The Manager by Caroline Stellings

this fight in Portland is an important one. That’s why we’re going to have to take some heat from goons like the pair in Amherst. Win in Portland and it’s on to Boston for the North American title. Win that and by September, you’re going for the world crown.”
    Jesse didn’t say anything. He just kept motoring along and ignoring her like a cab driver would ignore chitchat or a garbage man would flies.
    Then it hit him.
    â€œSo are you going to be around in September? Will you still be in Boston when I get back there?”
    â€œI … I, uh … yeah, I’ll still be in Boston, but I won’t be able to manage you for the big one.” She turned to him. “Don’t worry, if you win the next two fights, you’ll have your pick of any manager from Florida to Cape Breton. I guarantee that.”
    â€œMaybe Paul can do it by then,” I suggested, but my idea didn’t go over well.
    â€œNo, Ellie,” said Tina, “he won’t be able to do it. The stress is too much. Probably kill him.”
    â€œWhy can’t you do it if you’re going to be in Boston?” asked Jesse.
    â€œThought you didn’t want me for your manager.”
    â€œThought you weren’t good enough.”
    God, they loved to argue.
    â€œYou two never stop!” I said. “You sound like you’re married or something.”
    That did it. That shut them up. Neither one said a word until we stopped for lunch.
    We didn’t know how long it would be before another truck stop, so the next place would have to do; unfortunately, the next place was Bill’s Comfy Diner. Somewhere between Calais and Bar Harbor, it was the epitome of everything you didn’t want in a restaurant.
    â€œComplete Meal – 3.95” advertised the diner in its fly-specked window, while the greasiest, most unappetizing smells oozed out of a big metal thing on the roof. I don’t know who Bill was, but I figured if he ate there very often, he was probably pushing up daisies by now.
    There was a stained, yellowed menu pasted on the door and a stack of them on a table inside. Tina told Jesse and me to try to find something decent to order while she made a phone call from the desk.
    â€œWho are you calling?” I asked her.
    â€œDon’t worry about it.”
    â€œAre you calling Dad?”
    â€œNo, Ellie,” replied Tina with a sneer. “I’m calling the poison control centre in advance, so I know what to do when we all start collapsing after a meal in this place.”
    She talked to someone for at least five minutes (and it must have been a collect call, because there was no way that Bill would spring for it) then joined us in a grimy booth.
    â€œHello, good day, what can I do for you folks today?”
    The twenty-year-old waitress approached the table with a practised cheerfulness, but when she noticed Tina was a dwarf, the smile dropped off her face. Her way of coping with the awkward situation was to never let her eyes fall anywhere near my sister. She looked at me, she looked at Jesse, but when it came time for Tina to order, she said, “What will you have?” while keeping her gaze firmly fixed on her order pad.
    â€œHow do you stand it?” asked Jesse, once the waitress had left for the kitchen. “Do you count your blessings or something?”
    â€œI would if I had any.”
    â€œCrap,” said Jesse.
    â€œWhat the hell blessings have I got?” She thought for a minute. “You’re no blessing. You’re a pain in the—”
    â€œI didn’t say I was a blessing.” He took a swig of water. “I just wanted to know how you dealt with idiots like her. What do you do? Imagine them falling off a cliff or something?”
    â€œDon’t be stupid,” snapped Tina. “Lay off, okay?”
    Jesse turned to me. “Is your sister always such a crab?”
    â€œIn a word, yes.”
    â€œWell,