Forget Me Not

NOTHING SAYS AUTHENTIC LIKE CHEESY Italian music playing out of crackling ancient speakers and red wine served in Styrofoam cups. Fortunately, I don’t think any of us here in Wyatt would recognize authentic Italian food if it hit us in the face.

Two of the volunteer servers have already dumped spaghetti sauce down their white button-downs, which Monsignor insisted we all wear, as if that’s going to make people think we know what we’re doing.

“I’ve got four adults, one with no meatballs, and two kids,” I say to Mrs. Dashnaw through the kitchen window as I dab the sweat off my brow. I keep my attention focused on the kitchen as I notice Savannah’s red ponytail in my peripheral vision as she takes orders at a nearby table with Rory.

“Make that three kids, Mrs. Dashnaw!” My serving partner, aka Ryan, calls back into the kitchen as he leans on the wall beside me with a bottle of red wine in hand. “The small one rethought her hunger strike,” he says to me.