Free A Tiny Piece of Sky by Shawn K. Stout Page A

days earlier, and men in blue overalls milled about, looking intent on fixing something but not sure where to start.
    At the sight of it all, Mother grasped Frankie’s shoulder and squeezed. The edge of her gold wedding band dug into Frankie’s skin, and thankfully, just as Frankie managed to slip out of her grip, Daddy appeared.
    â€œCome in, come in,” he said, taking Mother by the hand. “And watch your step.” Then Daddy turned to Frankie and said, “Just in time. I think you’re just what we need in the kitchen.”
    â€œThe kitchen?” said Frankie. She felt that making sure the organ was in proper tune—not working in the kitchen—was the sort of job best suited for her talents. “To do what?” She guessed that shecould see herself wearing one of those tall white hats and nibbling on loaves of warm, crusty bread right from the oven. “Like be a chef or a baker?”
    â€œI was thinking along the lines of a more junior position,” said Daddy.
    â€œJunior?” Frankie didn’t like where this was going at all.
    â€œJust to start out, Frankie. The kitchen is the heart and soul of a restaurant, the lifeblood. And you’ll be in the center of it. You know, peeling potatoes, snapping beans, washing dishes—”
    â€œWashing dishes!” Frankie yelled, sickened by the notion.
    â€œFrances Marie,” warned Mother. “Mind your tone.”
    â€œYou’re just not old enough yet for some of the other responsibilities around here,” Daddy explained. “It’s not as bad as you think. You’ll see.”
    Frankie could not see anything past dirty dishes.
    â€œGo on,” said Daddy, nodding toward the kitchen. “Mr. Stannum, the kitchen manager, is in there, and he’ll show you what to do.” Then he and Mother headed to the offices upstairs.
    Frankie sat down on a bucket of plaster and stared at the kitchen door. She hadn’t been sitting very long when there was some commotion coming from the kitchen. She could hear voices, loud ones. Right then she thought about sneaking back home, grabbing her bathing suit, and making her way to the municipal pool. She would be punished, for certain, but she honestly could not imagine a punishment worse than what waited for her in that kitchen.
    So, up she stood and quickly got herself to the front door. She would have made it there, too—would have made it outside to the street, even—if not for the colored woman who ran out of thekitchen then. “I done told you,” the woman said, “I never did work a cookstove like that one before.” She was short and round, with cheeks as plump and friendly as warm apple dumplings. She pulled off a white apron from around her neck, folded it carefully into a neat pile, and laid it on a stepladder.
    Then she walked toward Frankie, who stood there dumbfounded, blocking the front door. “Which way you headed?” she asked.
    â€œMe?” said Frankie.
    â€œYou the only one here, ain’t you?”
    Frankie nodded.
    â€œSo, you staying or going?”
    Frankie wasn’t sure. She had momentarily forgotten her plan.
    â€œAmy!” A man’s voice shouted from the kitchen.
    â€œIf you please,” she said to Frankie, taking a step forward. The woman, who looked to be much younger close up, gave a nervous smile and looked as eager to disappear as Frankie did. And so Frankie nodded, for there was little she understood better than the desire to skedaddle, and she stepped out of the way.
    The woman reached for the doorknob and started to turn it, but the kitchen doors swung open and the man attached to the voice was there calling her name once more—this time with less severity, after laying eyes on Frankie. He was tall and skinny as a rail, with a full silver mustache that hung low over his lip. He shifted his gaze from Amy to Frankie, and then, for Frankie’s benefit, put on a