“Kirby is the only person in the world, including Chuck,” I said, nodding toward the kitchen, “who could get away with sticking her tongue out at you and live to tell about it.”

“No. I have two girls, and I take shit from both of them,” Phaedra said, arching her eyebrow at me.

I swallowed back the lump that had formed in my throat. Phaedra had a way of making me feel like family when I least expected it and always when I needed it the most.

She picked a hand towel off the counter as she approached me. She swung it over her shoulder and then glanced at her watch. She turned me to face the wall of glass, toward the three parked cars full of people.

She raised my hand with the open saltshaker still in my grip and began to recite her favorite sonnet, “Mother of Exiles! From her beacon-hand! Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command!”

After each verse, she would shake my elevated hand, salt falling over our heads like an erratic blizzard.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses!”

After Phaedra finished, she let go of my hand, and I shook out the white specks from my hair.

Phaedra sighed. “No one talks like that anymore.”

“You do,” Kirby said.

“God, do I love my country.”

Kirby made a face. “Anyone would know that after seeing your arrest record from participating in sit-ins. What does that poem have to do with anything?”

Phaedra looked dumbstruck.

“It’s Emma Lazarus,” I said.

Kirby’s expression didn’t change.

I continued, “That sonnet is on a plaque at the Statue of Liberty.”

When recognition finally hit, Kirby’s mouth formed an O.

Phaedra rolled her eyes. “Dear Lord Jesus, help us all.”

“I’ll get the broom,” Kirby said, dashing to the back room.

Phaedra grumbled all the way to the kitchen. Failure to know important pieces of history, or ignorance of common knowledge in general made her temper flare.

Kirby reappeared, broom and dustpan in hand. “Shit. I’ve tried to forget all of that since graduation. It’s summer break. You’d think she’d cut me some slack.”

“It’s going to be a long day,” I said, fetching the broom.

Kirby and I worked to clean the mess, and she rushed to the trash can with the dustpan while I flipped it open. People inside the three parked cars in front began to stir, and by the time Kirby returned from taking the broom to the back, the customers were waiting to be seated.

“I didn’t finish the shakers,” she whispered to me.

“On it,” I said, rushing to finish her job.

I looked at the clock, wondering how we’d gotten so far behind schedule. Usually, we’d finish with ten minutes to spare.