“Susie Quatman.” Bryony breathed out slowly. “It’s been a few years. What would you like?”
Lacquered fingernails tapping the counter, Susie deliberated while Charity Henderson stepped through the door and walked to the counter.
“Hi, Bryony. I’d like a chai tea.”
Bryony nodded and moved to fill a mug.
Susie had been Charity’s number one henchwoman in high school, putting into play any number of ploys designed to degrade the less popular students. Bryony had been on the receiving end more than once.
“Five dollars, please,” Bryony said.
Charity started to open her purse, but Susie interrupted with a throaty command. “Let me pay!”
Mr. Parker looked up from his crossword puzzle, seemed to assess the situation, and returned his eyes to the paper beneath his pencil.
While Susie ordered her drink, Etta arrived for the day. She sat down at her usual table, pulled out her laptop, and opened it.
Having completed her order, Susie swung away from the counter and called over to Etta. “Excuse me. We were going to sit there.”
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?”
