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people talking, forks colliding with plates, and sausage and bacon frying had reached a dull roar. I was about to drop a stack of potato pancakes in front of a couple when a man walked in. He stood more than a foot taller than me and wore a blue pin-striped suit accompanied by a red silk tie and a shirt as stiff as his shellacked hair. His stature, raven-colored hair, and emerald green eyes set him apart from the morning diner clientele, who mostly looked like they had just rolled out of something, and it wasn’t bed. We did get the occasional fancy-dressed man (usually the guy looking out for his “lady” around the corner), but this one was different. His clothes reeked of expensiveness, and I knew expensive, because Betty Jane was a connoisseur of fine clothing and footwear, and I generated monthly credit card charges equaling the debt of a small nation to prove it.
    “Well, now,” said Betty Jane inside my head. She usually didn’t bother to get up until midway through the morning shift. More
surprising than seeing her awake this early was finding her attired in a freshly starched uniform with her sunflower pin affixed to her apron like an evil lapel pet. Even though nobody but me and the other Committee members ever saw Betty Jane, she liked to dress for the occasion, be it an afternoon in the public library or a trip to the supermarket.
    “Sit wherever you can find a spot,” I said to the man. He walked quickly toward me instead. I stepped back and slid sideways. He stopped at the counter and leaned in. Even though the purple Formica separated us, I pressed against the metal shelves holding the coffee cups and silverware. He probably stole the clothes, I thought.
    “That’s a real Rolex,” said Betty Jane inside my head.
    “I’m looking for Holly,” said the man.“Holly with the Southern voice.” Then he did what people always did when they looked at me for the first time: He tipped his head to the left. I pressed my palm against my jaw to force my head into a vertical line. Ruffles tumbled off her pillow. I felt as if someone had flipped a big rock against my skull.
    “Tell him you’re Holly,” said Betty Jane. I shook my head slightly.
    “Holly isn’t here?” said the man. He straightened his head and dropped his gaze from my face to my name tag. I covered it with my hand. “You’re Holly.” He extended his hand. “Walter Torrent.” His deep voice echoed off the morning din. “I heard about you from my PA, Robbie.”
    Robbie was a regular customer. A real climber. Exactly the kind of guy who appealed to Betty Jane. She always took over to wait on him, and I didn’t mind, because I’d never liked him.“Why would he talk to you about me?” I said. “And what’s a PA?”
    “I came in to hear your Southern voice myself,” he said.
    Before I could respond, Betty Jane seized control. I fell back
into the Committee’s room as she extended my hand to meet Walter Torrent’s.
    “Why, hello.” Betty Jane’s breathy Southern drawl tumbled out of my mouth.
    Ignoring their conversation, I said, “Did you see what she did?” to the other Committee members.
    “What’s she doing up this early?” asked Sarge.
    “Holly, pay attention,” said Ruffles.
    She heaved herself up off her pillow.The Committee’s house swayed.We all gripped any available furniture to keep from toppling over. Betty Jane stood stock-still. Her uncanny ability to manage my body perfectly no matter what we were doing inside reminded me of my mother, who could be in the middle of a raging battle and still answer the door with a smile.
    “Holly!” snapped Ruffles. My eyes alternated between Sarge and Ruffles. I saw blotches of anger and concern on her face. The scar that ran from the corner of Sarge’s jawline, diving down the collar of his T-shirt, pulsed white against his red neck.
    I refocused on Betty Jane and Walter.
    “Not bad.” Walter pointed at my mouth.
    “You mean perfect,” said Betty Jane as she