Back to the Good Fortune Diner (12 page)

Tiffany seethed quietly. Undermining her like that wasn’t the only thing he did to interfere with their sessions. He interrupted frequently by getting Simon to fetch things for him, made casual observations about nothing in particular. He’d sit in front of the TV and turn the volume way up, and when she asked him to turn it down, he’d tell them he was going deaf. Simon never defied the old man. He simply gave her a meek look and murmured an apology.

She couldn’t work under these conditions. She was sure that was the point. She didn’t want to get Chris involved, though—he had enough on his plate without her stirring up trouble between father and son. But she wouldn’t allow the likes of William Jamieson to drive her out. By Wednesday, she decided she and Simon had to move.

She met him directly off the school bus and told him to get into her car. He perked up and asked, “Where are we going?”

“I cleared this with your father. I’m going to tutor you somewhere else for a while.” She’d told Chris it was because Simon would have better focus in a more formal setting. “We’ll head downtown and I’ll drop you back home afterward.” It would be hell on gas, but she didn’t have much choice. At least Simon seemed excited about it.

At first, she took him to the library, but the elderly patrons kept glaring and shushing her. Her low voice was apparently ruining their afternoon nap time. They went to the Grindery, but the jazz music was too loud and most of the tables were occupied. Besides, if they didn’t buy something, the barista would probably give them the evil eye. She considered taking Simon to the house, but she knew
Poh-poh
would be as distracting as William was.

It left only one place they could go.

They walked into the Good Fortune Diner the following day. At four-thirty, the place was dead. Sitting behind the counter, her mother’s eyes shifted from her daughter to the slouching boy at her side.

“Hi, Mom. This is Simon Jamieson, my student.”

Rose smiled brightly. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi.” He shook her outstretched hand.

“Mom, is it okay if we work here? We need to find a place where it’s quiet, and there’s too much going on at Simon’s house and at the library for us to concentrate.”

“Of course, of course.” She pointed at the corner booth. “You want something to eat?” she asked Simon.

“I probably shouldn’t. Grandpa will be making dinner.”

“I’ll get you a little something. You need food for your brain, eh?” She popped up and shouted into the kitchen.

“She seems nice,” Simon said as Rose disappeared. Tiffany was surprised to hear anything like a compliment from him.

They sat and she paused to assess Simon’s mood. He looked around distractedly, inspecting the vinyl seats and the scarred old table.

“My brother and I used to do our homework here after school,” she explained. “We’d work until about six and then we’d help out at the diner, taking orders and stuff.”

“Cool.”

Cool?
Maybe she hadn’t been clear. “It was hard work, doing school and working all the time.”

“Tell me about it. At least you got to work after school, instead of in the morning. Sometimes I have to wake up at dawn to get things done so I can finish my homework at night. I barely have time now, working with you.”

Was that supposed to be a guilt trip? He obviously hadn’t ridden the Cheung family express, which made regular stops at Shameville, Honor Town and Duty City. “That’s very responsible of you.”

“It sucks balls,” he muttered. “I’m so sick of all this. I hate the farm.”

“You do?”

He shrugged again, his face pinched as guilt flashed across his features. She understood his feelings exactly. She wondered if William knew about his grandson’s opinion on the matter, or whether the elder Jamieson cared. He was awfully stubborn.

“Here we go.” Rose set down a plate of deep-fried chicken balls and a big bowl of sweet-and-sour sauce. “I know these are your favorite. You eat up and take home anything you can’t finish, okay?”

Simon’s eyes went huge. “Wow. Thanks, Mrs. Cheung.”

“You’re a good boy, working so hard to get your marks up. Not everyone would spend their summer vacation doing that. Although Tiffany and Daniel both went to summer school every year.”

“You failed that many classes?” Simon asked incredulously.

“I took them to broaden my education,” she proclaimed, not adding that it kept her out of working at the diner for most of the summer. Simon’s jaw slackened.

“Work hard,” Rose said as she pattered away, adding, “Such a good boy.”

Tiffany rubbed at her brow, exasperated. Rose had never coddled and praised either of her children for their dedication to their studies. Even Daniel, who’d earned his MBA with a 3.96 average, hadn’t gotten much more than “good boy.”

