Free Our Song by A. Destiny

announced to all of us, “ I am going to make pecan praline scones. They are going to be dee-lectable, and Teagle is going to be eating her words! And my scones!”
    While she turned on the radio and began measuring out massive amounts of flour, Jacob and I cautiously approached the now-looming tower of dishes. Jacob used one of the rolling carts to transport them from the window to the rinsing area, where I stacked them on a tray and hosed them down.
    Okay, stacked might be a generous term.
    The truth was, I quickly got overwhelmed by the teetering stacks of dishes and just started grabbing whatever was closest. Bowls, mugs, glasses, plates—I frantically scraped them into a compost barrel, then wedged them into their tray as quickly as I could. I held my breath as I shoved the whole business into the Hobart, which I fully expected to hack and cough and shudder to a halt.
    But somehow, it didn’t. So I kept on loading and shoving, loading and shoving, until—
    â€œUm, Nell?”
    Jacob had wandered over from the receiving end of the Hobart, looking pink and damp. The hair peeking out from beneath his baseball cap had waved up in the steam, and his glasses were smudged.
    It was almost annoying how good a person could look under such uglifying conditions.
    â€œI wonder if, y’know, organizing the dishes would make it easier,” he said. “Say, plates with plates? Bowls with bowls?”
    â€œNo time!” I blurted. I grabbed the sprayer and hosed down the tray. I might have also splattered the counter, my apron, and one of my shoes. “There’s too many.”
    â€œNo, really,” Jacob said. “It’s easy. I’ll help.”
    He quickly whisked the leftovers off some dinner plates and assembled them into a neat stack on the stainless-steel counter. Then he carefully pushed the stack toward me the way you leave food on a stump for a wild rabbit.
    â€œOh, all right,” I said. I grabbed the top four plates on the stack, cradled them to my chest, then began to prop them between the stubby plastic prongs on the next tray.
    â€œOkaaaay,” Jacob said dubiously.
    â€œWhat?!” I demanded. “Look, they’re lined up like little soldiers, just like you wanted.”
    â€œBut it could be so much faster if you just—”
    Jacob paused and exhaled heavily. “Okay, you’re right,” he said. “I’m ridiculously type A.”
    â€œ And a stalker,” I reminded him. “Let’s not forget that.”
    â€œFine, fine,” he sputtered with a mock glower. “You can put it on a sign. I’ll wear it around my neck, right next to my big green V , if you’ll just let me stack that tray.”
    â€œHey, stack away,” I said, holding up my hands and taking a step backward. “But I’m telling you, it’s not going to be any faster.”
    Jacob stared down the dishwashing tray for a split second before he began shuffling the dinner plates from his left hand to his right. He used his right hand to plunk the plate into a neat, upright position.
    Pass, prop, pass, prop.
    In about fifteen seconds, the plates were lined up, but there was still an empty section on the tray. Jacob filled it with glasses, each a perfect fit until only a little gap was left in the corner. For that, Jacob swept up a bouquet of spoons and plunked them into the crevice. He carefully sprayed the whole thing down in precise horizontal strokes. Then he shoved the tray into the Hobart and pumped his fist.
    â€œI knew bagging all those groceries would pay off someday,” he said.
    â€œYou’re like a Hobart savant!” I said.
    Jacob laughed, but as he began filling the next tray, I sensed his dinnertime gloom returning. I could see it in his shoulders, which were just a little too high and tense; in his Adam’s apple, bobbing over and over; in the angle of his head, which was a notch lower than it needed to