my fingers, but I stop and look at Mrs. Reynolds. "I don't want to talk about it."
The old lady claps her hands together. "Fine. If you don't want to talk about it, we won't talk about it."
The only thing standing between me and this woman is the pie I have and she wants. And awkward silence. It's not that I'm trying to be rude, I just don't want to put into words how my life has become one disappointment after another. It's almost as if misery is following me and I've been cursed. If I only knew how to break that curse ...
"I'm sure you have your reasons for not wanting to talk about it. I can't imagine what those reasons are, but you're probably better off being silent and brooding about it rather than talking it out with someone who has nothing better to do than listen."
I shove another forkful of pie in my mouth and focus on the salt shaker at the end of the table.
"You want the salt?" Mrs. Reynolds asks, knowing full well I don't have salt on my mind.
"They revoked my scholarship," I blurt out, then look at the old lady sitting across from me.
She doesn't have a look of pity on her face like I expected. She looks kind of... well, angry. "Well, why would they go and do a thing like that?"
I take my time chewing and swallowing, then look up. Mrs. Reynolds has her little hands folded on the top of the table and she's looking intently at me, waiting for my answer.
"I applied for an athletic scholarship, but I'm not on a team anymore so it's been revoked. I can go, but now I'll have to pay tuition we can't afford."
She nods her head, lets out a long breath, then leans back in the booth. "I see. Well, dearie, maybe one day your luck will change."
Yeah, right. All I need is a little magic dust and a fairy godmother. I'm not holding my breath for either of those.
THIRTEEN
Caleb
"Caleb, I hope you passed the tests," my mom calls out from the kitchen.
I'm washing my hands for the third time tonight. I've got paint up to my elbows, compliments of my community service job. The old couple from the senior center signed up to have their kitchen painted a bright pink to match their fake pink roses on their kitchen table. "I tried my best," I say.
"Let's hope your best was good enough."
I dry my hands on a towel, wondering when she'll stop treating me like a stranger. One day I'm going to cut through her plastic exterior. One day soon.
The phone rings. My mom answers, then hands it to me. "It's for you. It's Damon." I take the phone. "Hey."
"The manager from The Trusty Nail said you were late."
Oh, shit. "I had to stay after school because--"
"I've heard it all, don't waste your breath," he barks out, cutting me off. "Zero tolerance. You sign in for community service on time. Period. You got it?" I got it.