I couldn’t say why, exactly. We were with Mac: there was nothing not to like about that, at least for me. Since the night I’d stayed over, we’d definitely been more friendly with each other, although I could sense he felt it important to keep our distance when we were around Layla. I had not forgotten the way she’d talked so angrily about Kimmie Crandall dating, then dumping him. I didn’t want to break any rules, although it was difficult when you weren’t certain what they were.

It wasn’t just Mac, though. As he went over the various rules and procedures in substantial detail, Layla—despite her leadership aspirations—got bored immediately. I, however, was intrigued by the whole idea of the delivery business. There was something about going up to strangers’ houses, getting a glimpse of another place and the lives within it, that appealed to me. Maybe it was because I felt that for so long, people had been outside my family, peering in. It was nice, for once, to be on the other end of things.

At our first stop, the guy answered the door in his bathrobe. It was dark in the living room behind him, the only light coming from two TVs set to the same channel and a row of laptops lined up on the coffee table. He squinted at us and the light like a mole, as if it hurt him, before paying and taking the pie wordlessly, then shutting the door in our faces.

At the next stop, we interrupted a teenage Bible study and were greeted at the door by a beaming girl with braces, who invited us in for a slice and some testimony. Even though we declined, she tipped generously. Jesus would have approved.

Then it was on to the Walker Hotel, where we sat out front with three large pies until the guest who’d made the order came down to retrieve them. (Mac explained that, because of its own room-service business, the Walker frowned on deliveries to the rooms themselves.) While we waited, he joked around with the red-shirted valets who were hanging around a key cabinet, shooting the breeze.

In just an hour, we’d seen all these little pieces of various lives, like a collage of Lakeview itself. Layla, still bored, spent most of the time on her phone, although she perked up at the hotel because the valets were cute. But when it was eight o’clock and she had to get back to help with Mrs. Chatham, I sort of wished I could stick around.

Mac must have put a good spin on this experience, because we were allowed to go ahead with our trial run that weekend. On Saturday, just after eleven thirty a.m., Layla and I stood in the parking lot, waiting for him to bring out a magnetic sign for my car from the office. Ten minutes later, he still had not emerged.

“I swear, it’s like he’ll do anything to keep me from cutting into his tip profits,” Layla complained, adjusting her outfit—SEASIDE T-shirt, jeans, black motorcycle boots—for the umpteenth time. Thanks to her small-business book, she’d emphasized the importance of our “brand look.” As I did not have any motorcycle boots, I was wearing a pair of Rosie’s, which were easily a size too small. My brand, apparently, involved limping. “I’m trying to help him out in the long run, too, as far as college goes. You’d think he’d be happy to share the wealth.”

“I think it’s more of a protective thing,” I told her. “He’s worried about you.”

“Well, he shouldn’t be. It’s delivering pizza, not going into warfare.”

I laughed, but once Mac had arrived, I kind of had to wonder if she wasn’t sort of right. First, he repeated what he’d already told us about handling the money and keeping the car locked even if you were only out of it for a second. Then he moved on to the importance of stepping far enough back from the door after knocking that no one could touch you when it opened. He was just segueing into a few cautionary tales from his own experience to emphasize these points when Layla looked at her wrist and said, “Can we start now?”

He made a face at her. “You’re not wearing a watch.”

“True. But if I were, it would say you’ve been talking too long.” She turned on her heel, starting back to Seaside. “I’m going to get our first order, Sydney. Warm up the car!”

We both watched her go, her steps light. She was more excited than she’d been at any point during the training. “Don’t let her go to a door alone even if she insists she’s fine,” he said as she disappeared inside. “And if she starts talking too much to customers, cut her off. Get the money, give the pie, and go. Should take no more than five minutes.”

“Right,” I said, again feeling like I was being prepped to infiltrate enemy lines.

“And only take the cash you’ll need to the door with you. If you have to make change, turn your back.”

“Got it.”

“If you’re ever in doubt or feel weird, just leave the pizza. It’s not worth it.”

I nodded just as Layla emerged from Seaside’s door, carrying a warmer in her hands. She was beaming as she approached. “It’s our maiden voyage! And in your neighborhood, Sydney.”

“Really?” She held out the slip: sure enough, it was an Arbors address, although not one I recognized.

“We need to be careful, though,” she said, shooting Mac a serious look. “You know how dangerous those rich people can be.”

“Ha-ha,” he said as she opened the back door, putting the pizza on the floor as he’d taught us. (There was less risk there of cheese slide, apparently a cardinal sin in the delivery business.) Then, to me, he said, “Drive safe.”