Chapter 4
The Morgans' place wasn't some five-thousand-square-foot mansion, just a cozy little home.
Our home was right behind the diner.
There were two tiny bedrooms, a cramped living room, and a kitchen so narrow you'd bump into the fridge if you turned around.
But the bed was spotless.
The quilt had been sun-dried, so fluffy it felt like sleeping on a cloud.
Mrs. Morgan gave me the room at the back.
"Ava used to sleep here," she said.
She looked a little uneasy after saying that.
Like she was worried I'd mind.
I shook my head right away.
"No, I don't mind," I said.
"If Ava used to live here, it must be a lucky spot," I joked.
"Maybe I'll end up top of the class," I added with a grin.
Mrs. Morgan laughed, but then she started crying again.
"How are you so carefree, Soph?" she asked, shaking her head.
I wanted to say, 'I do have a heart and lungs, you know.'
'It's just that after surviving the Quinns, my heart and lungs are pretty much bulletproof now.'
At four in the morning, Mrs. Morgan tiptoed out of bed.
I shot up from my bed.
"Am I late?" I blurted out.
Mrs. Morgan jumped.
"No, no, just keep sleeping," she said.
I blinked at her, still groggy.
"No morning run?" I mumbled.
"No need," she replied.
"Don't have to memorize words?" I mumbled, still half-asleep.
"Nope," Mrs. Morgan replied.
"Don't need to go over what I did yesterday?" I asked, still groggy.
"Go over what?" Mrs. Morgan asked, totally lost.
I paused for three seconds, then flopped right back onto the bed.
Tears silently soaked into my pillow.
Honestly, I was over the moon.
It felt almost too good to be true.
But I just couldn't fall back asleep.
I got up, threw on my coat, and headed out to the diner.
Mr. Morgan was kneading dough.
He frowned when he saw me.
"What are you doing up?" he asked.
"Let me help," I mumbled.
He shook his head right away.
"No, just go back to bed," he said.
I was already rolling up my sleeves.
"I know how to knead dough," I said.
With the Quinns, I could never get the hang of business analysis, French menus, or showjumping.
But kneading dough? That was something I could pick up in a heartbeat.
Press the dough down, flip it over, and press it down again.
Weirdly satisfying.
It was like smashing that frosty look of Andrew's right into the dough.
The more I kneaded, the bigger my grin got.
Mr. Morgan just stood there, totally stunned.
"You've got some strength," he said, impressed.
I grinned, feeling pretty proud of myself.
"My mom used to make me do Pilates.
"She said I looked like an artifact just dug up," I added.
Mr. Morgan looked confused.
But he still gave me a compliment.
"Good job," he said.
Just two words.
Good job.
I suddenly felt a lump in my throat.
With the Quinns, praise was a rare commodity.
When I scored a 70, Victoria would say, "That's not worth celebrating."
After I finished playing the piano, Charles would say, "Your rhythm's all over the place, and your basics are weak."
After two hours of posture class, the teacher would say, "Miss Quinn, you try hard, but you just don't have the natural talent."
Andrew was even more blunt.
"Are you allergic to being good at anything?" he'd say.
I really started to believe I just sucked at everything.
That was, until Mr. Morgan looked at me and said, "Good job."
I kept my head down, focusing on the dough.
I was scared that if I looked up, I'd start crying and mess up the dough.
At six in the morning, the diner opened.
I was on cashier duty.
The first customer was an older man.
"Two breadsticks and a coffee," the old man said.
I was flustered, trying to keep up.
"Three dollars," I said.
The old man handed me a five-dollar bill.
I gave him three dollars back.
He stared at the money in his hand, silent.
I stayed quiet too.
Mr. Morgan leaned over and whispered, "Soph, you should give him two dollars back."
I quickly took back the extra dollar.
The old man chuckled.
"Morgan, is this your new helper?" he asked.
Mr. Morgan stood a little taller, proud as can be.
"That's my daughter," he said.
The old man blinked in surprise.
"Ava?" he asked.
"The other one," Mr. Morgan replied.
The old man's expression was a bit complicated, but he didn't pry any further.
He just grinned and said, "She looks like such a cheerful kid."
I thought, 'Thanks, but the Quinns always say I look way too harmless to ever make an impression.'
By ten in the morning, I was so wiped out I just collapsed onto a stool.
But honestly, I felt more at peace than I had in ages.
My hands were dusted with flour, my clothes smelled like cooking oil, and my pockets were stuffed with loose change.
No one looked down on me for being slow.
No one ever compared me to anyone else.
No one made me pretend to be someone I'm not.
I could even burp out loud if I wanted.
Just as I finished, a black Bentley pulled up outside.
My burp got stuck in my throat.
The car door swung open.
Andrew stepped out.
He was dressed in a sharp suit and spotless leather shoes, standing by the diner counter like a precision instrument lost at a farmers' market.
The women buying sausage rolls nearby couldn't take their eyes off him.
"That guy's a real looker, but why's he got such a long face?" one of them whispered.
I kept my head down, playing dead, hoping he'd just ignore me.