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.

Mr. Li’s son, Alan, arrived at 7:30 to begin prepping vegetables for the lunch service. He worked at the station next to Matthew’s sink. His Chinese chef cleaver moved with hypnotic precision through mounds of bok choy, celery and onions. The vegetables finished, he started expertly boning whole chickens.

“You want to learn?” he asked, noticing Matthew watching his technique.

“Yes, please, if you don’t mind showing me.”

Alan shifted sideways, making room at his cutting board. “Legs and thighs first. Slice carefully at the joints.”

Matthew’s hands were clumsy at first, the cold chicken carcasses slippery, and the cleaver in his hands felt awkward. But Alan was patient, demonstrating again and again until Matthew boned and skinned four chickens.

“Better,” Alan approved. “Tomorrow, try again.”

By 8:15, Matthew had to leave for school. He changed into school clothes in the small employee bathroom, splashed water on his face to rinse away the smell of dish soap, and caught the 8:25 bus.

After school, instead of the market, Tuesdays meant a bus trip directly to St. Vincent’s. It was Mrs. Geigle’s day off, so Matthew supervised the kitchen operations—a responsibility that had evolved gradually over the past year as she recognized his reliability and growing skill.

Today’s menu was simple: pasta with marinara sauce, garlic bread, and a green salad. Nothing that required his special attention, which left him free to train two new volunteers, middle-aged women from the Presbyterian church who were eager but inexperienced.

“The trick with pasta,” he explained, demonstrating with a wooden spoon, “is to taste it as it cooks. The box says ten minutes, but that’s just a guideline. You want it firm but not crunchy. You bite one and check for the tiny white dot in the center. That’s al dente—by the tooth.”

The women volunteers watched attentively, bemused at taking instruction from a teenager but respectful of his obvious expertise.

By the time the dinner service ended at 8:00, Matthew was tired but satisfied. The meal had gone smoothly, the new volunteers had managed well, and several of the regular diners had complimented the robust flavor of the marinara sauce—a recipe he’d adapted from one in his father’s repertoire, enhanced with herbs from the market.

Home by 9:00, he had just enough energy to finish his homework before falling into dreamless sleep.

Wednesday

Wednesday mornings were for La Cocina. The Mexican restaurant didn’t open until 11:00, but prep started early, and Matthew had arranged with the owner, Señora Vega, to work from 5:30 to 8:00 AM.

La Cocina was a different world from the Golden Dragon. Where Mr. Li’s kitchen operated with precise, almost silent efficiency, Señora Vega’s domain was vibrant with music, conversation, and the occasional good-natured argument about the proper amount of cilantro in salsa (always “a little more” according to Señora Vega herself).

“Mateo! Come, taste this,” Señora Vega called as soon as he entered. She thrust a spoon toward him, laden with a deep red sauce that steamed in the cool morning air.

Matthew obediently tasted, closing his eyes to focus on the flavors. “More cumin,” he said after a moment. “And maybe a touch of honey to balance the heat.”

Señora Vega beamed. “Yes! Exactly what I was thinking. You have the tongue, niño. When you finish school, you come work for me full time, eh?”

It was an offer she made at least once a week, and Matthew responded as he always did, with a noncommittal smile. Though he was grateful for the job and everything he was learning, his secret ambitions extended far beyond those of a dishwasher/prep cook.