“Hi there, I’m Ty Spengler. You might remember me as the student who bought the pizzeria…”
“Stop, Ty.” Dedrick ended the recording. “You’ve got to relax, dude.”
I pulled my shirt away from my neck. “Being filmed has never been my thing.”
“Don’t worry about the camera.” Dedrick pointed to his eyes. “You’re just talking to me. Take a deep breath, and let’s try it again.”
I blew out the air harder than necessary, then launched in. “I’m Ty Spengler. You might remember me as the student who bought the pizzeria for a dollar. This dollar, in fact.” I pointed to my framed bill behind the counter. “With the help of the student community, we’ve now chosen a new name and logo, and we’re going to celebrate by throwing a Grand Reopening. And just like I bought the pizzeria with a dollar bill, during the Grand Reopening, you can buy any slice or drink with just a dollar bill.”
I took another breath. “How was that?”
“Not bad. Might try it one more time to get it a bit crisper, though.” He tilted his head. “Why are you saying a dollar bill? Why not just say a dollar?”
“Because the credit card fees on a one-dollar transaction are brutal,” I said. “At that rate, we’d lose 28% to fees alone. As it is, we’re barely going to break even on this promotion.”
“If it’s not going to be profitable, are you sure you want to do it?”
“Yeah.” I wiped sweat off my brow. “I want it to be memorable. I’d like this place to become a campus institution, and that will only happen if people are talking about it.”
“I hear you, brother.” Dedrick lowered his phone. “If you can’t get people to come back on their own, this place is doomed anyway.” He lifted the phone again. “Let’s do another take. Maybe say, ‘You can buy anything with a dollar cash’ if you want.”
“I like the dollar bill angle. I don’t want anyone coming in here with a twenty and ordering a single slice. It could be a nightmare having enough cash around to make change.” I tapped the counter. “Let’s keep it simple. Everything is ordered with a dollar bill. This way, each transaction will be fast and easy.”
“It’s your place. I’m hitting record. Let’s get this right.”
“I’ve got to tell you, Ty,” Meg said, standing just in front of the counter, “I have a ton of admiration for what you’re doing.”
“Thanks, Meg,” I said, blinking in mild surprise. I hadn’t expected to see her at the Grand Reopening—not after all the critiques she’d thrown at my changes. But here she was, dollar in hand, slice on plate. She’d waited in line like everyone else. Still… this was Meg. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She glanced around the packed pizzeria and—shockingly—smiled. “And it’s so cool to see all the changes you’re making. They’re adding up.”
“I’m glad you noticed,” I said, my hands still kneading dough for the next pie. We had no room to slow down. Carrie was loading bacon onto a pizza about to go in. Dedrick was cutting slices from one that had just come out. Joanna, hired just for the day, stood behind the register, exchanging slices for crisp dollar bills with smooth precision.
The place was loud—wall-to-wall students, the school paper snapping photos, Maurice wailing away on his sax near the front entrance.
Meg leaned in slightly and lowered her voice. “So please understand that it’s with total support that I say this.”
I looked up, cautious. “Okay…”
“Your pizza sucks.”
My head jerked back like someone had slapped me. “What?”
Even with Meg, I hadn’t seen that one coming.
She met my eyes evenly. “Your pizza. It sucks.”
“You know how many people tell me they love the pizza?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
She shook her head. “No, they love pizza. But your pizza sucks.”
I stared at her. Why are you eating it then? I wanted to ask. Instead, I said, “Just an hour ago, a guy told me he likes mine better than MacCauley’s down the block.”
“Their pizza also sucks.” Meg rolled her eyes.
She leaned in again, firm. “You want to argue over who sucks less, or do you want to make great pizza?”
I set the dough down with more force than needed. “Look, Meg, I appreciate your desire to help.” Did I? “But if you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a line of people out the door waiting to buy my pizza. I really don’t have time for this right now.”
She gave a small, almost pitying nod. “Suit yourself.”
Then she turned and walked out—shoulders squared, head high—past the dozens of students still crowding the pizzeria.
I scanned the line. Johnny, my old roommate, waved from five spots back, but most of the faces were unfamiliar. New customers. Exactly what we needed.
If my pizza really did suck, I’d see it—disappointed faces, half-eaten slices, uneaten crusts left behind. But that’s not what I saw. People were chatting, laughing, finishing every last bite.
Still, I wasn’t delusional. I was using the same recipes I’d inherited from Bartley. I didn’t think I’d win awards anytime soon. But I didn’t need to. This was a college joint. Students wanted their pizza hot, fast, and cheap.
I knew Meg. She’d spent two hours icing a single cake for a client. That kind of perfectionism would kill an operation like this.
That’s why you need an avatar. You’ll never satisfy everyone—but if you can nail it for your ideal customer, that’s enough to create a killer business.
“Joanna,” I called out.
She passed a slice to a student. “What do you need, Ty?”
“What do you think of my pizza?”
“Seriously? You’re asking this now?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“I love the pizza here, you know that.” She offered a cheery smile. “Especially since you added my bacon.”
“Glad to hear it. If my avatar is happy, I must be doing OK.”
The phone rang. My hands were covered in flour. “You mind grabbing that, Joanna?”
“Thank you for calling The Pizza Lab. How can I help you?” Even with the phone on her ear, she accepted another dollar. “OK, hang on.”
She covered the receiver with her hand. “It’s someone from Daisy Farm.”
“They’re my cheese supplier. What do they want?”
She winced. “They said your last check bounced.”
“What do I do?” I asked, pacing in tight circles in the storeroom. I’d called Professor Hunt as soon as I got off the phone with Daisy Farm.
“I hear music in the background,” she said. “Are you still running your Grand Reopening?”
I cupped my hand over the phone. “Yeah.”
“What did you tell the dairy?”
“That I’d look into it and get back to them tomorrow.”
“Good.” Her voice was crisp and direct. “Then for now, focus on your customers. Try to put the cash crunch out of your mind until you close. There’s nothing you can do about it now, and you’ve got too much at stake with all the buzz today to let anyone see you panic.”
I leaned back against a shelf of tomato cans and let out a long breath. “Got it. Then what?”
“Tell me, are you profitable yet?”
I did some quick math in my head. “I think so.”
There was a beat of silence.
“You think so?” she repeated. “That’s glaring problem number one. I only get that response from entrepreneurs who aren’t obsessed with their numbers.”
Her voice sharpened. “This isn’t the first time I’ve asked you about your profits and received some wishy-washy response. When was the last time you took a solid look at your books?”
I let my head thud lightly against the storage rack behind me. “It’s been a while,” I admitted.
“I’m sure it has.” I could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Pay special attention whenever there’s an area of your business you’re avoiding. More often than not, big problems lurk there.”
I slid down until I was sitting on the cold floor. “I hear that.”
“Tonight, once you close your doors, you’re going to fix that, right?” It wasn’t really a question.
“Yes, Professor.”
“By the time you come into class tomorrow, I expect you to know your numbers backwards and forwards. You’re the first student to deal with a missed payment, but you probably won’t be the last, so we might as well dig into the subject now.”
“Will do.”
“And Ty?”
I gritted my teeth, bracing for more. “Yes, Professor?”
“Congratulations on your Grand Reopening.”
