*   *   *

Normally I drag out my after-school routine—locker, bathroom, library—as long as possible before shuffling to the car. But on Monday I practically sprint there.

You’re excited about the tips, I remind myself. Not the cook.

Rick jumps in surprise as I throw open the passenger-side door. I buckle my seat belt as he fumbles to remove the tape that’s already in the deck. “Quieras bailar conmigo?” a woman asks in a soothing, slow tone. There’s a pause, and then Rick manages to get it ejected.

“What was that?” I ask, reaching for it. “Are you … learning Spanish?”

“Nothing. No.” Rick tucks the tape into the pocket of his button-down shirt, clears his throat, and puts the car into drive. I watch him suspiciously but he doesn’t even look at me. Spanish is my territory—the thing my mom and I share that he doesn’t. Even if she won’t speak it with me anymore. I don’t want him there.

As we get close to Christmas, I lean forward, bouncing. This time Rick eyes me with suspicion. Embarrassed, I pack up my bag. I’ve never been so relieved to be out of that car. It’s a long enough drive when we’re pretending not to notice each other. But when we’re both being strange, well, it was interminable.

I take a shower, then mess around with my makeup. I skip to work ten minutes early, whistling cheerily.

For the tips.

“Ho ho ho yourself, you old sicko.” I pat the animatronic Santa on the head. This place is hopping, not its usual dead zone. Candy’s taking orders. She’s stayed the last two nights to help with the extra crowds, even though she had to keep running to the bathroom to puke. She looks hollow today.

Angel is sitting at the counter. He grins. “Hola, Maria!” I’ve never seen his teeth before, much less his smile. I didn’t realize his scowl lines weren’t permanently fixed.

“Can I get you anything?” I hope I don’t look as confused-slash-unnerved as I feel.

“Take your time, chica, you just got here.”

“Right. Thanks.” I barrel into the kitchen. “What did you do to Angel?”

Ben shrugs, clapping his hands together once in a satisfied sort of way. “He needed a good meal.”

“Right. The man who has spent the last three years growling orders at me is now calling me chica and smiling.”

“Yup.”

“Okay, be serious. Are you a drug dealer? Is that why you were in juvie?”

He laughs, stirring something on the stove range. “No. Not drugs.”

“I’m pretty sure you spice your cookies with something illegal.”

“Cinnamon is not a controlled substance.”

“That should be the title of your memoir.” I reluctantly button my uniform over my tank top and leggings. Candy comes back as I’m clocking in.

“Hey!” Ben’s eyes are bright and hopeful. “I made you something.”

She puts a hand over her stomach. “No, thanks.”

“I think it’ll help.” He holds the to-go container while she removes her apron and hangs up her uniform.

She takes the container. “Okay. See you tomorrow.” She shuffles out.

Ben goes to the window, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Then his shoulders stoop, his whole body turning down in disappointment.

“She gave it to Jerry, didn’t she?” I ask.

“It wasn’t for him. It was for her.” He frowns. “Tomorrow I’ll make her something at the start of her shift, instead.”

Animatronic Santa ho-ho-hos at a customer, and I’m swept up for the next few hours. Ben more or less cooks what people ask for, and no one complains. My feet are sore from how busy we are, but my tip-collecting pockets are happy.

Angel has moved to the corner booth, leaning over the back to chat animatedly with Lorna, the gas-station owner. He’s drawing pictures on her napkin. I’ve never seen them so much as glance at each other before. But the way they’re acting, you’d think they were best friends. They’ve been in here every day. A lot of the locals have been coming more frequently than new-cook curiosity can account for.

“Bennett,” I say.

“Not short for Bennett,” Ben answers.

“Do you have Angel’s order?”

He puts up a tray, and I frown. “This is not his.”

“It’s for him.”

“He ordered chicken-fried steak. He always orders chicken-fried steak. This is … what is this? Fruit salad? Have you seen Angel?” I gesture toward him: hulking, tattooed, shaved head with several prominent scars. “He’s not the fruit-salad type.”

“It’s beets, carrots, jicama, and fruit with a citrus dressing. Ensalada Navidad! And here.” He presents a second plate.

“Tamales.” A sort of pain, like a sore muscle, pulses through my whole body. I’m filled with an inexplicable need to hug my mom. “We don’t serve those here.” The sudden ache inside my heart makes me sad. I scowl at Ben. “Make him the stupid steak.”

“Maria. Trust me. Take it to him.”

“No.”

He sighs. “How about this: if he doesn’t like it, you don’t have to share your tips with me for the rest of the week.”

“And you tell me how you learned to cook in juvie.” His eyebrows come together so I raise my hand. “Not why you were in juvie. Only the cooking part.”

“Deal.”

I take the plate, surly but certain of victory. Angel has ordered the same meal for as long as I’ve worked here. When I set down the food, he looks shocked.

“I didn’t order this,” he growls.

“I’m sorry, it’s the new cook, he—”

“Are those tamales?”

I still have my hand on the plate, ready to whisk it away. “Yes?”

He leans forward. His eyes wrinkle upward in a smile. I swear his skin creaks, having to force decades of grim frown lines in that direction. “Y ensalada navidad! Mi madre siempre…” His hard black eyes soften, looking far past this dinner.

“So … you want the food? Because I can take it back!”

“No!” He leans over it protectively. “I want it.”

“Great. Let me know if you need anything else.” I scowl at the kitchen window, where Ben is giving me his full-wattage smile. I give him the finger down low, where Angel can’t see it.

“Maria!” my mom says, aghast.