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Authors: Suzanne Supplee

BOOK: Artichoke's Heart
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Just as I stepped in the shower, the phone rang. I considered letting the machine pick up, but I knew it would wake Mother. And it was probably my aunt, the casserole kidnapper. I raced to the phone and snatched it up. “Hell-
ooo
,” I said (
not
in a nice way).
“Oh, um . . . did I catch you at a bad time?” he asked. “It’s Kyle. We lost.”
“Oh . . . um, no! You didn’t catch me at a bad time,” I lied. I was naked and shivering and dripping water onto my rug. The shower was still running. “Well, that’s terrible that you lost. What was the score?”
“You don’t wanna know,” said Kyle. “There were hardly any Spring Hill kids there. The game was too far away, I guess. That’s what hurt us, I think. Not enough fan support.”
“That’s too bad,” I said, wrapping myself in my comforter.
“So I was wonderin’ if you’d help me drown my sorrows in a pitcher of Coke and a slice of pizza?”
“You mean tonight? Right
now
?” I asked.
“I know it’s short notice, but—”
“No. I mean
yes
! I’d love to,” I said.
“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes,” he said, and hung up before I could protest the time frame.
I jumped around my room and did a silent scream. Finally!
Finally!
A real date with Kyle Cox! I raced to the bathroom. “My, aren’t you just the picture of loveliness,” the wicked mirror hissed at me. “It would take a whole army of Richards, as in Richard
Simmons
, to fix you up!”
“You’re just jealous because I have a date and you’re stuck hanging around here all night!” I laughed at my corny joke, but the mirror was right. Aside from my usual fat issues, my hair was wet and still unwashed, mascara streaked down my cheeks, and I had Snickers bar smudges in each corner of my mouth, and all of it had to be resolved in
fifteen minutes
!
chapter twenty-one
Beautiful Vision
I basically had two minutes to decide what to wear, so of course I went with black: black denim skirt, black T-shirt, oversized black sweater, black suede clogs, black tights (legs too fat and pasty for au naturel). For a pop of color, I wore silver hoop earrings (I have
got
to go shopping). My hair was still wet from my almost shower, but instead of washing it, I blew it out, rolled it in hot curlers for about sixty seconds, spritzed it with sweet-smelling product, then threw it in a clip—
messy but stylish
was the look I was going for.
Richard would’ve been proud of my makeup application. I used his D-C-S technique—eyeliner for Drama; a hint of eye shadow and blush for Color; lightly tinted lip gloss for Shine. My nails were a mess, but I filed them down and slapped on some clear polish—more Shine.
With a minute to spare, I went downstairs and stood outside Mother’s bedroom door. I debated whether or not to wake her. For a second, I debated whether or not to even go.
Aren’t daughters supposed to tell mothers when they’re going out, especially with a boy? Aren’t daughters supposed to stay home and take care of cancer-stricken mothers?
I went into the living room and switched on the lamp in the front window, and the porch light, too, just in case Kyle had forgotten which house was mine.
In the dim, cool quiet, I paced back and forth and thought about the reality of the situation. Even if I stayed home, Mother was asleep. And even if she woke up, she would never allow
me
to take care of
her
. I pictured Kyle Cox’s Hershey bar brown eyes, his strapping-boy physique, his nanosecond smiles, his unexpected interest in me, and the decision to go was suddenly easy. I left a quick note, just in case Mother woke up, then bolted out the door.
The Suburban’s dank odor of mildew and boy sweat had been slightly masked by the wooden evergreen tree hanging from the rearview mirror. Kyle (or someone) had cleared away all the athletic equipment. I could hear it rolling around in the way-back. “Do you like old music?” Kyle asked, fastening his safety belt.
“Sure,” I said, settling into the cold seat.
“Good,” Kyle said, and grinned. He pulled to the stop sign at the end of my street and shifted the gear to Park. Quickly, he flipped through a suitcase-sized CD catalog and popped in his selection. Aretha Franklin’s slinky voice eased out of the speakers.
“Oh, I
love
her,” I said.
“You do?” asked Kyle, surprised. I nodded and tried to seem at ease. “So tell me you like deep-dish instead of thin-crust, too.” For a second, I wondered if the pizza comment was directed at my taste buds or my thunder thighs. “Aw, let me guess, you’re thin-crust all the way?” he said.
“No. Actually, I like deep-dish the best.”
