10

Once my friends clear off of the back porch, I go inside to share Dominic’s idea. Dad is brushing his teeth when I find him.

“Dad.”

He spits and rinses. “Quinnie.”

“Do you have a second?”

“Of course. What’s up?”

“In my room?”

He turns his whole body to look at me, like uh-oh.

I shut my bedroom door, make him sit on the bed, and clear my throat. Ahem. “I’d like to talk with you about one thing.” I hold up one finger. “And only one thing. About the menu.” And then I say very fast, “AndIwantyoutolistenwithoutinterruptingokay?”

He rolls his eyes, but he smiles. “Okay. Go for it, Quinnie.”

“What if you made a small change to your fish head soup and put it on the regular menu?”

“Honey, it’s off menu for a reason. You know—the heads.”

“I know, but just listen. You said you wouldn’t interrupt.”

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“Let’s say, after you put it in the bowl with the head in the center and all, you put some kale leaves in the fish’s mouth and some grated beets or other root thing sprinkled around, and then sprayed some salt water across the top.” I can see this all going into his brain perfectly. A smile rises on his face. He truly gets it.

“I love it.”

“You do?”

“I do. I think people will see the humor in it. Plus, who knows, more people may try it. It tastes really good—it’s just a little off-putting at a glance. I’ll have your mother push those new menus back a day so we can put this thing front and center.”

“I’m so glad you like it.”

He stands up, and I give him a big hug. He squeezes me back like tomorrow’s going to be a great day.

“Nicely done, Q.”

“It was Dominic’s idea.” I feel so proud of him.

“Good man, that Dominic.”

As soon as he leaves my room, I text everyone. We bounce that high-five hand around for a while, until Dominic starts sending out pi and sigma symbols, and then the thread gets totally random. But before I go to bed, that sweet, goofy guy sends me, alone, a key-to-his-heart emoji. Sigh.

* * *

The next morning, Dad’s and Mom’s voices drift into my room and jog me out of sleep. The sun is up, and there are only a few puffy clouds swishing across the sky. I crack open my door. I can’t distinguish what they’re saying exactly, but I hear “fish heads” and Mom laughing. They sound so happy.

“Quinnette Boyd!” Dad yells up the stairs.

I run to the landing and see him dressed to leave.

“You and your friends should come by a little later and try out my new and improved fish head soup—with kale. It’s gonna be a great start to the competition, I think.”

I’m feeling so upbeat that I offer to go with Mom while she delivers the morning mail.

We drive up to the post office, which is near Ms. Stillford’s house, and Mom grabs the canvas bag plus a couple plastic cartons of junk mail. She sorts the mail by house number for Circle Lane, then for Mile Stretch Road, and off we go. We drive on the wrong side of the road for a quarter of a mile so she can put the mail in each mailbox. I’ve offered to do it a zillion times, but that would break the rules of the US Postal Service, and Margaret Boyd is a stickler for following official rules.

Because we’re on the wrong side of the road, which I guess is a rule you can break if you’re following a higher rule, the first mailbox we reach is Ms. Stillford’s, which we fill mostly with catalogs and a couple of magazines.

We keep going on Circle Lane, all the way to the Maiden Rock Yacht Club, where Mom stuffs a couple envelopes in the club’s box, then to the lobster pound that has become Restaurant Hubert, where Mom has two handfuls of mail to deliver.

She slows her car to look at the decal on some car parked by the restaurant.

“What’s that?” I ask her.

She points down the side of the building, to the kitchen door, where a man with a clipboard is talking to Slick. He looks friendly. Slick is laughing.

“State health department,” Mom says. “Must be a new inspector. I’ve never seen him before.”

We complete the circle and head down Mile Stretch Road, dropping mail at the local spiritual center and a few more houses until we reach the Gusty’s parking lot. There, in front of the door, is the same car we saw outside Restaurant Hubert, and the health inspector’s getting out, clipboard and all. I kind of wish we’d arrived in Mom’s sheriff’s cruiser instead of her ordinary real-estate SUV—seeing this guy at Gusty’s makes me feel vulnerable all of a sudden.

