Chapter 11: The Diner on Route 9

Rafe was on his back porch step with a bag of ice on his burned hand, and I stopped at the bottom of it.

"Tell me what you and Delaney talked about in April," I said.

He didn't ask who had sent me.

He lowered the ice bag and looked at the yard.

"It was the third week," he said. "We were in the diner on Route 9."

"She was telling me about the list, and how the Cleveland placement is only for one person."

"She asked who in the class I thought would take it."

"And you said me."

"I said you. You're the best cook in the building."

"That isn't what she's asking about."

"No."

He waited, and I waited longer.

"She asked what could stop you," he said. "I said nothing could. Then I said, well, one thing. The hair."

I went cold.

"I told her the dress code is three slips and you're off."

"I said you'd been written up twice and you were never going to cut them."

"I said your mother used to do it, and you'd sooner lose the list than let anyone else."

"You told her that."

"I thought it was a joke, Hattie. I was laughing. I said you'd rather be expelled than let a stranger near your head."

"And she wrote it down."

"She was smiling. She said, that's so sweet."

I held onto the porch rail with one hand.

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