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

smile. When he did, the mustache covered his entire top row of teeth, and Frankie wondered how he could live with such a nuisance of a thing, which would surely get in the way of eating an ice cream cone. “Ah,” he said, “you must be Frances. Mr. Baum said you’d be helping out today.”
    â€œFrankie,” she said.
    â€œAll right, Frankie,” he said, nodding. “The name’s Mr. Stannum. So, I understand you’re going to be working in the kitchen?”
    Frankie looked at Amy, who was for some reason still standing beside her, and then said, “Well, I guess so, but I’m not sure I know how to work the cookstove, either.”
    Mr. Stannum blew air out of his mouth that came out sounding like
ppffffffftttt
, and the fringe on his lip parted like a curtain. “There’s plenty to do, plenty to do.” He put his hand on Frankie’s shoulder and gave her a shove toward the kitchen. “You can start by unpacking the boxes of pots and pans. Amy here will show you where they are.” He turned then to Amy and waved his fingers at her to follow. His fingernails were long and caked with grease. “Come on. If you think you can handle pots and pans.” There was more exasperation than malice in his voice this time, and perhaps Amy heard that, too, as she did come along, but only after mumbling something that Frankie couldn’t quite make out.
    Frankie was surprised to find the kitchen in better shape than the rest of the place. Rats no more! The lights worked, for one thing, and the walls, which she was relieved to see were not missing, were freshly painted white. The cupboards, though still gray, were clean, and most of them now had doors on them. This was particularly pleasing to Frankie, for hiding places with doors were much preferred to those without. A round fan mounted to the wall above the stove was spinning at full speed, but only moved hot air around the room and provided no real relief. Stacks of boxes covered the butcher-block countertop and blocked the back entrance.
    Speaking of the back entrance—
When did that door get there?
Frankie wondered. Because she hadn’t noticed it before. She madea plan to start with the boxes there, rather than on the counter, so she could clear the way to the door and slip out when nobody was looking.
    Besides Mr. Stannum and Amy, there were three others working in the kitchen. Mr. Stannum introduced Frankie to the group as Mr. Baum’s youngest daughter, the third one—
he did indeed
—who would be helping for the time being while staying out of the way. He also warned them to watch their language around her and to step up the work, because the restaurant would open in a few weeks’ time and there was about two months’ worth of work yet to be done. He’s seen circus elephants work faster, he told them.
    Julie Bulgar, an older lady with her light brown hair pulled into a tidy bun on the top of her head, was the baker. Her dimples were deep and pronounced when she smiled, like someone had poked her pale, doughy cheeks with two fingers just because. “How do you do, young lady?” she said.
    Leon Washington, the line cook, nodded in Frankie’s direction but didn’t speak to her. He was as tall and slender as Mr. Stannum, but colored, and without any facial hair. He had a jagged scar under his right eye about the size of a key and Frankie noticed that he kept his head lowered when he talked, like he was afraid of what he might see in others, or afraid of what others might see in him.
    Next to him was Seaweed Turner, a young boy no more than fifteen, the prep cook for Mr. Washington. He was tossing up a washrag by the grill, snatching it out of the air before it hit the ground, balling it up in his fist, and then tossing it again.
    â€œI’ve got to check on the potato shipment,” said Mr. Stannum. He nodded at Amy and Frankie. “Get to work. No time to