“I can get a new floor mat,” she said, patting my leg. “You aimed good. Except for your shoes.”

Later, my father put my sneaks in the bathtub and hosed them down with the showerhead. Even after he washed them, they had pink splatter stains and smelled like sour milk. “We’ll leave them on the fire escape when you aren’t wearing them,” he said. He never said anything about Margo or the breakup.

After that, on Sundays, when my dad went to his card game, Margo would give her secret knock on the door and we’d go downstairs to do her laundry together. I loved folding her clothes: polyester leopard-print leggings and zebra-striped tunics, dresses with big Hawaiian flowers and shoulder pads. Lace slips and nightgowns. And some of the underpants didn’t have a back, just a string. I couldn’t quite figure out what was supposed to go where, but they were all silky and bright. One pair had a tiny rhinestone heart.

I wipe down menus and ketchup bottles until eleven thirty, when Ida Winton lumbers in and takes her table in the corner.

“Why aren’t you in school?” she asks, groaning as she slides into the booth, which means her knee is acting up again. Which means we might get rain.

“I learned it all,” I say.

She opens the menu and smacks her tongue against her teeth. “What do I want?” she asks herself in a baby voice.

I wait for her to finish looking at the menu like she doesn’t always get the same thing. If she’s in for lunch, it’s a meatloaf sandwich with American cheese and mayo, no lettuce, no tomato, with a side of cheese fries and gravy. If she’s in for dinner, it’s mac and cheese with a side of cheese fries and gravy.

“April, you know what I want?”

“What?” I put my hand on my hip, make my eyes big, and say it like I’m talking to a little kid, but she doesn’t notice.

“I think I’ll have a meatloaf sandwich, but here’s what I want: Mayo and cheese. American. No lettuce. No tomato, or anything like that.” She wrinkles her face and shivers. As she hands me her menu she says, “Oh, and what the heck, I’ll have a side of cheese fries.”

“Okay,” I say, and take a step like I’m leaving.

“Wait! Can I get gravy for those?”

“Sure thing.”

“Aren’t you gonna write it down?”

“All up here,” I say, tapping my forehead with the pen.

Margo works the kitchen until Dale gets in at noon. She’s slicing tomatoes.

“Order up! Ida special!” I mark an order slip I.S. and clip it to the clothesline over the cutting board.