“Nice,” he said when I flipped them onto a plate along with a sausage and put them on the table.
I handed him the syrup and whipped cream. “Decorate them as you wish.”
“Ready for your first day?” Mira asked Elliott.
He had just shoved a large bite into his mouth, so he nodded with his eyes wide to show his nervousness.
“What ya wearing?” she asked.
I pretended not to listen, keeping my eyes on the pancakes. He’d tried on and discarded far too many outfits the night before, driving my dad crazy with his worry that somehow the wrong clothes would doom him to unpopularity forever. In high school, my dad would’ve worn his football jersey and been set.
“Black Lives Matter shirt,” he said. “And dark jeans.”
She raised her eyebrows at him.
“Too much?” he asked.
“Maybe for the first day,” she said.
I put a large pancake in the shape of a cat in front of her.
Mira smiled. “Thanks.”
“You’re more than welcome.” I slid the syrup and whipped cream in front of her.
“Here.” She handed Elliott a folded piece of paper.
Elliott opened it. “Holy cow!” he said. “This is amazing.”
I stopped in the middle of getting Trouble her breakfast and looked over his shoulder. “Wow.”
Mira had drawn an elaborate cartoon of Elliott conquering school. One panel had him walking down a hallway with lockers on each side. Much larger boys, with bulging muscles, were calling out to him, “Hey, New Boy. Go back where you came from,” with sneers on their faces. Cartoon Elliott, with his half-shaved head, and other side of longer hair falling over his eyes, held up one hand toward them.
In the next panel, a see-through dome had fallen over the bullies, with Cone of Silence printed around it. They were stuck inside, angrily pounding on the clear wall.
The next cartoon had Elliott becoming invisible to sneak by a group of girls swirling around a human-sized bee wearing a crown—clearly they were the mean girls. A third had Elliott dressed like a ninja and doing a flip to get through a window and slide into his chair while an impatient teacher scowled and tapped his watch at the students coming in late.
Elliott looked up at her, dazed and delighted. “This. Is. The. Best. Thing. Ever!”
Mira ducked her head and smiled.
“You’re so talented,” I said. “You should be an artist.”
I set Trouble’s food dish on the floor, and she dug in. It’s about time.
Mira looked at the table. “Maybe someday.”
Shoot. I should not be telling Mira what to do with her life.
Mira’s childhood had been less than ideal. I’d never been told the whole story, but knew she was put into the foster care system when she was twelve, had run away from an abusive placement when she was fifteen, and ended up in a group home. After becoming involved with a program that helps foster kids become independent when they turn eighteen, she started working part-time for me, Lani, and even the local farmer. She was focusing on earning money for a car so she could go to business school, something practical, not pie-in-the-sky ideas like becoming an artist.
I changed the subject. “Speaking of talents, how’s the play coming?”
Mira had written a play about her time in foster care that had won a state-wide contest. She was working with a professional team of directors, stage and costume designers and actors to have her play produced by a nonprofit organization called Playwrights Project at The Old Globe Theater in Balboa Park, near downtown San Diego.
Her face lit up. “Great! The dress rehearsals are going really well.”
“That must be so cool,” Elliott said. “We have tickets for opening night.”
Mira smiled. “I know. I’m so excited for you to see it.”
My dad interrupted. “Better get dressed or someone’s gonna be late.”
Elliott stood up. “Eh. I’ll just ninja my way in.”
* * * *
The only reason Elliott made it to school on time was by jumping out of the car and jogging the last block. I hadn’t prepared for how many students would be heading for the school at the same time. Back in the city, I’d walked Elliott to his elementary school, like most families. One more thing to adjust to in Sunnyside.
“Note to self—leave way earlier tomorrow,” I said to Mira as we pulled out of the line of parents who hadn’t yet given up on getting their kids closer.
She smiled and then her phone dinged. “He found his friend already.”
My relief that he had a buddy to show him around was a bit over the top. Elliott had adjusted well to our recent move into my dad’s house but transitioning to a new school was a whole other level.
“He’ll be fine,” Mira reassured me, sensing my worry. “He’s smart and funny and cute.”
“Thanks,” I said. I changed the subject. “I’m not sure if you know that we moved up the schedule for Seafood Surprise and we’re making it today.”
I’d started making Meowio Batali Gourmet Cat Food by accident. I found Trouble when she was abandoned as a very young kitten. She had a lot of digestive problems and could eat only food I cooked for her. When I realized friends appreciated the same quality of food for their cats, I started selling to an ever-widening circle until I graduated to farmers’ markets.
Now Twomey’s Health Food—with stores all over San Diego—was taking a chance on me and putting Meowio food in their stores. To increase production, I’d made my part-time cook, Zoey, full-time and hired Mira. We moved to a much larger commercial kitchen that was owned by Quincy Powell, a successful businessman who mentored newbies like me. He’d recently invested in my company and was doing everything he could to help us succeed.
In two weeks, Twomey’s was holding a Take Your Cat to Shop Day to introduce customers to my food. So many people were now investing their time and energy into Meowio food, and the results of that day were the first measure of all that work. It was an amazing opportunity, and I was doing everything I could to get ready and also spread the word.
The parking lot at the El Cajon Rental Kitchen was half-full as we pulled in. It was surrounded by a bunch of one-story industrial buildings filled with small businesses. The sun had reached sizzling level, and I missed the air conditioning as soon as I turned off the car.
Mira started untying her bandana from her wrist as we got out. I heard car doors slam and turned around to see two men in their early twenties approaching us from a black SUV. One of them looked furious and had his hands clenched into fists. Had they been waiting for us?
Mira’s eyes grew wide. “Get back in the car, Colbie!” she yelled and moved in between the men and me.
“No way.” I grabbed her arm, pulling her around to my side of the car. “Stay over there!” I dialed the phone. “I’m calling the police.” Instead I hit another number.
Mira put her hand up to stop me. “It’s okay,” she said. “They’re my ex-foster brothers.” She emphasized the “ex.”
They didn’t look like brothers. The older one had a square face set into a scowl, made even more threatening by his buzz cut and large shoulders. The younger one was both shorter and slight, with dark hair and eyes. His expression was apologetic, as if he didn’t want to be here. They didn’t stop until they were directly across from us, my Subaru hatchback seeming smaller