Etta cocked her head to the side, the overhead lights glinting off her nose ring, her black hair moussed and standing on end.

“Yes, you.” Susie pointed first at Etta, and then away from Etta’s table. “Please move your computer elsewhere.”

She turned back to the counter. “Will you please clean off that table, Bryony? Charity and I called that spot.”

Astonished by Susie’s use of a phrase which should have been held back in high school, Bryony found herself lost in the memory of how the popular kids had “called” the picnic table in the shade, the first row in the auditorium, the corner booth at the downtown diner.

Forcing herself back into the present, she managed to say, “There are plenty of open tables.”

“But we want that one.” Susie turned again to Etta. “Please move your stuff so Bryony can clean the table for us. We’re ready to sit down.”

“How can this be your table?” Etta asked, “When my butt’s in the seat and yours is not?” Henry Winkler could not have done a better impression of Fonzie.

Mr. Parker and Abby looked up, silent witnesses. A flashback cry of girl fight rang out in Bryony’s head.

Susie sneered and began to huff a reply, but Charity touched her arm. “Plenty of tables over there.”

After Bryony served her coffee, Susie threw a toxic glance at Etta and followed Charity to another table as far from Etta as possible.

Some might have called Etta’s behavior rude, but Bryony liked to think of it as evidence of a hidden superpower, one for which Bryony yearned.

In high school, nobody crossed Susie or Charity. Bryony’s adolescent self fist-pumped power to the little people as she gathered a gift to pay homage. She carried it through the opening in the counter with both hands and placed it gently before her new hero.

Etta looked down at the plated bagel. “I didn’t order anything.”

“It’s a gift,” Bryony said.

“What for?”

“For being a valued customer,” Bryony answered. “Cinnamon raisin.”

“My favorite.” Etta looked up and smiled.

The past scariness disappeared. Underneath the piercings and tattoos lived someone who could be counted on, the expression on her face pleasant, knowing, kind.

Bryony returned to her post.

All customers served and satisfied at present, Bryony moved to the back of the workspace and slipped on disposable plastic gloves to shift warm bagels to the baskets lining the wooden shelves. A wave of confidence started to take hold inside her, something akin to what she had read about in those self-help books. With this newfound sensation, images of what she wanted to do with the rest of her life burst forth, a full blown vision.

Lillian returned from an errand. “Did you see Charity and Susie out there?” she asked, and answered herself right away. “Of course you did. You waited on them.” She washed her hands at the small white ceramic sink beside the door to her office.

Bryony had lost interest in Charity and Susie the second her future life materialized in her mind.

“I do want to make pies,” she said.

“I love your pies. “ Lillian rubbed her hands dry on a white towel. “Bring one in tomorrow.”

“You don’t understand. I want to make pies every day.”

“Like a business?” Lillian asked.

“Yes, like a business.” Like the business of how she would spend the rest of her life.

“All of a sudden you’re sure?” Lillian asked. “Where did this decision come from?”

“Pies,” Bryony repeated. They didn’t always come out perfect—crust baked a little too long, or filling a tad too sweet—but one could always adjust the amount of sugar or the temperature of the oven for the next batch. Unlike most of life, pies were within her control. She could do this.

Lillian looked at Bryony, one eyebrow arched, and asked, “What happened?”

“I’m serious, Lil. I want to make pies. Let’s talk.” Bryony grabbed two mugs and headed for the coffee pot.

When presented with the steaming coffee, Lillian took the mug, and with a deadpan delivery said, “Okay, if any other customers come in, I’ll have Mister Parker tell them to serve themselves and leave the money on the counter.”

Bryony rolled her eyes. “The morning rush is over. Let’s split a bagel. I’ll bring a few chairs behind the counter.” She was already moving toward an unoccupied table to collect the chairs.

“I’ll butter the bagel,” Lillian said, the concern on her face shifting to an expression of humoring one who may have gone bonkers.

Unconcerned about whether or not Lillian thought she was bananas, Bryony situated the chairs far enough away from the customers to allow for privacy, but close enough to tend to anyone who approached the counter. She settled onto one chair and patted the other. “C’mon, Lillian. Sit. Let’s talk.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“I want to start my own business.” She remembered the strength behind Etta claiming her space. Bryony wanted her own space, too. She wanted to delight in the messy reality of what it would take to visualize and create a business doing what kept her centered in her own superpower. She wanted to bake pies.

Lillian sat against the chair back, her spine straight, hands clasped in her lap. “When did you decide this?”

“I have realized”—Bryony lowered her voice further—“that I am going to die an utter failure if I don’t do something meaningful, memorable, fun, starting now.”

“Excuse me.” Susie leaned over the counter as if searching for someone back there to help, though Bryony and Lillian sat in plain sight. “I’d like a refill. Can I get service here?”

Lillian started to rise, but Bryony rose quicker. “You sit. I’ll do it.” She took Susie’s cup, refilled it, and passed it back across the counter.

“Thank you, Bry,” Susie said. “Love your outfit. You always did know how to make classic seem a little less dull.”

All through high school, Susie had made fun of Bryony’s clothing. Was she still mocking her? Without thinking, Bryony quoted Coco Chanel. “‘Fashion has two purposes—comfort and love.’”

Susie looked up and paused, her fingers a few inches from the mug handle.

Bryony followed up with, “I go for both, and if it looks good, that’s a bonus. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“My, oh, my,” Lillian said when Susie was out of earshot, and Bryony again sat opposite. “What’s gotten into you? You’re on fire.”

“I’m tired of not being heard, of not making my mark in the world.”

“I think you can do anything you want,” Lillian said. “And if pie is your thing, then I’ll back you up in any way I can. I’ve been running this shop for ten years, and no one thought I’d make it.”

“No one?” Bryony asked. “Not even Rick?”

“He thought it would sink us both, but he loves me, so he took the risk.”