Back to the Good Fortune Diner

by Vicki Essex

  Chris was stunned she’d reacted so vehemently. “I thought you’d—”

  She plopped the box of chicken balls and the tub of glowing orange sweet-and-sour sauce on the counter by the register. “My mom will ring you up.” She went back to the far end of the steam counter to serve the next customer.

  Rose Cheung grinned brightly at him as he paid. She asked him some questions about his family, but his eyes kept going back to Tiffany, who wore an easy, bright smile as she filled a take-out container for the old man. Why he should be jealous that she smiled so easily for a stranger and not for him was something he didn’t want to examine too closely.

  * * *

  “YOU WANT TO TELL ME what that was about?” Daniel asked over Tiffany’s shoulder after Chris had left. Without his sister saying goodbye, he’d noted.

  She lifted an eyebrow sardonically. “What what was about?”

  “Why do you keep giving Chris the brush-off?” He’d watched the whole interaction unfold through the pass-through window. And while he knew he had no business questioning what Chris did with whom, he did feel obligated to look out for his little sister. It was plain to Daniel his friend had been flirting with her.

  “He wanted me to start putting his son’s nose to the grindstone. The kid’s had a full year of high school. He’s getting over failing a class. He deserves a break.”

  “You sure it’s just that?” When she didn’t answer, he nudged her aside while he picked up a mostly empty tray of sweet-and-sour pork from the steam table. Steam blasted him in the face and he wiped the sweat from his brow. “If you’re interested in him, you should try to be more friendly instead of pushing him away.”

  “I was being friendly. And I’m not interested.”

  He chuckled. The roses blooming on her cheeks had come from more than just the heat. “Admit it. You’re still crushing on him, but you’re not going to do anything about it because you’re afraid he’ll laugh at you or hurt you.”

  “I do not— Don’t go psych-101ing me,” she sputtered.

  “I’m only trying to be helpful. You’re both grown-ups now. I’m just saying, if you decide to make a move... Well, you’re a big girl.”

  She shot daggers at him. “You’re one to give relationship advice. Have you told Mom and Dad about Selena yet?”

  He glared, ice forming in his veins. Rose hadn’t turned around, so he guessed she hadn’t heard Tiff.

  He walked back into the kitchen and dumped the hot steam tray into the sink. It felt as if a hundred pins were stabbing into his neck. A little teasing and his sister had slashed out with her razor-sharp talons.

  What was Tiffany expecting him to do? Go up to their parents and announce that, oh, by the way, that sweet doctor from Queens is a gwai-mui?

  Okay, so maybe it was as simple as that. But Tiffany didn’t have to keep provoking him about it.

  His thoughts were disrupted as his father suddenly cursed and stalked out of the kitchen. Daniel watched through the narrow window as he headed straight for Rose. “You ordered the wrong brand of rice.”

  Trepidation ratcheted tightly in his gut as his mom rang in a customer and said blithely over her shoulder, “I didn’t. This one is a better quality.”

  “And it’s more expensive. Why did you order this one? I told you not to.”

  “It’s more fragrant,” Rose responded primly. “I’m tired of the old rice. It’s too flaky and loose. Nothing like what we have at home.”

  Daniel glanced over at the sack sitting on the table. That brand cost about three dollars more. Were they seriously fighting over three dollars?

  “It’s a waste of money.” Tony’s voice rose. “I don’t want to make fried rice for a hundred people with good rice.”

  “They won’t know the difference.”

  “If they won’t know the difference, then why did you buy the more expensive rice?” The pitch and volume of his father’s voice made the pans in the kitchen vibrate. Daniel shot out of the kitchen door like a bullet.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Mo gum dai seng-ah.”

  Don’t make so much noise. Or more accurately, You’re going to drive the customers away with your yelling.

  Tony gave his wife one final glower and stomped back into the kitchen. “Your mother is going to send us to the poorhouse.”

  “Calm down, Dad.”

