A Tiny Piece of Sky by Shawn K. Stout

waste.”
    After Mr. Stannum left, Seaweed grabbed two ends of the washrag and wound it around itself until the rag was the likeness of a rope. Then he unwound the thing and tossed it from one hand to the other.
    â€œThat’s for cleaning with, boy, not for doing no tricks,” said Mr. Washington. But Seaweed didn’t pay him any mind, and instead flashed a wide smile at Frankie and then spun around quick while the rag flew into the air. “Frankie?” he said to himself, loud enough that she could hear. “Thought that was a boy’s name.”
    This time, Mr. Washington grabbed for the washrag but missed. “Boy, if you don’t start working like you playing, you going to be out of a job right quick.”
    â€œEasy, boss,” said Seaweed, waving the rag above his head like he had just dropped his weapon and was surrendering to the other side. “I got you covered.” He flashed another smile at Frankie before dropping the rag onto the soiled grill top and leaning into it with both hands, back and forth.
    â€œI’m not sure a boy called Seaweed has a right to make a remark about anybody else’s name,” said Frankie, her hands balled up into fists by her side. She was surprised at how quickly this came out of her mouth, but she was already riled up from having to be there in the first place, and she wasn’t going to let a smart-mouthed boy get one up on her.
    Seaweed blinked and then his eyes got wide. He stopped scrubbing. Frankie stood firm and readied herself for a comeback, but he just looked at her, and eventually his mouth turned up in a grin.
    â€œShe’s got you there, Seaweed,” said Julie.
    Seaweed went back to cleaning, and after a quiet minute or so,Mr. Washington whistled and said, “Oh man oh man, see here, see here. The boy’s been stumped. That’s the first time he’s shut up all day.” He hung his apron on one of the wall hooks behind him. “I’m going to the toilet,” he said to Seaweed, “and when I get back, you and me are gonna scrape clean the inside of this here oven.” The lavatory for kitchen help was in the far corner of the room, and as Mr. Washington passed by Amy and Frankie, he said, “Yep, this girl gonna be good, I say.”
    â€œShoot,” said Seaweed, shaking his head.
    Frankie felt her cheeks burn. Amy took her arm and led her to the stack of boxes by the back door. “Don’t pay him any mind,” she whispered. “Seaweed just playing. He don’t mean nothing by it.”
    Frankie didn’t know if Amy was worried about Frankie’s feelings getting hurt or if she thought Frankie would tell Daddy and get Seaweed in trouble. But Frankie wasn’t much bothered about the remark itself—after all, it wasn’t the first time somebody had made fun of her nickname, and in truth, it
was
a boy’s name. And one thing was for sure: Frankie Baum was no snitch. “I’m not going to tell,” she said to Amy.
    Then the doors swung open, and there stood Mr. Stannum, appraising the room and any progress that had not occurred in his absence. He came to a stop in the center of the kitchen, and as he looked around, he began tapping each finger to his thumb on his right hand like he was trying to follow the beat to a drum. “Where is Leon?”
    â€œToilet,” said Seaweed.
    Mr. Stannum craned his neck in the direction of the lavatory. He set his jaw and stared, while his fingers found a steady rhythm.
Beat, beat, beat, beat.
Finally, Mr. Washington emerged from the lavatory and returned to work without fail and without noticing Mr. Stannum watching him intently. But Seaweed noticed. He most certainly did. “Mr. Stannum,” he said, “you all right?”
    That seemed to knock Mr. Stannum off his cadence. His fingers slowed and then came to a stop. “What?”
    â€œYou just standing there staring,” said Seaweed.