The Brightness Index

By Grace Mattioli

A short collection of stories that take place in the wondrous desert city of Tucson.

"...Grace Mattioli gives her short stories little twists to make seemingly-predictable plots turn into exceptional reads through a character's gritty determination to rise above their circumstances...All these stories offer food for thought, and all are bound together by positive human contact. Set against an Arizona backdrop, they're gems of interpersonal relationships that illustrate how "stuck" people become unstuck and change." D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grace Mattioli
• Release date: Aug 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370910359

Grace Mattioli

Grace Mattioli is the author of "Olive Branches Don't Grow On Trees," "Discovery of an Eagle," and "The Bird that Sang in Color." She writes contemporary fiction filled with humor and insight. Escape into a world of colorful, unforgettable characters as they search for answers to the big questions in life. Laugh, cry, be inspired and gain valuable insights about what it takes to be truly happy.

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The Brightness Index

By

Grace Mattioli

Copyright © 2016 by Grace Mattioli, Revised 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Mattioli, Grace, 1965-

1.Short Stories 2. Arizona-Fiction

Cover art by Oli Winward

Just Bring Your Own Food

The owner of the diner asks me when I can start working with the enthusiasm of a turtle who’d just taken a Vicodin. Plastic plates move through the air, quick as birds in flight. Conversations blur into one loud murmur as the smell of bacon grease and cigarette smoke surrounds us. 

Right away! I say, trying not to sound as hopeless as I feel. I stand straight as a Marine in a floral sundress and Birkenstocks.

She scrunches up the leathery skin of her face, and her eyes turn dark with disappointment.  

Or whenever you want me to start, I say, desperation leaking through my voice.

Right away is good, she says. I guess.

It’s some $1.99 breakfast special joint. Their motto, Just Good Food, is written on the front cover of every menu. It’s a small place filled with smokers. Not only do they allow smoking; they seem to encourage it with ashtrays at every table.

Still, I want the job, and even more, I want to be good at it. Failure has become a way of life for me since I dropped out of college last year. Now, I’m determined to turn things around, to save money, and re-enroll in school.

Besides that, I don’t have a ton of options. It’s summer in Tucson—also known as hell. I don’t have a car, and I need something that’s a short bike ride away. Other than Jams, the only businesses within a short distance from my home are convenience stores, gas stations, and fast-food places. No thanks!

Well, let’s get you started with a pad and an apron, she says, walking towards the back of the place, her long, skinny legs taking awkward steps. The gray walls look like they may have been white at one time. There are no comfy booths—only small tables that surely wobble and chairs with hard seats. The floors are greasy in spots, so I walk slowly and carefully. I decide to wear sneakers for now on.

My name’s Stacy, by the way, I say as I walk behind her, hoping to get her name.

She just responds with a bland Nice to meet you. 

I follow her to the end of the long, narrow place and through a big, steel door that leads into the kitchen. There, a short, curly-topped woman stands at the stovetop flipping a pancake. According to the board out front, pancakes are the breakfast special of the day. It’s written in the penmanship of a third grader with a thick, black marker.

Well, here you go, she says through an uncertain smile. She hesitantly hands me a pad and a small white apron.

Thanks, I say, hoping some training is to come.

But training seems to be a scarce commodity here. She introduces me to the cook, who’s named Iris, and tells me about the abbreviations