Free Blessed by Cynthia Leitich Smith Page B

way indefinitely. “I won’t give up,” I said again.
    Later, after English let out, I handed in my essay on “The Lottery” and checked it off my to-do list in Frank.
    Mrs. Levy jotted today’s date on my paper. “What did you think of the story?”
    “Heinous,” I said. “Awful. Stupid. Ridiculous. Hated it.”
    She glanced up. “I sense a thesis statement.”
    “Some poor woman’s name is drawn, and so her friends and family —”
    “Even little Davy Hutchinson,” Mrs. Levy said.
    “Yes, her own child helps to stone her to death.” I reconsidered that. “Or at least someone in the chipper, folksy, yet psychotic mob offered him a few pebbles.”
    “It’s a harvest ritual,” Mrs. Levy reminded me.
    I snapped my planner book closed. “So what — they’re going to use her decomposing body as fertilizer?”
    “It’s tradition,” Mrs. Levy explained. “Their society is built —”
    “But Mrs. Adams says that some towns have already called it quits, and Mr. Adams says that the north village is talking about doing the same. Besides, it’s intrinsically wrong. Incredibly, obviously wrong.”
    “Perhaps it’s not so obvious to the villagers,” Mrs. Levy countered, playing with the wooden apple paperweight on her desk.
    “So, this innocent woman has to die just because it’s all they know? What a sucky, pointless ending! Why did Jackson write such a depressing story, anyway?”
    “But is it a pointless ending,” Mrs. Levy asked, leaning forward, “if it makes you feel, if it makes you think?”
    “Ask Tessie Hutchinson,” I replied.

From the office laptop, I studied a live shot — transmitted via new security cameras — of the four finalists for Sanguini’s “vampire” chef position.
    “You’re looking at the most qualified,” Sergio said from across the manager’s desk, “and the least egomaniacal. Well, you know, by the chef standard.”
    Not a scary-looking bunch. But when I’d first met Brad, he’d dressed like a Bubbaville ’kicker. He’d tricked me into thinking he’d needed my help to make him over into a dapper and convincing pretend monster when he’d been a real one all along.
    It didn’t give me a lot of faith in my ability to judge character.
    “What about a private detective?” I asked. “Not for all the finalists. But to check out the new chef, you know, during his six-month probationary period.”
    “Six-month . . . ?” Sergio shook his head. “Listen, lamb chop, I’ve explained to all of them that, despite your age, you are ultimately the legal owner of the restaurant and that you grew up in the business. I also explained that this isn’t a hobby or a phase that you’re going through. But, Quincie, you’re still dealing with grown-up professionals here. You have to show some respect.”
    He was right. I knew he was right. But I didn’t like it.
    “I thought we agreed that Nora Woodworth doesn’t have the right vibe,” I said.
    The job included wooing the hearts and, to be candid, the libidos of the diners. Where most chefs stayed in the kitchen, ours made a grand entrance each night and led the crowd in a toast. I was looking for what I thought of as a swoon factor.
    “I mean, she’s adorable for her —”
    “Quincie.” Sergio flicked his graying ponytail over his shoulder. “There are laws against age discrimination.”
    “Fine.” I raised my burnt-orange sports bottle in surrender, appreciative of the fact that Sergio was too old-school to go over my head to the Moraleses. “I’m going to refresh my drink in the kitchen, and then you can send back the first one.”
    My skin felt tight, my temper short. Later, after Sergio went home, I’d defrost some meat from the freezer, start committing to animal blood.
    For the moment, though, the quick fix I’d had from drinking my own had worn off, and all I had to make due with was the plain old house Chianti.
    I ruled out the clean-cut candidate after he made a passing comment about his