“Awesome.” Simon greedily stuffed a saucy ball into his maw and chewed. “These are so good. Want one?”

“No, thanks.” It would just stick in her throat anyhow.

He shrugged. “More for me.”

She wanted to snatch the plate away until he had accomplished something. He needed an incentive to work. She’d have to put a Do Not Feed the Teen sign up when they came next. “I think we should do some review for your quiz tomorrow.”

Sighing, Simon slowly put the chicken ball he’d picked up back onto the plate and sank deeper into the bench.

The next fifteen minutes were excruciating as she tried to draw answers out of him and got nothing but blank stares, shrugs and “I dunno.” She threw her book on the table. “Are you doing this on purpose? You knew the answers two days ago. Why are you pretending like you don’t know this stuff?”

“I just don’t.”

“I don’t believe that.” She leaned forward, gripping the table. “Are you only going to summer school so you won’t have to work on the farm?”

“I don’t see why you care,” he said, looking away.

Tiffany watched him thoughtfully. Was it possible Simon had a learning disability? If that was the case, she wasn’t qualified to deal with it. But everything inside her screamed that wasn’t the problem. He was being deliberately unhelpful. He shut down at the first sign of pressure and seemed to have a few issues with authority. Maybe he got nervous when he was put on the spot. There were plenty of kids who weren’t good at taking tests, or who got quiet when called upon by a teacher.

And then there were kids like her who didn’t know how to relate to other people, who were more comfortable being alone than in a group. It was way easier to shut down and run away than it was to confront your problems and deal with life.

“I care because I’ve been where you are.” She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “All I ever wanted was to get out of this town and move to the city. I knew the only way to do that was to go to college, so I studied my ass off and got into the program of my choice. Look, Simon—” she squeezed his shoulder “—if you really want to get away from the farm and leave Everville, college is the way to do it. Even if you don’t want to go to college, you’ll still need to get your high school diploma. It’s a minimum requirement in practically every job.”

“That’s stupid,” he said with a snort.

“Well, that’s life.”

“Lots of people get jobs without diplomas. I don’t need this. I’m too smart for school.”

A nerve ticked under her eye. She slammed her pen down on the table. “C’mon. Get up.”

“Why?”

“You want to see what real life is like? What kind of job you can get without a diploma? Follow me.”

He followed as she rounded the counter and pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. Daniel and her father were busy preparing for the dinner crowd, chopping vegetables and meat.

“Hey, Tiff.” Her brother grinned. “This must be Simon.”

Tiffany introduced them briefly. “Dad, would you mind if Simon and I give you a hand?”

“Mind? Of course not.” He waved them in. “Come, come, grab an apron, hairnet, wash your hands. You can start with the broccoli.”

“You’re putting me to work?”

“You want to see what real life is like for a kid with no education?”

“Hey!” Daniel protested indignantly.

With a look, Tiffany warned him to shut up and play along. She didn’t want to explain to Simon why Daniel’s MBA and her dad’s engineering degree had still landed them in a kitchen. Not when she was trying to make a point.

“This
must
be illegal,” Simon said.

“Only if we paid you. But then, if you didn’t have your high school diploma, you might not know that. In fact, you probably wouldn’t argue if your employer decided to pay you less than minimum wage under the table because, hell, who else is going to hire you?”

He folded his arms in front of him. “I am not doing this.”

“You afraid of a little hard work?” she taunted.

That got him. He screwed up his face and snatched the apron from her hand. “This isn’t hard work. Try digging a post hole for a fence.
That’s
hard work.”

Tiffany showed him how to clean and cut the broccoli into florets, then got him working on chopping cabbage, carrots, celery and onions. He did it all with intense concentration, and while he didn’t work very fast, he was stubborn about it.

Cutting up vegetables was nothing, though, compared to what she could be putting him through. If it had been dinnertime, she’d have him begging for mercy after ten minutes of busing tables and washing dishes. Tiffany decided to step up her campaign. “If you like chicken balls so much, you should see how they’re made.”

