“Now I’m still angry,” you said. “Just with better vocabulary.”
Dante’s gaze stayed on you.
“That is a useful kind of anger.”
“It doesn’t pay tuition.”
“No. But it may keep you alive.”
The words settled strangely between you.
At your building, the driver stopped near the curb. You reached for the door handle.
Dante spoke before you could open it.
“Marco mistreats you.”
You turned.
“Marco mistreats everyone beneath him.”
“That was not an answer.”
“It was the only one I’m giving you.”
His eyes narrowed, not angry.
Interested.
“You are careful.”
“I’m poor,” you said. “Careful comes with the rent.”
Something shifted in his face.
You opened the door.
“Tell Sophia thank you.”
“I will.”
“And Dante?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t need saving.”
He studied you for a long second.
“No,” he said quietly. “You need choices.”
You got out before that sentence could follow you upstairs.
It followed anyway.
The next morning, Marco fired you.
He waited until after the lunch rush, when your hands were raw from polishing glassware and your stomach was empty because you had given your staff meal to a new busboy who looked ready to faint.
He called you into the office and closed the door.
“You accepted personal contact from a guest,” he said.
You stared at him.
“Mrs. Vitelli gave me her card.”
“Do not play innocent.”
“I did nothing wrong.”
“You made the restaurant look unprofessional.”
“No. I helped a deaf customer communicate.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“You’re done here.”
For a moment, the room tilted.
Rent was due in nine days.
Tuition payment in twelve.
Your checking account had $143.62.
You thought of begging.
You hated that you thought of begging.
Then you thought of Sophia’s hands signing, Do not let this place teach you to be small.
You took off your name tag and placed it on his desk.
“Fine.”
Marco blinked.
He had expected tears.
You gave him none.
“You’ll regret this attitude,” he said.
You looked at him.
“I already regret the shoes.”
You walked out with your coat, your notebook, and no job.
Outside, you sat on a bench behind the restaurant and let yourself shake for exactly two minutes.
Then you pulled out Sophia’s card.
You stared at the Brooklyn Heights address.
Not Chicago.
Brooklyn.
Of course.
Rich people had homes everywhere.
You should not call.
You knew that.
