Chapter 4
Three weeks later, Matthew made a bold move. He found a place of his own. He'd had enough of the group home. After a decade of institutional living, shared bathrooms, and the constant rotation of staff and residents, he wanted something that was his. Something that didn't require permission slips or curfew checks. Something that felt like he finally started the life he was determined to build.
He found a tiny studio apartment above a Chinese restaurant called The Golden Dragon. The rent was cheap enough that he could afford it by picking up some dish-washing shifts at both the Golden Dragon and La Cocina, the Mexican place across the street.
He had one more year of high school. What he would do after graduation was still up in the air. He had some ideas, but nothing that seemed realistic quite yet. The main thing was that he was on his way at last.
Ever present was the old fear that good things were rare and good things were always followed by bad things--the better the good, the worse the bad.
Matthew's strategy for putting off the looming fate was by working harder. His life became a whirlwind of work and school. His dishwashing and market shifts occupied his weekdays. His weekends alternating between the market and Mr. Li and Senora Vega.
Methodical as ever, he had a schedule planned out:
Monday
Matthew's alarm went off at 5:30 AM, though he was usually awake before it sounded. The habit of early rising, drilled into him by years of institutional schedules, was now one of the few aspects of group home life he maintained.
His studio apartment was meticulously clean and organized. The kitchenette--little more than a hot plate, a mini-fridge, and a sink. He was proud of it. The hot plate picked up from the restaurant supply store downtown. The plates and silverware from a thrift shop. His chef knife, a gift from Mrs. Chen on his sixteenth birthday. The thrift shop also produced two well-seasoned cast-iron pans and an assortment of mismatched but functional cooking utensils.
Breakfast was simple: two eggs, a bowl of oatmeal, and a slice of sourdough toast. He ate standing at his small counter, reviewing chemistry notes for the test later that day.
At 6:45, he locked his apartment and descended the back stairs that led to Golden Dragon's kitchen. Already, he could hear the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and smell the fragrant oils heating in massive woks.
"Morning, Mr. Li," he called to the owner, a small, wiry man with flour-dusted hands who was preparing dough for dumplings.
"Matthew! School today?" Mr. Li asked, though he knew Matthew's schedule as well as his own.
"Until 3:30, then market cleanup."
Mr. Li nodded approvingly. "Study hard. No dishes until tomorrow."
Matthew ducked through the kitchen and out the back door, cutting through the alley to reach the bus stop. He'd timed it perfectly, as always, and the bus pulled up just as he arrived.
School was uneventful--AP Chemistry, English Literature, Calculus, and Economics. Matthew sat in the front row of each class, took meticulous notes, and spoke only when called upon. His teachers had long since given up trying to draw him out or encourage more social interaction. They'd settled for appreciating his consistent A's and impeccable work ethic.
At 3:30, while other students rushed to sports practice or gathered in noisy groups by their cars, Matthew caught the crosstown bus to the farmer's market. He arrived at 4:00, just as vendors were beginning their end-of-day routines.
"There he is," called Jack from the bakery stall. "Right on time, as usual."
Matthew nodded a greeting, stowed his backpack under Jack's counter and pulled on the market apron he kept there. For the next two hours, he moved through the market, sweeping, collecting discarded produce crates, and helping vendors break down their stalls.
As always, his canvas totes gradually filled with contributions for St. Vincent's--bruised apples from the orchard stand, day-old bread from Jack, surplus vegetables from the Ramirez brothers. Mrs. Chen added a package of frozen fish bones and trimmings with a curt, "Good for stock. Maybe some clam chowder for Friday's meal"
At 6:00, Mr. Savage arrived in his pickup, and they transported the collected food to St. Vincent's kitchen. Monday was inventory night, so Matthew helped Mrs. Geigle sort through the pantry, organize the walk-in refrigerator, and plan the week's meals based on what they had and what they expected to receive from various donors.
"We got a donation of dried chickpeas," Mrs. Geigle noted, making a mark on her clipboard. "Ten pounds. Thinking you might want to do something with those on Thursday?"
Matthew considered. "Moroccan stew, maybe. If we can get some root vegetables."
She nodded, adding notes. "I'll put in a request with the co-op. They usually have surplus carrots and turnips this time of year."
By 9:00, Matthew was back in his apartment, homework and reviewing his class notes before sleep. The sounds of the restaurant below had quieted, the last customers departing around eight. Now there was just the occasional clang of pots as the kitchen staff finished their cleanup.
He fell asleep to the distant murmur of Mr. Li's voice giving instructions for tomorrow's prep, a soothing background noise that reminded him he wasn't alone.
Tuesday
Tuesdays and Thursdays were Matthew's morning shifts at Golden Dragon. After his 5:30 AM alarm and quick breakfast, he reported to the restaurant kitchen at 6:00 sharp.
Mr. Li's wife, Mei, was already there, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she rolled out dumpling wrappers. She nodded to Matthew as he tied on his apron.
"Many dishes from last night," she said, gesturing to the sink area where stacks of woks, plates, and utensils awaited him. "Mr. Li's nephew had a date. Made special eight-course dinner to impress girl."
Matthew suppressed a smile. Mr. Li's nephew, Peter, was perpetually trying to impress girls with his uncle's restaurant. "Did it work?"
Mei shrugged. "Girl ate everything. Good sign."
For the next two hours, Matthew worked his way through the mountain of dishes.
