BY THE TIME WE backtracked to the diner, it was nearly lunchtime. Close enough, anyway, for most of the tables at Wells to be full of patrons. Thom, Min, and I stood by the door scanning for open seats.

Most of the diner was a big open room filled with dozens of wooden tables and chairs, each of them a different design and size. Mr. Wells must’ve gone to a bunch of tag sales and picked up the furniture for the restaurant. I mean, maybe he had (Don’t make assumptions, Nellie). In the far corner, crocheted hats and blankets were displayed for sale; I recognized them as Thom’s mom’s work. The walls were decorated with dozens of framed photographs, some scenes of Bear Creek, with little tags indicating the price.

The back of the diner featured a long counter that ran the entire length of the wall and around the corner toward the door. The corner section behind the counter was the kitchen, open to the diner. There, a tall, skinny man threw pizza dough into the air, stretched it onto wooden paddles, topped it, then thrust it into the red-hot oven behind him. I didn’t know if it was the heat or the hard work that turned his cheeks bright red. He wore a white T-shirt and mopped at the perspiration on his forehead with a cotton cloth.

On the other side of the counter corner, where there was a curved glass window like in a deli, a large man in a wheelchair was building sandwiches and salads, his hands moving like blurs as he pulled paper orders down from a wire hanging over him and filled blue plates with meals. I saw a name tag with Chef Wells on it when he pushed his chair backward to grab a bag of potato chips.

At the edge closest to the door was a cash register. Stationed behind it was a girl about my age, maybe just a year or so older than me. Gloria read her name tag. She was writing an order on a slip of paper. She stretched up, put the slip of paper in a clip on the wire hanging above her, and shot it down the line to Mr. Wells. They had the same dark skin and smile with dimples; I guessed she was his daughter. As soon as the customer in front of her left, Gloria picked up the book on her lap and kept reading.

Beside her was a large whiteboard with the daily specials written in fancy cursive writing. Behind her, the entire wall was a blackboard with the menu written in bold, colorful letters, but there also was a basket of printed menus by the
register.

I glanced again at the tables. Thom and Min were right; Wells Diner was the place to be for the old folks in town. The dining room was filled with older people playing cards, laughing with each other, or splitting a pizza.

I started toward them when Min grabbed my elbow. “We should order first,” she said. She pulled a phone out of her back pocket and punched out a text. I was a little surprised that baby Min even had a phone, but I recovered quickly.

“I didn’t bring any money,” I said. We’re here to work, Min.

But Min rolled her eyes and then skipped to the register while Thom and I trailed behind. “Can you put lunch on my mom’s account?” Min asked.

“Dad?” Gloria shouted without looking up from her book. “That okay with you?”

“So long as her mom’s okay with it,” Mr. Wells said.

Min held her phone out to Gloria, who read a text from Mrs. Kim-Franklin okay’ing the lunches.

“What’ll you guys have?” Gloria asked. Her long hair was pulled back into a high ponytail with curls spiraling out. Her big brown eyes passed over us, lingering on me a bit longer than on Min or Thom, which I figured was because I was new and Bear Creek didn’t get new people often. I pressed my
lips together while looking from the menu to the specials to Gloria, not sure how I would ever get the courage to talk to someone so cool. I suddenly felt the way Min must have felt whenever she was with me, like a baby next to someone super sophisticated.

Min ordered a slice of mushroom pizza and a soda, and then Thom asked for chicken noodle soup with extra crackers. I glanced at the menu and ordered the first thing I saw. “Um, I’ll have a Pilgrim Shuffle.”

Gloria smiled, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “For real?”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling sophisticatedly back. “Sounds great.”

Gloria grinned. “I came up with that one.” She scribbled our order on a slip of paper and whipped it down the line. “Told you, Dad!” she shouted. “Told you if we put it on the menu, someone would order it!”

That was when I began to question my lunch choice. Chef Wells sighed and began assembling our meals. I peeked closer at the menu for what the Pilgrim Shuffle actually involved. It was pumpernickel bread. That was fine. With turkey. Also fine. And mayonnaise. All right. Green leaf lettuce. Good. Cranberry sauce. Huh. Stuffing. Wait. Mashed peas. No. Cornbread. Why? Topped off with gravy. What the—

“Heck!” I shouted, then covered my mouth with my hands. Sometimes when I was thinking a bad word, my brain offered up a quick alternative. This one came so fast it blurted right out of my mouth.

“Excuse me?” Gloria asked.

I rushed down the counter to where Chef Wells was about to smear peas (peas!) on my sandwich. “Stop!” I shouted. He paused, the gloopy green gunk still on the spatula. “Could I have mine without the peas, please?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Sure,” he said. “Any other alterations to the Shuffle?” Gloria strode down toward us. She looked at me with an eyebrow popped up. I pressed my lips together again and shook my head. “You sure?”

I nodded.

And then I saw the tub of steaming stuffing on the stovetop. “And no stuffing. Or cornbread.”

Now Chef Wells was chuckling. “But lots of gravy, right?”

“No!” I shouted. Gloria crossed her arms, eyes narrowed in my direction.

