Allie Jo
The next morning, I catch a glimpse of someone tall with long, black hair at the back of the dining room. Half jumping out of my seat, I knock into the table, then watch as one of our cooks opens the door to the kitchen, his long, black hair swinging in a ponytail.
“What?” Mom asks, holding her coffee cup in two hands. We’re just finishing our breakfast.
I sink into my chair. “Nothing,” I say. “Thought I saw someone I knew.”
Mom suddenly sits straighter. “There’s someone you know!”
I twist in my seat. “Sophie!” I call out across the dining room. She’s with her parents. I wave them over.
“Allie Jo!” Mom sets her cup down. “Don’t yell—you’ll disturb the other guests.”
A bunch of old ladies take up three tables and I can spot the hearing aids from here. The only other guests are a couple with a baby in a high chair, and the baby’s making a lot more noise than I am.
“Hello, Becky!” Mrs. Duran greets Mom. Then she turns to me. “And how are you today, Allie Jo?”
She has kind blue eyes with crinkles at the sides.
I smile at her. “I’m fine.” I like her because she’s Sophie’s mom and I like Sophie.
Mom invites them to join us; then the fathers start to make a big production of pulling tables together, since we’re at a four-top.
“No, no!” I say, and quickly get up, grabbing my plate and fork. “I’m done.”
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Duran asks.
The moment they sit down, they’ll talk about Oh, this weather! and Did you see those gas prices? and other boring stuff, like on the news. “Yes, I’m sure,” I say.
“Can I come with you?” Sophie asks in a rush.
“Honey,” Mrs. Duran says, “you haven’t eaten.”
Sophie makes a face and touches her middle. “I have a stomachache.”
They decide that Sophie will meet them in their room at eleven thirty to go to a museum. Until then, Mrs. Duran says, “Have a good time!” She pulls Sophie in for a quick peck on the cheek.
“Mo-om!” Sophie steals a quick glance at me.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “My mom does the same thing.”
Sophie smiles. “I’m almost a teenager, you know.”
“Me too!” I’ll be thirteen in one year and seven and a half months.
As we pass the kitchen, I push open the swinging door and spot Chef. “Got any tuna fish?”
He hands me a little to-go container already filled. “Enjoy,” he says.
“Thanks, Chef Boyardee,” I say in a super-sweet voice.
He lifts a spatula and waves me away.
Sophie looks positively repulsed when I turn from the kitchen with my little container. “You eat tuna fish for breakfast?”
“Brain food,” I say, turning left out of the dining room. “Haven’t you ever heard that about fish?”
She follows me down the hall. “Well, yeah, but—”
“Students who eat a protein-filled breakfast score higher on tests and are more creative in everything they do.” That’s in my school handbook.
I look both ways, then duck into the service tower. “You coming?”
“Where are you going?” she calls from the hallway.
I gesture with the tuna fish. “I’ve got to feed my cat.”