She took him into the walk-in freezer where she pulled out a plastic-lined box containing the garbage-bag-size pouch of frozen chicken balls.

“Whoa. I thought you guys made these.”

“Chicken balls are about as American as pizza,” she said, grimacing at the icy battered spheres. “
Real
Chinese restaurants don’t serve these.”

“But everyone loves them,” Tony said from across the room. “That’s all that matters.”

She dropped the chicken balls into the fryer basket and showed Simon how the machine worked, then got him to gently place the heavy wire basket into the oil. She made him stand by the machine and watch as the chicken balls browned. If that didn’t gross him out, the smells that would stick to his clothes would.

“Be careful when you dump the basket into the pan,” she said. “Don’t splatter any oil on yourself.”

He did as instructed. “Cool. What’s next?”

What’s next? He was supposed to be hating this, not asking for more.

“He’s doing a good job, eh?” Tony said, grinning hugely. “You want to volunteer here?”

“Dad, he’s still in school.”

“Volunteering is good for your résumé. You should do more of that,
Ah-Teen.
”

She was about to remind him that she was not a teenager when Daniel stuck his head in from the dining room and interrupted. “Mom’s asking for you out front.”

“I’ll be right back,” she told Simon. She checked her watch and groaned. It was almost six. She’d wasted a two-hour session making Simon work at the Good Fortune. She couldn’t charge Chris for this day in good conscience, and she needed the money, dammit.

She went to the front, where her mother was seating an older couple in a corner table. “Whatever it is, Mom, I can’t do it right now. I have to drive Simon home.”

“Why is he back there anyhow?”

“It’s...a lesson. Sort of.” One that didn’t seem to be working, unfortunately. Then again, Simon was more engaged than she’d ever seen him. Perhaps what he really needed was a part-time job instead of a tutor. If college was beyond his means...well, someone had to flip the burgers.

“You go and drop him off at home, but come back right after. I’ve got a reservation for ten people tonight and Cindy called in sick. I need help.”

Tiff was about to protest when she heard a shout and a noisy clatter. Her heart leaped into her throat as she sprinted into the kitchen. Simon was clutching his arm, whimpering. Daniel turned on the tap and ushered him toward the sink.

“What happened?” Nausea gripped her at the sight of the angry red marks seared into Simon’s pale skin.

“I think the fryer basket slipped and splashed him.” He jammed Simon’s arm under the cold water, and Simon moaned in pain.

“It hurts,” he sobbed. His face was red and streaked with tears. Right before her eyes, huge white blisters formed in a hideous pattern across his right hand and forearm.

Daniel swore. “We need to get him to the hospital.”

* * *

C
HRIS’S TIRES SQUEALED
as he parked his truck in the hospital lot and ran for the entrance to the E.R. Tiffany’s panicked call hadn’t made sense. She’d babbled something about oil and chicken balls. All he’d understood was that Simon was hurt.

His heart hammered in his chest. After his dad’s accident, he hadn’t rushed nearly as quickly, assuming that the injury had been minor. But when he’d reached the E.R., he’d been informed that his father had been critical, and that he was being taken in for an emergency amputation.

He’d never dallied at an emergency again after that.

The nurse directed him to the appropriate cubicle. Simon sat on the edge of a gurney as a woman in blue scrubs gently wrapped a light gauze bandage around his oozing, blistered forearm. His stomach turned at the sight. His son wore a brave face, but he was pale, his expression pinched, and he kept his eyes averted from the procedure. In the far corner, Tiffany stood by watching, hugging herself, a fist pressed against her mouth.

“Simon,” he said hoarsely. “My God, are you all right?”

Simon nodded slowly, blinking sleepily.

“I’ve given him some painkillers, so he might be a bit punchy. He sustained second-degree oil burns to his arm,” the doctor said after introducing herself. “It’s not as serious as it sounds, and as long as he follows my instructions, it’ll heal up fine.”

“How did this happen?”

“It’s my fault,” Tiffany blurted. “I made him work in the kitchen at the diner. He was using the deep fryer and the oil splashed on him.”

Chris turned toward her, confused. “Why was he working at your parents’ diner? What happened to tutoring?”