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Right on cue, our mammas would return with a tray of wonders. Hot chicken, pillowy biscuits, honey mustard so sweet it ran down our hands and fed the trail of ants that seemed to have followed us all the way from the dugout. The preacher doled out napkins communion- style.

"You kids are gonna do big things," he'd promise.

Wiping a spool of honey mustard from my chin, I wondered what they'd be.

"PJ?" Linda calls from the register.

Somewhere underneath the memory, a wing starts to burn.

"PJ, wake up! I need three thighs, a burger, and a Baby Mamma. Extra secret sauce. No pickles."

"Sorry," I murmur. "I'm on it."

At first, working at the Chickie Shak wasn't all that different from going to school. I made note cards, memorized lists. 'Ingredients for hot chicken: brown sugar, Texas Pete, eggs, flour, oil.' Every order a pop quiz, every clean plate an A. Someday I'd tell my book club about my stint with glittery orange poultry and they'd say, 'I can't believe you really did that.'

"Order up!"

Now that I've been here awhile, it feels strange I ever did school. Was that really me biking across campus? Me snagging a seat in the front row?

Sometimes when a grease bubble pops on my forearm or a jumbo tub of mayo threatens to take my wristwatch, I start to get wistful for my classes. Then, with a pang that even the grease can't reach, I remember how much those classes used to feel like Jenga blocks. A little too wobbly, a little too easy to topple. Not here in the kitchen, though. Here I get everything right.

Truth is, you can't fail at something as small as this.

I check my phone between orders to find two new voicemails. The first is from my gynecologist—time for the annual honk and swab— and the second plays before I can stop it.

"PJ, it's Dean Jackson here. Just calling to check in about the fall semester. Professor Wynette's teaching a new course on the epistemology of Southern hospitality. She tends to spit when she lectures, but aside from that it should be a fantastic seminar. Oh, and there's a new donut shop on Elliston Place I've been meaning to try. Did I mention that in my last message? Word is they've got a maple bacon donut that'll knock your socks off. Anyhow, I hate to put on my dean cap, but we do need to talk about your plans to return. If you could give me a call back it's six fifteen . . ."

I bury the voicemail with the rest of its kind. A graveyard of expectations I'd rather not dig up just now, especially not with the second leg of the lunch rush heading in. These folks need their chicken. Who am I to deny them?

"Got a Jumbo Trucker's Plate and an Ankle Biter Meal walkin' in."

"Roger that."

Trumpet Williams always gets a Jumbo Trucker's Plate and his granddaughter, Deedoo, always gets an Ankle Biter Meal. Easy stuff. Truth is, most people around here order the same thing until the day somebody throws their ashes off a roller coaster at Dollywood. They don't even realize it, either. Plenty of our regulars still pick up the menu like it's a whole new world, but when it comes down to it, they go with the usual.

"Let's do an Ankle Biter Meal and, uh . . ."—Trumpet ponders—"a Jumbo Trucker's Plate. How's that sound?"

"Sounds about right," Linda says.

As she clears off table four, the waitress, Boof, spots Deedoo's birthday crown. We're way too busy to serenade anybody today. Nevertheless, Boof pokes her head through the kitchen door.

"Throw in some cheese nuggets and a Dippy Whip. My treat." She winks. "You got it," I say.

I crank up the Dippy Whip machine, plugging my ears against the roar of its indigestion, while Trumpet collects his receipt. Boof crouches down to examine Deedoo's plastic tiara.

"How old are we turning today?" she asks. "Ten."

"Double digits!" she exclaims. "That's a big one."

"Am I too old for the Ankle Biter Meal now? Says kids under ten."

Boof pretends to consider this, then pulls Deedoo in for a conspiratorial whisper.

"As long as you keep biting ankles I'd say we're in the clear."