My 13-Year-Old Son Took a Dishwashing Job Without Telling Me — Then His Boss Called and Asked, "Do You Know What He Does With Every Paycheck?"

The diner was small and family-owned. Mr. Castellano knew us from the neighborhood, and once I discovered Miles was working there, I let him continue because his Saturday shifts only involved bussing tables, light cleaning, and helping in the dishroom.

I looked around. "Where did the money go?"

Miles crossed his arms. "It's mine."

"Yes, it is. And you're thirteen."

"That doesn't mean you get to know everything, Mom."

"No. But when your boss calls me because you're trying to hand an adult your entire paycheck and breaking dishes over it, privacy gets a little smaller."

Then I noticed something near his feet. His backpack had fallen open when the tub crashed. Several envelopes had spilled out beside a folded city bus map.

I bent down. Miles moved immediately. "Mom, don't—"

That only made me pick it up. He froze completely.

I unfolded the map on the nearest table. Red circles covered it — six, maybe seven. Beside several were notes in Miles's cramped handwriting.

TIRES. MR C. HAIRCUT. STORE LADY.

One address had been crossed out three times and rewritten farther down the street. Two circles had dollar amounts beside them. $180. $65.

I looked at him. "What is this?"

"Nothing."

Mr. Castellano made an irritated sound. "That's his favorite word."

"You've been taking buses around town?"

"Sometimes."

"By yourself?"

"I'm not five."

"You're thirteen, which is apparently old enough to create a secret map of people you're paying behind my back."

"I'm not paying people, Mom."

Cal raised an eyebrow. "You just tried to give me a paycheck."

"That was different."

I tapped the word TIRES. "What is this?"

Miles looked away. Cal answered instead. "The tire place on Mason."

"How do you know?"

"Because I followed him there last month."

Miles exploded. "You what?"

Cal shrugged. "He'd already tried slipping me money twice. Then he kept telling everybody he was saving for a bicycle. I wanted to know where the rest was going."

"You followed me?"

"I walked behind you for three blocks."

"That's following!"

"Whatever. I got tired and took the bus."

The tire shop on Mason. I knew it. I hadn't been there since the winter after Gary died.

I folded the map. "Get your backpack."

Miles's eyes widened. "Why?"

"We're going to the tire shop."

"No."

"Miles."

"Mom, please." That "please" sounded different. Not stubborn. Afraid.

"What am I going to find there?" I demanded.