  “She doesn’t understand. This is a business, not a charity. She gives one special price here, one extra helping there, it all adds up. She doesn’t care.” He flung a ladle across the counter and it clattered noisily to the ground.

  Daniel struggled not to get into it with him. “Dad, we’re fine.”

  “I haven’t been in business this long because I gave everyone special treatment,” he said pointedly. “I’m not running a soup kitchen.”

  He groaned. “I get that you’re mad. But Mom handles the front of the diner, you take care of the food and I take care of the books. That’s our arrangement.” And the only way to keep the peace around the diner.

  His dad pointed at him accusingly with a spatula. “You need to keep a closer eye on her when she makes the orders.” Tony resumed work on the fried rice, grumbling.

  Daniel left his father to stew and stepped out to the front to replace a steam tray of black-bean eggplant. His mother was chatting up a customer with a winning smile. He frequently wondered whether the locals picked up on his parents’ arguments by their angry tones, even if they didn’t understand the words.

  Tiffany’s hands were shaking as she wiped the counter, and he had a flash of empathy. She’d always hated their parents’ fights. It’d taken him years to toughen up, placing himself in the middle of their arguments. Some days, though, the tension pressed against him like a knife’s edge.

  “Hey.” Daniel squeezed her shoulder. “You okay?”

  She shook him off. “Fine.”

  “It’s like this all the time, but this is nowhere near as bad as it can get.” She whipped her head around to look at him, appalled. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “Why would I be to blame?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “I was only trying— Oh, forget it.” He escaped back to the kitchen, annoyed with her, with his parents and with himself.

  No matter what he tried to do, however good his intentions, people always knocked him back down.

  * * *

  REGRET PRICKED TIFFANY as Daniel left in a huff. She really had to tone down her bitch factor. Years of being stuck behind a hot steam counter with her bickering parents should have tempered her, but Tony and Rose’s row had left her feeling as queasy and scared as she’d been as a child. That sense of helplessness made her get defensive, like a porcupine with its quilt of needles.

  She stared after her brother, thinking she should go apologize, but then Rose snapped at her, “Why are you standing there doing nothing?”

  Tiff looked around. All the customers had gone. “Have you forgotten how to work?” her mother asked irritably.

  Tiffany sucked her cheeks in. She reminded herself that she was living with her parents rent-free, that she owed them her love and respect. But it could be really trying, especially when she was being snapped at. She was tired of having everyone in her family telling her what to do instead of asking her with a please and thank-you. But as her mother turned away, she caught her swiping a palm across her cheek. She stood unmoving for a few seconds, facing the empty diner, back to the kitchen. Her shoulders pulled into a straight line and she picked up a broom and started sweeping.

  Tiffany quietly went to clear the tables.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BY THREE-FIFTEEN THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Tiffany was so done with the diner. She didn’t think she’d ever wash the smell of fryer oil and onions out of her hair. Not even the thick overcast sky and stifling humidity could dampen her spirit as she sailed along the highway, far, far away from the Good Fortune.

  She pulled up in front of the Jamieson house, grabbed her book bag and purse, headed up the ver
anda and knocked. She rocked on her heels, eager and a little nervous. Chris had come by twice more that week to say hello and to buy a box of chicken balls for his son. She’d done her best to be more pleasant. He’d said he was looking forward to seeing her at the farm, and even though there was no affection behind his words, she couldn’t help the feeling of anticipation sizzling through her.

  She was a little surprised when William Jamieson, dressed in jeans and a blue shirt, opened the door. She glanced behind him, then around the farm, expecting to see Chris or even Jane running toward her.

  “You expecting a gong to announce you or something?” William narrowed his eyes at her as he shuffled his crutches.

  She smiled with clenched teeth to hide the tic beneath her eye. “Hello, Mr. Jamieson. I’m here to tutor Simon.”

  “He’s not home from school yet. And he has to do his chores when he gets back.” He stayed firmly rooted in the doorway. Three long seconds passed before she realized he was not going to invite her in.

