I walked into the Pizza Lab after ultimate practice (I was thrilled to be back on the team) to see Antonio tossing dough into the air. He caught it with a grin and sent it back up with a flick of his wrists.
Antonio was our third mini-Meg, and the first actual Italian to work in the pizzeria. Not Italian-American either. Straight out of Palermo. When he learned Carlos had taken only five days to hit the two-minute mark, he took it as a matter of national pride. “No way an Argentinian learns to make pizza faster than an Italian,” he’d said.
I had no idea how many hours he practiced at home, but by day three, he was on the line during service hours, slinging pies like a pro.
“Hey, Boss, you wanna make the next pie?” Antonio called, flipping another disc of dough with practiced flair.
I hadn’t made a single pizza in weeks. There was no point when Meg and her team of minis did it so much better. I sensed something was up. “Now why would I do that?”
“It’s going to be pie number 100 for the day,” said a voice behind me.
I turned to find Meg watching me with a proud grin on her face.
“We’ve hit 100 pies before,” I said.
“Not by 5 p.m. we haven’t.”
“Maybe I’ll just make the employee pie,” I teased.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Antonio said quickly, lowering his dough. “That’s not fair. It’s my turn.”
The employee pies had become a quiet arms race among the mini-Megs. Customers expected consistency. Even our experimental slices followed a certain formula. But the employee pie was a free-for-all. The one chance for the staff to unleash their inner mad scientist.
“So what are you making us today, Antonio?” I asked.
“Sicilian style,” he said with pride.
“Just like Carlos, eh?”
Antonio looked appalled. “Carlos made Chicago style yesterday. Don’t think Sicilian is the same just because they’re both deep dish.”
“I know, I know,” I said, holding up my hands. “Chicago style is round and the Sicilian square.”
He shook his head, exasperated. “The Chicago crust is too thin, and the flour’s that high-gluten stuff instead of real semolina. Plus, a real Sicilian pizza is only with pure olive oil. That’s not to mention—”
“It’s OK, Antonio,” Meg interrupted gently. “You’re never going to get through to Ty.”
“That’s right,” I said, “I just like mine hot and free.”
“And that’s how you’ll have it from now on,” Meg said.
Something in her voice seemed off. “What do you mean?”
In response, Meg called out, “Dedrick!”
Dedrick wasn’t normally in the pizzeria at this hour, but he stepped out of the office carrying a giant cake.
I looked from the cake to Meg. “I thought you were out of the cake-making business?”
Her eyes were pure mischief. “One last one, for a special occasion.” Meg may have thought my chocolate pizza was kitsch, but that didn’t stop her from making the top look like a giant pizza. Around the side were two words: Buon Viaggio.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It’s Italian,” Antonio said. “It means bon voyage.”
“Is someone going away?” I asked.
“That’s right,” Meg said. “You are.”
I frowned. “Where am I going?”
“Wherever you like, Ty. As manager of the Pizza Lab, you are officially fired.”
“I’m what?”
“You’re fired.”
“But why?”
Meg’s expression softened. “Because you did it, Ty. You took a struggling pizzeria and turned it around. Then you successfully transitioned it to new management. And look at this place.” She swept her arm across the dining room. “Even with the new pricing, we’re packed. You don’t need to be here anymore. And your grades have suffered. Go study for your exams so you can still get into a good grad program. When school’s over, go visit your family.”
“And then what?”
Meg’s smile widened. “You tell me. Where do you want to go?”
I actually did have a place in mind. “Fringe.”
“What’s that?”
“The world’s biggest arts festival. Happens every summer in Edinburgh. Ever since I applied for the London program, I’ve been hoping I could get away a couple weeks early and head up to Scotland for Fringe Fest.”
“Well, now you’ve got more than a couple weeks,” she said. “You’ve got months. And you’ve got enough profit share to cover your travel.”
“Fringe doesn’t even start until August. If I could get away after exams, I could go to the Isle of Skye and backpack through the Highlands first.” I wiped my eyes. “But you’re right, it would be nice to spend some time back at the farm first.” My throat tightened unexpectedly. “You’re sure you don’t need me?”
“Honestly?” Her eyes dug into mine. “As long as you’re here, I can’t fully put my stamp on this place. The pizzeria is a mashup: half me, half you. Part of the staff looks to you for guidance, part to me. If it’s your plan to pass the baton, then pass it. I’ll take it from here.”
“But the semester’s not over. What will old Artemis say if I step away early?”
“Old Artemis?” came a voice from the office.
I froze.
Professor Hunt stepped out with fire in her eyes. “You do realize Artemis wasn’t only the goddess of the hunt, but also of wild animals? She had the power to turn people into beasts. Perhaps old Artemis should turn you into a dog and make you lick her boots if you want to keep that A she was planning on giving you.”
Laughter erupted in the pizzeria, and my face turned red. I hadn’t realized how closely everyone was watching. I looked around. This wasn’t just the usual crowd. There were my old roommates Ted and Johnny. Joanna was there, along with Owen, Andrew, Jenna, and the rest of the seminar. Even Marques and a couple of guys from the ultimate team, still in their practice shirts.
I’d been ambushed.
Professor Hunt crossed the room. “I’ve always liked the nickname Artemis,” she said with a smile. “But I could do without the old.”
“Of course, Professor,” I said quickly.
“And how many times do I have to tell you, Ty, that I don’t fail students for making smart business decisions?”
I straightened. “You think this is a smart decision then?”
“Ever heard of Founder’s Syndrome?” she asked.
“No, Professor.”
“It’s when a founder clings so tightly to their baby that they fail to step aside even when they become more of a liability than an asset.”
“You think I’m a liability?”
“I think you’ll become one if you insist on staying. Your partner’s ready to lead. Step back and let her.”
“So I won’t fail if I don’t finish the semester?” I asked.
“If you dare drop out of the seminar now”—she pointed a finger at me—“you’ll see how fast I earn my nickname.”
“I didn’t mean dropping the seminar. I meant the business.”
“You’re not dropping out of the business. You’re transitioning from an operator to an owner. You’ve built a strong business that serves your needs without making yourself a slave to it. In all my years of teaching this seminar, you’re the first student who’s built a business that can support your cost of living while installing management capable of running it in your absence. This is the Build a Business seminar, and you created one that can support you and your chosen path. I’d call that A work.”
“So what should I do now?” I asked, still stunned.
“Shut up and make your final pizza. This one’s for me. I’m hungry, and I do believe I was promised a free pie once this place hit profitability.”
“Coming right up,” I said, already washing my hands. “What toppings would you like?”
“Make mine a Harvey Reese,” she said. “And even though it’s not my birthday, if you have a Happy Birthday napkin to go with it, I won’t object.”
