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

“My grandma’s got sugar and does that sometime, you know, goes off staring at nothing for no good reason. Most of the time when she been into the cookie jar. You got sugar?”
    Sugar was one problem Mr. Stannum didn’t have. But he had others. “Why are those boxes still unpacked?” he yelled. “Amy, I suppose you find boxes as hard as cookstoves?” He bit at each word as he spoke them, and his mouth began to produce enough froth so that by the time he got to the word “cookstoves,” a glob of spittle the size of a shirt button flew out of his mouth and clung to his mustache.
    â€œNo, sir,” said Amy. She quickly set about opening the box closest to her and pulled out a stack of aluminum jelly roll pans. She kept her eyes on her work and would not allow herself to look at Mr. Stannum, lest she see the thing that was now hanging past his lips. Amy had barely put the jelly roll pans on the counter before she dove into the next box.
    Mr. Stannum shook his head—
Do you know that glob of spittle hung on?
—and eyeballed the grill top. “Didn’t I tell you that a steel brush is what you need for that?” he growled at Seaweed. “You’ve got to be hard on it. It’s the only way you’ll get anywhere, for Pete’s sake.” Only he didn’t say “for Pete’s sake.” He said something worseand seemed to forget that Frankie was standing right there. His fingers were really moving now, as if he was still trying to follow that drum and keep time to it, but he could barely hear its beat, beat, beat.
    â€œDon’t you worry none, Mr. Stannum,” said Mr. Washington. “We’ll be ready.”
    â€œWe’ll be ready,” mocked Mr. Stannum. “We’ll be ready. Look around you! Do you know how much there is to do before this is a working kitchen? A couple of weeks. We’ve got a measly couple of weeks and I’ve got . . . I’ve got”—he looked around and threw up his arms—“
this
.” The spittle couldn’t hang on any longer. It fell, first stretching into a thin line and then finally letting go of those silver hairs and splattering on the toe of his shoe. Whether he noticed or not was uncertain, but he muttered a few words to himself about colored people, and having to do everything around here himself, and then he left the kitchen once more.
    â€œWhy is he so upset?” said Frankie.
    â€œHe ain’t upset,” whispered Amy. “He just ain’t got no heart.”

13
    THE DAY CREPT ALONG in the tiniest of increments. After the remark about Frankie’s name and the period of silence that had followed, it didn’t take too long for Seaweed to start up his tricks again. Mr. Washington tried several times to cut him down to size, but Seaweed had the sort of personality, it seemed, that could not be easily cut down or contained, at least not within the four white walls of a reasonably small kitchen.
    Frankie concentrated on clearing the stack of boxes by the door. Finally, after every pot and pan was properly shelved, she gathered up the empty boxes to take outside. She pushed open the door, but could only open it partway, as the brick building next to the restaurant was so close, it hindered the door’s full potential. The space between the buildings was wide enough that Frankie could squeeze through the door, but not with all of the boxes filling her arms. She looked back inside the kitchen. Everyone was tending to their own tasks. Everyone, that is, except for Seaweed. But as soon as Frankie noticed him watching, he turned his back and emptied the dirtied wash bucket into the deep porcelain sink.
    Frankie let the boxes fall to her feet and then slipped through the door. She stepped out into a very narrow alleyway, if you could even call it that, because it was so thin, she could fit only if she kepther arms by her side. Once outside, even as she