  “May I wait inside?” She wouldn’t allow this old man to intimidate her the way he used to.

  William studied her, his jaw set. “You’re not charging my son from the minute you step in here, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  He hobbled inside. She followed. “Do you want something to drink? I’m about to put some coffee on.”

  His offer of hospitality surprised her. “I’m fine for now, thank you. Would it be all right if I set up my things on the dining table?”

  “Sure you wouldn’t rather sit on the floor? Isn’t that what you people do?”

  She dug her fingernails into her palms. “Only after our kung-fu lessons,” she deadpanned.

  He didn’t react. “I don’t know if my son has said anything to you,” William began, “but you should know I don’t approve of all this tutoring business.”

  “You don’t think Simon’s education is important?” Or was he objecting to her teaching him?

  “School curriculums are too focused on useless academic courses. They should be teaching important things like computers and accounting, and bring back home economics and shop. Those are useful classes. Everyone cries about how the arts get cut all the time, but when it comes to school budgets, the first thing that’s cut is life skills and gym.” His gaze lifted to her face. “English isn’t a second language to Simon. He can speak and read it fine, unlike some people. He doesn’t need to study Shakespeare to know how to fix a tractor engine.”

  She partly agreed with his view on education. But her dislike of the man and his implication that English wasn’t her first language put her on a wary defensive. She drew herself up. “I respect your position, but the reality is that the state has basic requirements in order for your grandson to earn his GED. He’ll need to excel in this course in order to raise his GPA and score well on his SATs if he wants to go to college.”

  “He doesn’t need to go to college,” he declared. “A diploma or degree’s just a fancy, expensive piece of paper that people use to lord over others, pretend they’re smarter than everyone else. It don’t make a difference in the real world. Work is work, and there’s plenty of it here. Simon’ll learn everything he needs from me.”

  Remembering Jane’s advice, she decided not to continue the argument. William was obviously set in his beliefs, and this was something he would have to discuss with Chris. “My only objective is to tutor Simon and get him through this summer class. How he conducts himself after that is up to him.”

  William didn’t respond. Actually, he didn’t say anything as he made his way to the kitchen where he studiously read the paper and ignored her. So much for hospitality.

  It was another twenty minutes before Simon finally came stumbling into the house. He looked worn out as he dropped his bag by the door. William came out of the kitchen frowning. “You’re late. Miss Chang’s meter’s been running.”

  “It’s Cheung,” she corrected, though she didn’t bother to correct his lie. Considering what she was going through with him, she ought to be paid for the extra time.

  “I couldn’t help it. The bus made a long detour to drop three other guys off.”

  “You still have chores to do,” William reminded him. “Don’t leave ’em till it’s too dark.”

  Simon slumped. “I have to go clean the stalls and stuff,” he explained to Tiffany in a low voice. She noticed he didn’t argue or sigh in disparagement around his grandfather.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said, getting up. “You can tell me about your class today.”

  The rich smells of farm life assaulted her as she followed Simon across the dirt and gravel in her ballet flats. Rocks bit through the flimsy soles of her shoes as she skirted what she was sure wasn’t just dirt. They passed a large fenced-in area that housed a coop. Brown-and-white chickens roamed freely within, pecking at the spare grass. Simon hastily grabbed a scoop, opened a big plastic bucket and dug in, scattering a measure of chicken feed across the ground, which the hens hurried to gobble up.

  “Are they for the eggs or for meat?” Tiffany asked.

  “Eggs, mostly. Dad does sell a few for meat sometimes, though.”

  “Do you have to wake up at the crack of dawn to collect the eggs?”

  He grimaced, eyeing the birds warily. “One of the hands usually comes by every day. Dad only makes me feed them.” She heard him mutter “Thank God” under his breath and suppressed a smile as he headed for the barn. She wasn’t sure she’d want to have to fight off a bunch of chickens for their eggs, either. The only place she wanted to see a chicken up close was in a grease-stained bucket.

