Free Extra Credit by Maggie Barbieri Page B

had never seen anyone new. I asked Marcus, “Who’s the new guy?”
    He called over the counter to the grill. “Briggs! Say hi to one of our most valued customers!”
    The guy, a strapping blond who looked like he had just gotten off the boat from somewhere in Scandinavia, put a finger to his chef’s hat and gave me a little salute. “Ma’am.”
    The grill was fired up and making a bit of noise. I leaned over toward Marcus. “Please tell him to drop the ‘ma’am’ stuff. I hate that. ‘Alison’ will suffice.”
    Marcus grimaced. “You know we can’t do that.” Our president was very formal and insisted that college staff refer to each other by their titles and nothing else. “How about ‘Professor’?” he asked, knowing I was really a “doctor” of letters.
    “I guess,” I said, hating that the cafeteria staff were made to address professors by their titles rather than their given names. Marcus usually didn’t call me anything, except what I ordered. One day I was “Hey! Ham on Rye!” and the next I was “Chicken Parm!” It worked for us.
    I looked at Briggs and thought that with his steady job, good looks, and ability to cook, he’d be perfect for my stepdaughter Meaghan, who seemed to have been born with seriously bad taste in men.
    “So, do we order?” Mary Lou asked, interrupting my daydreams about having a line cook as my son-in-law. She was obviously unaccustomed to moving down a food line with a tray. I wondered where this woman had gone to high school; hasn’t everyone experienced a meal or three hundred in a cafeteria over their lifetime?
    “I prefer to let Marcus surprise me,” I said, hustling past an old, stooped nun whom I recognized as Sister Frances from the Nursing Department, frantically counting the number of croutons on her plate. Nuns take a vow of poverty when they enter the order, and believe me, teaching at St. Thomas does nothing to relieve the financial burdens that they face. Salad was weighed and charged by the ounce, so the more croutons Sister Frances took, the heavier—and more expensive—her lunch would become.
    “Don’t worry, Sister,” Marcus called from behind the grill. “It’s buy twelve, get twenty free on the croutons today.” Marcus had been here long enough to know that the sisters were famous for their frugality, and it was not often that they ate in the cafeteria, all of their meals generally being served in the adjacent convent.
    “Thank you, Marcus,” Sister Frances said. “We were having Salisbury steak in the sisters’ dining room today, and I just can’t abide that many onions in one meal. Not to mention that lunch is nearly over by the time I can get back to the dining room from my last morning class.” She harrumphed a bit more while heaping some more croutons on her plate, adding some ham, and dispensing herself a hefty diet cola from the soda machine. The cup was almost as big as she was.
    I was so busy watching Marcus flip our burgers on the grill that I didn’t notice that Mary Lou had wandered down toward the end of the line. When I realized she was gone, I looked around, spying her talking to the cashier, Maria; she slipped her several bills, all of which Maria quickly stashed in the register.
    Marcus handed me two plates, each with a cheeseburger and fries, and I waited for Mary Lou to return before moving down the line. Sister Frances was in front of us and exclaimed in delight when Maria told her someone had picked up the check for her lunch. Maria professed not to know who it was or where she had gone but mentioned that the lady had said “bon appétit” after she had paid. I turned and looked at Mary Lou.
    “Shhhh,” she said as we moved down the line.
    Sister Frances scurried off, a big smile on her face, her croutons dancing merrily atop her healthy salad.
    Mary Lou and I took a seat at a table by the window, one that had a full view of the Hudson in all its resplendent beauty. “That was awfully nice of you,”