Page 83 of Call the Shots
Muffled, I could hear Miles. “Who is it? What do they want?”
“They want pancakes.”
“Tell them to fuck off.”
“Miles? Smiles Miles?” I cooed, trying my best to appeal to his good nature. “It’s Montoya’s birthday and Ipromisedpancakes. Please?Pleeease?”
Elijah leaned down, dripping pool water on me. “Mom, we want pancakes.”
“Don’t call me Mom,” Cleo warned.
“Pancakes,” Montoya sang. “I want pancakes, Mom.”
Nick nodded. “I’m starving and I’m too lazy to make anything good at home.”
The chorus grew while Fridge put his head in his hands and Bear argued against it, the spoilsport, until Cleo’s voice broke through. “Miles, what are you doing?”
“I’m taking them to get goddamn pancakes, I guess,” he grumbled. We cheered and Miles continued, a little louder. “How many people do you have?”
“Elijah, Nick, Fridge, Bear,” I listed off. “Montoya, me?—”
“I don’t have enough space in my car.”
Cleo swore under her breath. “Text me the address. We’ll be there in twenty.”
The eight ofus ended up at Densky’s Pancake Emporium, a rinky-dink breakfast spot with only one shining quality. Open twenty-four hours a day. Cleo sat hunched over a white mocha latte while Miles blinked slowly, trying to wake up with his black coffee. Both were exhausted while Nick, Elijah, Montoya, and I giggled over how sticky the table was.
“Happy birthday, Montoya,” I whispered.
“Happy birthday,” he sang to himself. “I love my team, happy birthday.”
Fridge grunted. “Stop moving, Nick, I’m going to hurl.”
“I’m not moving. You’re just drunk.”
Our waitress returned with our orders and Montoya got his wish, a stack of six buttermilk pancakes covered in sprinkles and whipped cream for the birthday boy, with flickering candles to boot. I clapped—the only one who did—and the rest of them started a tired rendition of the happy birthday song while Montoya grinned, eyes squeezed tight.
“I want to win the TIHCC conference. The Gulf Coast Cup.” He blew out the candles. “Aw. I shouldn’t have said that. Now it won’t come true.”
“Won’t come true anyway,” Nick said, shoveling scrambled eggs in his mouth.
I bit into a piece of pineapple from my fruit parfait. Ugh, it was exactly what I needed. The sugars seeped over my tongue, and I took another bite, savoring it. This was by far the best night of the summer and not just because the fruit parfait was fantastic.
Bear said, ‘don’t touch my fucking kid.’I smiled into the next bite.
“I don’t like my pancakes,” Montoya said ruefully.
“What do you mean?” I peered at the stack. “What part don’t you like?”
“The sprinkles. It ruins them.”
“Oh. Well, we can?—”
Bear finished pouring syrup on his. “Do you want regular pancakes, Montoya?”
He sat, glum. “Yeah.”
With a sigh, Bear swapped their plates, passing Montoya an order of six regular pancakes, bacon, and sausage. Montoya’s face brightened, and he hurried to cram food in his mouth with a muffled thank you.
