As I loaded a wash tray and hosed off particles of vegetables, crumbs, and gravy from lined-up plates, it occurred to me how ironic it was that my school peers were quick to believe Trey’s stories of my witchy ways even though I hadn’t done anything (well, almost anything) in school, while my aunt’s occult clientele probably doubted I was even her blood relative.
An hour later, as the lunch crowd was slackening, I was refilling the water pitchers at the waitress station when I heard my name again. Even before I turned, I knew the voice. Jessica Connors, Trey’s longtime girlfriend.
“Hi, Jess,” I said. She and her family were just coming into Rowan West. Despite Trey’s defection, Jessica had only stopped talking to me for a short time, maybe a month or two, before going back to treating me like she always had. Almost like a friend. So, I kind of had three friends. I say kind of because with her, I didn’t want to be just friends.
Her family liked my aunt’s cuisine and dined with us several times a month on average. Her father gave me a nod as he steered her younger brother, Peter, behind the hostess. Jessica was giving me one of her warm, friendly smiles, the kind that never failed to lift my spirits. Behind her, Mrs. Connors was watching me and smiled a little when I met her eyes. “Declan,” her mom greeted me.
“Hi, Mrs. Connors. There’s a really great butternut squash soup today that you might like,” I said. I may have mentioned that the Connors were close friends of the Johnsons. I’m sure they knew a lot about the incident that Trey and I had faced, but I don’t know exactly how they felt about it. Mr. Connors, who is some kind of investment guy, almost always acknowledges me but never engages me in conversation. Mrs. Connors, who is an elementary school teacher, always says hello, but I think she’s afraid of me or at least a bit worried about me. But rather than ignore or shun me, it’s like she’s being careful not to offend me while watching carefully for signs of danger. She was a devout vegetarian, and fully half of Rowan West’s menu catered to plant eaters.
“Thank you; that sounds lovely,” she said with a quick smile, looking away toward her husband and son. Jess gave me a big smile and a little wave as she followed her family to their table. With a sigh, I headed back into my domain.
No more than ten minutes later, one of the waitresses, Becca, stepped into the dishwashing area. “Your pretty school friend asked me to come get you. Her brother is acting up. Something about his electronic toy not working.”
Becca had been with us quite a while and didn’t question for a second why I might be asked to assist with electronics, as I had helped her with her phone on many occasions.
I dried my hands, slung the towel over my shoulder, pulled a dry erase marker from the kitchen memo board, and wrote a symbol on my left palm. Then I headed out. In the dining room, I found a bit of a commotion. Peter, who has some type of autism, was complaining loudly and trying to reclaim a white plastic-cased computer game from his father, who looked frustrated as he tried to fix whatever the problem was. Mrs. Connors was attempting to soothe the distraught Peter, and Jessica was alternating glances from her brother and father to the kitchen entrance. She spotted me immediately and waved me over, her anxious face relaxing at the sight of me.
That image, of her absolutely lovely face changing to relief at just my appearance, is the reason I will never deny her any help she needs. Nevermind that we would only ever be friends, every appreciative glance she threw my way was currency of enormous value.
“Declan, can you help? Peter’s Game Boy froze up,” Jessica asked me as I approached the mayhem. “Peter, look… Declan’s here. He’ll fix it.”
Peter didn’t let go of his death grip on the bottom of the Nintendo, but he did look my way and his vocalizations quieted. He was forever playing the latest game—expertly, I might add—and this would not be the first time I had helped him with a balky device. Actually, I think Rowan West has a tendency to play havoc with electronics in general, something about the wards my aunt and mother created around it. Many a dropped cell phone call or rapidly drained laptop battery in our restaurant.
“I’m sure I can get it,” Mr. Connors said, frustrated.
“Jack,” Mrs. Connors said, somehow making it an entreaty and warning all at once.
He sighed and let go of the device. Peter clutched it for a second, looking down at the small screen.
“Peter, let Declan see your Game Boy,” Jessica suggested. He looked at it, then me, then his sister. She nodded. His arm came out to me, the ultra-important Game Boy offered to me.
“Thanks, Peter. Let’s take a look,” I said, moving closer so that he could watch me as I held his current favorite.
On screen, a tiny figure with a big mustache was frozen in the act of climbing a ladder.
“Wow, nice score,” I said.
It may seem odd that I don’t play a lot of electronic games,
