Chapter 13 - I Served Lunch Beside My Father
I asked Dad if the cafeteria needed help.
He stared at me.
“For community service?”
“No.”
“Punishment?”
“No.”
“Social-media rehabilitation?”
“Dad.”
He kept staring.
“Fine. Maybe a little.”
He laughed.
“No.”
“What?”
“You're not turning my workplace into your apology video.”
“I didn't say video.”
“You're seventeen. Everything becomes video.”
He wasn't wrong.
I asked again the next day.
Still no.
On Wednesday, cafeteria supervisor Mrs. Alvarez heard me asking.
She looked at Dad.
“We need somebody Friday morning.”
Dad frowned.
“You're not helping.”
She ignored him.
“Six thirty.”
I said:
“I'll be here.”
Dad said:
“He has school.”
“Breakfast setup ends at seven thirty.”
She looked at me.
“Can you carry boxes without making them about your personal development?”
I liked her immediately.
“Yes.”
“Debatable.”
Friday morning, I showed up at 6:27.
Nobody cared that I started for Hawthorne.
Nobody cared about Merritt.
Mrs. Alvarez gave me gloves and pointed toward produce.
Dad didn't talk to me for twenty minutes.
Then:
“Tomatoes go there.”
“I know.”
“You put them somewhere else.”
“I was expressing individuality.”
“You're very close to being fired from a job you don't have.”
At seven, Jordan came in.
He stopped.
Looked at me.
Then at Dad.
“Oh, this is disgusting.”
“What?”
“Growth.”
I threw a napkin at him.
He laughed.
Then Denise Reed came through for coffee.
She saw me.
Raised one eyebrow.
Dad said:
“Don't encourage him.”
Denise smiled.
“Tyler, your hairnet is crooked.”
Jordan took a photo.
I chased him halfway to the door before Dad called:
“Work.”
I came back.
It was ordinary.
That was what surprised me.
The job I had turned into a symbol was mostly eggs, deliveries, cleaning and people complaining about fruit.
At 7:25, Dad handed me a stack of trays.
“Done.”
I looked at his uniform.
“Do kids ever say stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“About you.”
He understood.
“Some.”
“What do you do?”
“Usually ask if they want fries.”
“That simple?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Simple is not the same as easy.”
I nodded.
Before leaving, I said:
“Do you want me to tell people why you work here?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it's my job.”
“People think—”
“I know what people think.”
I stopped.
Dad continued.
“If you spend the next year correcting everybody who thinks something embarrassing about us, you'll never do anything else.”
I looked toward the cafeteria doors.
“What about the video?”
“That one's yours.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Friday's game was away.
Coach Brody still wasn't there.
We won.
I scored seventeen.
Jordan scored nineteen and reminded me six times.
Afterward, Karen Sloan pulled me aside.
“Your father asked me not to tell you something.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course.”
She smiled.
“He withdrew the request.”
“What?”
“He said if you asked me directly, I could answer.”
“What question?”
She looked toward the bus.
“Whether Coach Brody is coming back.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“The review isn't finished.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.”
She paused.
“But Vince has acknowledged he gave Financial Aid an incomplete description of Merritt's intended giving.”
“Meaning?”
“He told them donor support was program-directed when he knew individual recruits had been discussed.”
I nodded slowly.
“Is he fired?”
“No decision.”
“Do you want him back?”
Karen looked at me.
“That isn't your burden.”
“I asked.”
She thought.
“I want coaches who understand getting a kid through the door does not entitle them to decide what the family is allowed to know.”
I swallowed.
Then:
“Dad said something like that.”
“I imagine.”
She smiled slightly.
“He's been in my office a lot.”
That irritated me.
“What else has he been talking to you about?”
She laughed.
May you like
“Ask him.”
Of course.
