Those Who Favor Fire by Lauren Wolk (no david read aloud TXT) 📗

“Not on purpose. Actually, I think I’m onto something big. A new diet for mothers. It’s gonna make me famous, if I can get on Donahue or something.” She poured Rachel’s coffee, gave her some cream, and came around the counter to take a seat beside her. “I call it the Leftover Diet. You eat only what your kid leaves on his plate. It’s perfect if you’ve got a kid who eats all the fattening stuff, leaves bread crusts, vegetables, stuff like that. An inch of warm milk, crumbs in the bottom. Perfect. The only problem is that the longer I’m on it, the more I cook for Rusty. Last night I gave him this huge slab of meat loaf, scads of mashed potatoes and butter, a pile of lima beans. I ate so much I couldn’t move for an hour. Plus, if you’ve got three or four kids, the stuff they leave on their plates can really add up. But the idea’s spot-on. It’s gonna make me famous.” She put out her cigarette, drained her cup, stood up with a groan. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

Which made Rachel laugh. Angela walked behind the counter and faced her from the far side, changed in subtle ways. “What’ll it be?” she asked.

All at once Rachel felt near tears. She longed for her mother. She was so very hungry. The coffee seemed to splash in her empty stomach. “I want your apron,” she said.

“My what?”

“Your apron,” Rachel repeated impatiently. “Your apron.” Angela didn’t hesitate. She had witnessed the changes in Rachel much as she might have watched a volcano rumbling toward eruption. She untied her apron and lifted its harness over her head as Rachel came around the counter and stood waiting. Angela silently fitted the apron on her friend. “It’s all yours, my dear,” she said, reclaimed her stool, and lit another cigarette.

Rachel went straight to the big fridge. She assembled three eggs, a dollop of cream cheese, and a ripe tomato. Found a frying pan. Diced a small onion. Collected a bowl, a whisk, a spatula, salt and pepper. She cracked the eggs into the bowl, whipped them into a lather. Cut a disc of butter and set it to sizzle. Swirled the onion in the butter. Poured the eggs into the hot skillet. Added the cream cheese in small chunks, a few cubes of tomato, salt and pepper. “This is my favorite omelet,” she said over her shoulder. Angela watched in silence, enjoying her cigarette and the sight of Rachel as she cooked. None of her patrons had ever made breakfast in her kitchen before.

While the omelet swelled, Rachel made brown toast and spread it with butter and jam. She put ice in a tall glass and poured orange juice into it from such a height that the juice immediately frothed up, instantly cold, and the ice cubes whirled. She poured fresh coffee into a clean cup, slid the omelet onto a hot white plate, added the thick, sweet toast, and wiped her hands clean. When she turned to the counter with her breakfast in her hands, she saw Angela smoking another cigarette and noticed the flour that had collected in the lines around her eyes. She saw the tiny pits in her earlobes where jewelry had once hung. She saw pale hair scraped back into a knot, fingernails dulled by detergent, cut to the quick.

“Put out that vile thing, Angela, and here”—she set the orange juice on the counter—“cleanse your palate.” She put down the steaming omelet, returned for the coffee, and on her way back to the counter, grabbed knife, fork, cream, and sugar. “Eat,” she said.

Their eyes met for a moment, no more, before Angela picked up a fork and began to eat. The two men in the corner stood up, put on their hats, and called out good-byes without comment as they walked into the sunshine.

“Want a job?” Angela asked, omelet in her mouth.

“Maybe someday.” Rachel cleaned up the mess she’d made and warmed her coffee. Then she lifted a cake cover off a plate of fresh cinnamon rolls and picked the biggest one she could find. The first gooey, buttery bite nearly dissolved in her mouth. “God, that’s good.” She groaned.

“Better than sex, when they’re fresh. Last longer, too.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Rachel said, licking wet brown sugar off her wrist as she carried the roll back around the counter and took her seat at Angela’s side.

“Hear anything about the doorknob who got stuck on the bridge yesterday?”

“Didn’t hear about him, but I did hear him,” Rachel said, her mouth full. “All the way up in my backyard.”

“I got the skinny from Ed just before you got here, and he’s a pretty reliable source,” Angela said, wiping her plate clean with a corner of toast, “but there’s a lot that doesn’t quite add up. For instance,” she said, reaching for her coffee, “here we have a young man, about your age, give or take, dressed up like a Harvard snot, looks like an ad for L.L. Bean (though, according to Ed, he coulda’ used a shave and a shower), talks like he’s got a plum in his mouth, driving, get this, a motor home that’s half as old as I am. Which, I grant you, is not all that old. But still. Doesn’t quite fit his image. Plus”—and here she leaned forward and rested her hand on Rachel’s forearm—“he knows absolutely nothing about this thing he’s driving. Has no water, doesn’t know how to work the pump, the heater. He couldn’t even find the gas tank. When it comes time to pay Frank for the gas, he hands over an American Express Gold Card. Looks real nervous the whole time. Turns out the card’s no good. So this kid pays with a fifty.”

“This clinches it. I always had my suspicions about Ed, but now I’m sure. He’s an android. Gotta be. A man gets