Free 4 Shot Off The Presses by Amanda M. Lee Page A

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    Once I was done at the office, I headed towards Oakland County and collected my thoughts for the duration of the ride. What did we know? Two dead people, two freeway shootings, one gun. That was pretty much the gist of it. Oh, and there was that air base commander acting all squirrely. That was an added distraction that I hadn’t been prepared for, but I was no less focused on.
    When I got to the family restaurant I was relieved to see a lot of vehicles I recognized. At least I wouldn’t be the first one there. It was always a good thing when random family members served as a buffer between my mother’s wrath and me. I had no doubt that, one look at my Thundercats shoes, and my mother’s eyebrows would be lodged at her hairline for the rest of the evening in a mark of silent protest.
    My family’s restaurant is a throwback to the 1950s – maybe even the 1940s, who knows – and it has a real world nostalgia that has been built up over years and years of family snarkiness. The restaurant itself is separated into two sections, a dining room area with a full salad bar and a smaller coffee shop section with vinyl booths and a stretched counter.
    The restaurant had been through two generations of family ownership – although my uncle Tim was currently running it under my grandfather’s ever watchful eye, of course – and very little had changed over the years.
    At the far side of the coffee shop section was the family table, a long rectangular booth with three tables interspersed through the seating. There was no sign to designate that it was a family booth but everyone in town just seemed to know. That’s one of the joys of small towns – or so I’ve been told.
    The first person I saw when I entered the restaurant was my cousin, Mario. He’s eight years younger than me and he’s got the general attitude of most nineteen-year-olds these days: He thinks he knows everything. “What’s up?”
    “I’m trying to decide what classes to take next semester.” Mario was studying a brochure from Oakland Community College as he spoke.
    “I thought you were going to take over the restaurant from your dad when he was ready to retire? Shouldn’t you be taking restaurant and business classes?”
    “That won’t be for like twenty years,” Mario grumbled. “Business classes are boring.”
    “Yeah, but I thought you were working here in the interim.” I slid into the booth next to him and glanced over his shoulder as he perused the brochure.
    “Have you ever worked with your mother?” Mario asked suddenly.
    “When I worked here as a teenager she was here, too,” I said ruefully.
    “Yeah, but you got out of that as soon as you could,” Mario said. “I remember you doing a little dance when you got that job at the resort when you were eighteen. I think it was to Born Free .”
    “That was fun,” I laughed at the memory.
    “Yeah, you twerked before it was an actual thing,” Mario agreed.
    “Yeah, my mom didn’t think it was so funny.”
    “Everyone else did, though,” Mario laughed.
    I pointed to one of the entries on Mario’s brochure. “Interpretive dance sounds fun and just nutty enough to make your dad’s head implode.”
    “Sold,” Mario put a check next to it. “He’s driving me crazy.”
    “That’s a parent’s prerogative.”
    “What’s a parent’s prerogative?”
    I cringed when I heard the voice. There was a certain edge of disapproval that only a mother can properly convey – and she hadn’t even seen my shoes yet. “Hi, mom.”
    “Avery, you look well.”
    “I am well.”
    “Did you have the day off?”
    “No.”
    “You went to work dressed like that?”
    “Yup.”
    “Do you think that’s appropriate?”
    “Hey, guess what? Mario is going to take an interpretive dance class next semester.”
    My mom turned her frown from me to Mario. “That sounds like a big waste of money.”
    Mario slid an angry glance in my direction. “Thanks.”
    “I’ve got a well-defined