“But, um, everything else,” I said. Gloria sighed and went back to the register when a new customer dinged the little bell beside it. With a quick look in her direction, I lifted onto my tiptoes and whispered over the counter. “Just turkey and lettuce, okay?”

Chef Wells winked at me. “How about cranberry sauce on the side? I make it myself and it’s powerfully good.”

After our lunches, we looked around for Arlene Austin. Everyone we asked at the diner said they hadn’t seen her yet that day. We’d need more information to track down our source.

Journalists aren’t afraid to talk to people even if they’re powerful, important, or really, really cool. Reporters are brave in their pursuit of their story. The secret is to look confident, even if you aren’t. Fake it until you make it, Nellie. I took a deep breath, hearing my dad speak those words in my head, then held my notebook in front of me like a shield and went back up to the counter to talk with Gloria and Chef Wells.

“Excuse me,” I said as I approached them. Gloria and Chef Wells were arguing and didn’t hear me at first.

“I’m telling you, we need to mix it up a little,” Gloria said. “People are sick of the same old, same old! Sales are down by ten percent this week.”

Chef Wells countered, “Same old, same old is what pays the bills. Putting mushed-up peas on a sandwich? Drowning it in gravy?” He shook his head. “People want turkey! Just turkey!”

“Think about that special we ran last month. Where we put Mom’s meatloaf recipe up there—the one with the cheese down the middle—everyone loved it!”

Chef Wells snorted. “That’s because this is Bear Creek. It was a chance for folks to poke their nose and find out more about your mama.”

Gloria’s mouth puckered like her dad’s words were covered in disgusting gravy. “They can get in line then, can’t they?” she snapped.

Something twisted on Chef Wells’s face. “I’m sure we’ll hear from her so—”

“Whatever.” Gloria huffed and then said, “We need to do something. Not everything can always just stay the same.”

The words were heavy enough to make Chef Wells wince. I knew something about words like that. Mom would say stuff such as “We just need to put one foot in front of the other. Just keep moving forward”—seemingly about something simple, like emptying one of the boxes, but really, she was talking about something else, like moving away from what we used to have. I hated moments like that.

I even hated seeing moments like that.

Without realizing it, I started blurting, “If people are nosey—if that’s what makes people buy new food—you could use their recipes. Like a contest or something. Say that you’re asking local chefs to share their favorite meals and the best ones will be specials at the diner? You could maybe ask a reporter at the paper to cover it.”

Chef Wells and Gloria turned toward me, Chef Wells
with a giant smile on his face that was the exact opposite of Gloria’s screwed-tight expression. But after a couple seconds, Gloria’s face softened. She raised an eyebrow as she considered my idea.

“That’s not bad,” she said.

Has a face ever split in half from smiling? Because I thought that might’ve just happened to me. But then Chef Wells said, “You’ve got a mind for business, kid.”

Smile gone. I did not have a mind for business. I had a mind for news.

News! I remembered why I had gone to the counter in the first place. “I’m working on an article for the Bear Creek Gazette. It’s about alleged vandalism at the park.”

Chef Wells frowned. “I’ve heard about that,” he said. “All sorts of weird stuff happening there. One guy in here earlier this week swears someone threw a peach pit at him. Knocked him in the head. But when he turned around—”

“No one was there,” I finished for him. “That matches what everyone else is saying. Stuff happens, but there aren’t witnesses to anything.”

Chef Wells nodded and turned toward his daughter. “Best to just stay away from the park, Gloria, until this business is sorted out.”

“No!” I said, a little too loudly, I guessed, because both Gloria and her dad blinked at me. “We shouldn’t abandon the park. We just need to find a witness, someone who might know if anyone new has been hanging in or messing around the park. A lot of people say Arlene Austin is almost always
at the park.”

Gloria nodded. “Yeah, she buys peanuts in the shell from us in bulk. Uses them to feed the birds. I have a bag waiting for her behind the counter.” Gloria scanned the diner. “She’s usually in on Mondays.”

“Do you know where she lives? Or where she might be?”

Chef Wells pushed his wheelchair back a little as he, too, scanned the restaurant. “I’m not in the business of sharing customers’ addresses,” he said. “But next time she’s in, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”

I wrote my name and phone number on a blank page in my notebook, ripped it out, and handed it over to Chef Wells. He read what I had written. Nellie Murrow, freelance journalist, The Bear Creek Gazette. I braced myself for him to say something about a kid being a reporter. But he just went over to a corkboard behind the counter and put a thumbtack through the paper to keep it in place.

“Put in a good word at the paper for our recipe contest, Nellie. I think it’s a great idea,” he said as he turned around.

I was almost ready to skip away like that baby Min when I ran smack into a girl about my age. She had long red hair and huge, wide blue eyes. “Sorry,” I said.

She nodded and moved to the side. As I started to walk away, she whispered, “Are you really a reporter?” I sighed but didn’t turn back around. I expected this kind of doubt from adults, but not from other kids.

“Yes, I am.”

The girl ducked behind the condiment stand and out
of sight.