We don’t step out right away. Instead, Mom and I watch the inspector stroll around Gusty’s. He’s touching freshly painted spots on the clapboard, looking in windows, tapping gutters, leaning over to scrutinize the foundation.

“What’s he doing? That’s none of his business.” Mom gets on her phone and tells Dad what’s up. By the time the inspector walks in, Dad’s waiting at the door.

“I’m looking for the owner,” the inspector says.

“That would be me,” Dad says and sticks out his hand for a shake. “Gusty Boyd.”

The man shakes hands with Dad and gives him a business card. “Spot inspection,” he says without a trace of pleasantness on his face.

“Okay, where do you want to start?”

“Just show me to the kitchen.”

The hair goes up on the back of my neck.

“I’m going to finish the mail,” Mom says, while I decide to park myself at Gusty’s. From a spot at the counter, I watch as this health inspector guy scours the Gusty’s kitchen, pantry, freezers, stove, ovens—you name it, he has his nose in it. All this time, Dad and Clooney are trying to run the café. People are pouring in, asking if the Secret Diner competition has started, and Dad is twisting his neck trying to talk to each of them and watch the inspector at the same time.

“Dad, can I help deliver orders?” I ask him.

“Behind the counter, Quinnie.”

His answer makes no sense. I don’t think he heard a word I just said, he’s so distracted by the inspector making marks on his form.

After about a half an hour, the inspector guy scribbles something on the bottom of a form, unclips it from his clipboard, and hands it over to Dad. I can tell Dad’s head is swimming—a lot of things must need changing.

“So, when does all this have to be done?” he asks.

The guy points to the bottom of the form. “Right there. A couple weeks from now, I’ll be back to re-inspect. If these items aren’t cleared by then, I’ll be forced to shut her down.”

Dad points to one line. “This—the tension on the door gasket. What’s up with that?”

“I put a dollar bill between the door and the unit, and it was too easy to pull it out. The door doesn’t close tight enough.”

“No inspector has ever done a . . . dollar-bill test,” Dad says. “The door closes fine. There’s no cold air leak.”

“I can’t help it if other inspectors don’t do their jobs.” The guy walks away from Dad and opens the door. “See you in two weeks.”

Dad turns and walks toward the kitchen, grumbling and pulling a dollar bill out of his pocket.

* * *

That night, pretty much all our closest friends are gathered at our house. It’s a welcome home dinner for the Buttermans.

The adults are all sitting around the dining room table, and the topic has turned to the inspection. My friends and I are sitting on the floor in the living room while Zoe shares Super Soor Fizz Balls and Soor Plooms candies that she brought back from Scotland. The guys make “yuck” noises until the adults tell us to pipe down.

“It was an ambush,” Ms. Stillford says. “And on the first day of the competition, too.”

“They don’t have to tell you when they’re coming,” Mom says.

“Still, didn’t you say he was here a couple months ago?” Zoe’s mom asks.

“It was a different guy,” answers Dad. “At least I thought it was only a couple of months ago. Maybe it’s been longer.”

Mom says, “It’s silly stuff like a hairline crack in the plastic grill along the top of the refrigeration unit.”

“And that’s practically decorative,” Dad says. “It’s been there for years, and no one’s ever written it up before. And this gasket tension business? I tried the guy’s dollar-bill test and nearly ripped the dollar trying to pull it out. But that and the rest still have to be fixed.” All the delight of his tone this morning is gone.

“I’ll help,” says Owen Loney. “We’ll get it all done tomorrow.”

Dad and Owen talk about what time they’ll get started, while we stay focused on the candy.

Ben’s making fun of it. Ella’s not eating it. Dominic braves another piece, and his face twists into a vicious pucker. I don’t want any, and I’m not going to pretend I do. Zoe gets sullen and pouty, but I can’t cope with the small stuff right now. I have to concentrate on the café.