Dinner at Fiorello’s Read Online Free PDF Page B

at least shake his hand. Henry tripped and went down hard on one knee. He grabbed for the counter as he fell and knocked off a ceramic mixing bowl, which shattered.
    Henry stood, hands shaking, and then bent over to reach for the broken pieces of bowl at his feet.
    “Leave it,” Carmela hissed.
    Henry stood up straight again, wiping his hands on his pants. He knew his face must be cherry red because his cheeks were burning with a kind of four-alarm intensity. He looked to the chef, to give him a sheepish grin and, he hoped, get a little sympathy.
    The guy had paused, but only to stare at Henry as if he were some specimen in a zoo. A chimp, maybe. He rolled his eyes, and his lips turned up in a smirk. The chef returned to his pans, and Henry felt dismissed.
    Someone else was staring at him too.
    Rosalie had emerged from what must have been an office in the back and was watching him watch the chef, hands on her hips. Henry felt chastened, embarrassed. What was it with this place, anyway? In the space of an hour, he’d been caught staring, googly-eyed, at two different men. No need to come out of the closet here. His eyes outed him every time!
    Rosalie was framed by the darker space behind her. She wasn’t smiling. “I’m back here,” she said and turned to disappear into the room.
    Feeling sheepish, Henry followed.
    “Sit down,” Rosalie commanded. Henry took a seat across from her. The room was indeed her office. It was no bigger than a closet. One wall was shelves, crammed with ledgers and old cookbooks that were falling apart at the seams. A dusty window looked out on the alley behind the restaurant, and Henry could see part of the dumpster. Above her head was a painting of Jesus, his hand holding his robes open to reveal his glowing heart.
    Rosalie’s desk, a dinged-up green metal affair, was covered in papers, a stapler, a rubber stamp, and an adding machine. Henry assumed the papers were invoices and order forms. He felt like he was back on the ‘L’—the sweat was already beginning to flow from his armpits, even though the office was air-conditioned.
    “Carmela tells me you didn’t just stop by for a little lunch.”
    Henry tried to give her his best smile and wasn’t sure how well he’d succeeded. He wasn’t expecting to be on his first job interview today. God, what if he couldn’t think of anything to say?
    He nodded and tried to summon some saliva to his suddenly overly dry mouth. He scratched at his neck. “Um, yeah.” He took a breath and tried to mentally still his thundering heart. “I was wondering about the job you posted on Craigslist.” He scratched at himself again, then snatched his hand and held it with his other one in his lap. “For the kitchen helper?”
    “You don’t know what it’s for? You’re asking me?” Rosalie picked up one of the papers on her desk and scanned it. She set it back down and folded her hands in front of her.
    Henry noticed the hands. No manicures for this woman. The nails were bitten down to the quick. These were careworn hands, hands that worked hard. He looked up again to see Rosalie, thankfully, smiling at him.
    “I’m just givin’ you a hard time, kid. Relax. So, I gotta be honest—you don’t look like nobody else who’s come in for the job.”
    “What do you mean?” Queer?
    “Well, most of the folks who come in looking to be glorified dishwashers—and I gotta be honest, that’s what this is—are cut from a little rougher cloth. Working people. What are you? Seventeen?”
    “Eighteen.”
    Rosalie nodded. “You just graduate high school?”
    Henry nodded.
    “Do good?”
    He nodded again.
    “Where do you live?”
    “Evanston.”
    “In one of them fancy places along the lake?”
    Henry grinned sadly. “You got me.” He knew where this was going. Rosalie wasn’t that much different from his parents. She was about to tell him he wouldn’t fit in here. He was meant for something different than working in a hot kitchen, busing tables,