And I leave my old bedroom.
An hour later,Bastien is holding up a bottle of Tabasco sauce, politely asking the waitress, “Is this the only hot sauce you have?”
She makes an apologetic face. “I can check in the kitchen, but I think so,” she says. “More coffee?”
We all say yes. Once our mugs are full and there’s another handful of single-serve half-and-half containers on the table, she leaves with a promise of pancakes and bacon, and the four of us are alone in a corner booth.
“This is a good spot,” Bastien says, looking around. “Is it really open twenty-four hours?”
“Only on the weekends, I think,” say Madeline. “But they’re still open late on weekdays, like maybe one or two? I haven’t been out that late in a while—sorry.”
I can’t quite tell if Shirley’s Diner is an actual relic or just cleverly decorated to look like one, but whichever it is, it’s working. The wall behind the booth is stone halfway up, and above that there are a million framed photos, none of which look more current than 1985. The booths are bright red vinyl. The tables are sparkly fake-marble veneer. The counter looksstraight out of the 1950s. The menu has an extensive milkshake selection.
Best of all, Madeline and I are holding hands under the table.
“Can you get diner mugs?” Madeline asks, holding hers up in one hand. It saysShirley’s Diner: Cookin’ it up since 1953on one side, with a picture of the exterior on the other. “They’re always so good.”
“They might sell you some if you ask?” Thalia says.
“Not this one specifically—diner mugs in general,” Madeline amends. “They’re always really thick, and they have a good shape, and the handle is so…” She squeezes it a little, in thought. “Holdable.”
Obviously the other three people at the table pick up their mugs and consider this point. She’s right: it’s a very holdable handle.
“I’m sure you can find them on the internet,” Bastien says. “A restaurant-supply store, maybe? They have to come from somewhere.”
“How come you never see these for sale to consumers, though?” I ask, still contemplating the mug. I like contemplating the mug. It means I get a break from contemplating anything else. “There’s gotta be a conspiracy.”
“Maybe there’s some trick that makes them only work in diners,” Thalia says, both hands around her mug. “Like, the… shape.”
Everyone looks at her for a moment.
“No, go on, the shape,” Bastien says. “Tell us why that’s?—”
“I don’t hearyouoffering suggestions.”
“I’m not the one who said it was a conspiracy!”
“Anyway, I like these mugs a lot,” Madeline interrupts, as naturally as if she’s been breaking up younger-sibling fights her whole life. “And Shirley’s is a great place if you ever need a hangover cure.”
Turns out when Madeline and I got to my mom’s house at 7:30 this morning, my siblings—and the assorted cousins who were staying there—were in the den pretending they couldn’t hear us. Thalia claims theyactuallydidn’t hear much of the reasonable talk the four of us had at the kitchen table, but no one has made that claim about the fight Mom and I got into immediately afterward.
But I forgive them because as soon as I stormed out of my old bedroom, Thalia and Bastien scooped Madeline and me up and informed us we were getting pancakes and coffee, no parents allowed.
“Well, I see you’re going to make us ask,” Thalia says, setting her mug down with athunk. These things really are solid. “How’d it go?”
“And whatexactlydid you tell them?” Bastien adds. “I’d like to get my story straight.”
“We said we started talking after we met at the engagement dinner,” Madeline says calmly.
“Smart.” Thalia nods approvingly.
“My dad was kind of reasonable, actually,” Madeline goes on, twisting the mug around in her left hand. I squeeze her right, because I can. “There was someGosh, I wish you’d told meand I think he feels bad that he didn’t suspect anything, but I’m not bringing shame on my house or whatever.”
“I am,” I say cheerfully, and lean back in the booth.
“Well, yeah,” Bastien says.
“Do you do anything else?” adds Thalia, so I flip them both off.
