I pointed to a plastic tub of sauce. “That’s fry sauce. My boss invented it. It’s like ketchup and mayonnaise mixed together. It’s good.”

She dipped the ring in the sauce, then shoved the whole thing into her mouth. “Mmm…” Next she peeled back the yellow wax paper from a burger. She took delicate bites at first, each bite growing larger until she was practically wolfing the burger down.

Dean moved next to her, leaning against his mop handle. “How do you and Eric know each other?”

She answered with a mouth full of burger. “We’ve got a class together.”

“Cool,” he said, which is about as original as Dean got. “So you’re what, like sixteen?”

“Fifteen.”

“You look like you’re sixteen.” I could tell he wanted to ask her out but wouldn’t because I was there. Not out of respect or anything; he just didn’t want to be embarrassed in case she said no. Finally he said to me, “I’m outta here. You can lock up.”

“No problem,” I said.

“Come around again,” he said to Grace. “It’s Dean.”

He walked out the back door. “That’s Dean,” I said.

“Yeah, I got that.”

“He’s kind of a jerk.”

She smiled wryly. “I got that too.”

“I think he likes you.”

“Lucky me.” She started on her malt. The back door shut and Dean revved his car three or four times more than usual, no doubt trying to impress her.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Just west of the school.”

“That’s like three miles from here.”

“Yeah.”

“How are you getting home?”

“I’m not going home.” She spun her cup, and drops of condensation gathered on her fingers, which she wiped onto the table. “I ran away.” She let the cup settle. “I’m never going back.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I remembered that I hadn’t seen her in class for a few days. “How long ago did you leave?”

“Monday.”

“How come you ran away?”

“For kicks.”

Eating out of Dumpsters didn’t look like “kicks” to me.

“For kicks?”

“Yeah. I can do whatever I want. Stay out as late as I want.” She frowned. “I’m still figuring things out.”

“What about your parents?” I asked.

She took a long drag from her straw. Then she said, “They don’t care.”

“Really?”

“My stepfather doesn’t like me.” She looked down at her watch, an oversized man’s Timex with a Twist-O-Flex wrist-band. “It’s late. I better go.”

“I need to finish cleaning up,” I said. “But you should finish eating.”

“Okay.”

I was amazed to see that she finished everything. She threw away her trash and stacked her tray with the others, then she walked around to the kitchen where I was wiping down the stainless steel counters.

“Thank you. Maybe I’ll see you around.”