  “So, tell me about your first day.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “My teacher’s a serious hard-ass. He jumped straight into The Tempest. We read the first scene in class and started the second. We have to finish scene two by tomorrow.”

  “Did you have any problems understanding the text?”

  Simon didn’t answer. His mouth firmed, and his eyes grew flinty, though they wouldn’t meet hers. Wordlessly, he grabbed a pitchfork and gloves and rolled the wheelbarrow out of the corner. “Simon?” He started shoveling, and Tiffany had to move out of his way. “If you didn’t understand something, you have to tell me.”

  Still no response. Maybe he hadn’t heard her over the sound of the rustling straw. “Hello?”

  “I heard you. I’m stupid, not deaf.”

  Tiffany reeled back. “Whoa, okay, I didn’t say anything about you being stupid.”

  “But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because I’m too stupid to pass English.” He stabbed the fork into the dirty straw. “English!”

  Okay. So, he’d had a long, hard day, and now he was here, scooping poop. She’d be kind of cranky, too. His grandfather hadn’t even allowed him to take a breather, get a snack. The kid was probably suffering from low blood sugar or something. Gently, she said, “Look, Shakespeare is hard for everyone at first. People are still digging up new meanings to the text.”

  He snorted. “I should have known you wouldn’t get it.” He turned his back on her.

  He meant get how difficult high school was, she thought. Oh, if only he knew. She rested her fists against her hips. “Let’s start with what you do know. What can you tell me about the scene you read today?”

  Simon went on shoveling, and Tiffany jumped back as droppings scattered from the fork at her feet.

  She scowled. “Simon, I’m here to help you. Why are you acting like this?”

  “If you don’t want to be here, get lost.”

  “Is that any way to talk to a lady?” Chris’s deep voice boomed through the barn, startling them both. He crossed his forearms over his chest, leaning up against the door to the tack room. He must have been in there all this time. He caught and held his son’s belligerent look. “How was school?” An edge of warning vibrated beneath his question. He didn’t scold, didn’t make his son apologize for his behavior right off. Tiff watched in fascination as father and son did
their dance of discipline.

  Simon shrugged. Chris stared him down until his son replied, “Fine, sir.”

  Chris nodded. “I thought I’d come by and say hi,” he said to Tiffany. He hitched a shoulder toward his son. “Is he giving you attitude?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, but instead she smiled. “Not at all. I was just about to offer to help out.” She met Simon’s bang-veiled glower, flashing her teeth at him.

  Chris put his hands out in refusal. “Oh, no. I’m not paying you to clean horse stalls. This is Simon’s job. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to dirty your nice clothes.”

  His approving gaze was like the lightest caress, and she became hot all over. “What, these? They’re my schlupping clothes.” She cringed—she sounded too much like a princess with her fancy outfit. Chris raised one eyebrow. “I can pitch in. It’ll make the work go faster.”

  “No.” He crossed over to his son and held out a hand for the pitchfork. “I’ll take over just this once, Simon. You go in, clean up and work with Tiffany.”

  “But—”

  “Just this once.” Chris took the pitchfork from him. “She’s here for you. You need to take advantage of her while she’s around to help.”

  “I don’t need help,” Simon blurted. “I need everyone to leave me alone!” He kicked up a cloud of straw and dust as he stormed from the barn.

  “Simon—” Chris stopped at the barn door. He set the pitchfork aside and rubbed his jaw. “Sorry about that, Tiffany. I don’t know why he’s been acting like this.”

  She knew why. And in some ways, she understood Simon’s frustration and anger. “He’s a teenager. It kind of comes with the territory.”

  “His behavior is unacceptable,” Chris said. “If he knew what you did for me—” A forlorn look darkened his expression and he became still. With an intensity that practically vibrated off him, he stepped closer to her. “I never told you how much I appreciated all your help back in high school. I never said thank you.” He placed his big, strong hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “I’m sorry. This is fifteen years too late. Thank you, Tiffany, for everything you did for me.”