The Pizza Palace is less than a mile from my house. In a matter of seconds, Kyle was pulling into the lot and looking for a place to park. Quickly, I scanned the row of cars. It was Saturday night, and Pizza Palace was a popular place with the Spring Hill High School crowd. I feared Misty Winters and her crew might show up. “So do you think a lot of your friends will be here?” I asked. I tried to sound casual, but my heart was beating wildly.
“Not likely. There’s a big keg party out on Glen Mill Road.” Kyle looked at the clock on his dashboard. “My guess is those Bluebirds are downing wine coolers and slinging their hair around by now.” I wondered how Kyle had read my mind. I had inquired about
his
friends, not the Bluebirds, yet somehow he’d known what I was thinking. My heart slowed a little, and I took a deep breath and followed Kyle inside.
After our Pizza Palace meal of fully loaded, deep-dish pizza and a pitcher of
Diet
Coke (my idea, not Kyle’s), Kyle seemed at a loss for what to do next. We drove all over Spring Hill while I listened to Kyle talk about basketball and football. He rehashed the Raiders’ losing game in the play-offs. He discussed the specifics of last fall’s homecoming game. Then he explained the Titans’ practice drills. Just when I thought he’d exhausted the sports topic, he launched into his
brothers’
basketball and football programs. Finally, Kyle said, “You wanna go to my favorite place?”
“Not the football stadium,” I said, without thinking. A concerned look flitted across Kyle’s face. His cheeks turned pink.
“I talk too much about sports. I know. It’s a habit. Mama says no girl will—” Kyle stopped himself.
“Will what?” I asked.
Kyle sighed. “Mama says no girl will ever want to go anywhere with me unless I learn the art of conversation.” Kyle stopped at a red light and stared at me. The light turned green, but he didn’t go. “I’ve seen your name on the gold honor roll. I bet you’ve made straight A’s your whole life,” he said. His mother had also probably told him the best way to steer a conversation in the right direction is to talk about the other person.
I shrugged and nodded. I
had
made excellent grades my whole life, but there was no point in bragging about it. “You must make good grades, too,” I said, “or you would never have gotten into Mrs. Edinburgh’s honors class. Why’d you drop that class anyway? ” The light turned yellow, then red again.
“Mrs. Edinburgh’s too hard,” said Kyle, “and if I fail a class, I don’t get to play sports, and if I don’t play sports, I
die
.”
“As in an enchanted curse?” I asked.
“Pretty much.” Kyle flicked on his blinker and turned into the Exxon station. “This is it,” he said.
“This is what?”
“This is my favorite place.”
“The
gas station
is your favorite place?”
“No, the car wash,” said Kyle, as if it were the most normal favorite place in the world. He looped around to the wide door, fed the code box some quarters, and eased the Suburban forward until a red light flashed Stop. “Let’s listen to Van Morrison,” he yelled over the whirling brushes and water jets. Kyle inserted a new CD, pushed the button to song number four, then reached for my hand.
My stomach clenched up as if I’d just bungee-jumped off the Duck River Bridge. My hand began to sweat and tingle. SPRING HILL HIGH SCHOOL FAT GIRL HAS STROKE ON FIRST EVER DATE! When the song and the car wash ended at precisely the same time, Kyle let go of my sweaty, tingling hand and lowered the volume. “Why is this your favorite place?” I asked.
“When I was little, me and my dad used to come here every Saturday, even if it rained. It was the only thing we ever did together—without my brothers taggin’ along. It’s like you’re suspended in some other reality when you’re in here. It’s all noisy and quiet at the same time. A paradox.” He grinned.
For the first time all night, our eyes met, and neither one of us looked away. I got the strangest feeling all at once. It was almost like Kyle and I didn’t need to
get
to know one another because we already did. “You keep using big words like
paradox
and Mrs. Edinburgh will drag you back to honors English,” I said, just to break the awkward silence.
“I might go willingly if I get to sit next to you,” Kyle replied without missing a beat. There wasn’t a hint of disgust or disappointment behind his eyes; Kyle Cox looked at me the way I
longed
to look at myself.
We headed toward Riverside again, and for exactly three minutes, the two of us sat parked in front of my house. I glanced at the windows and wondered if Mother had even missed me. Probably not, considering how hard she’d worked all day. It was doubtful she’d even rolled over. I also wondered if Kyle might kiss me good night.
“So do you have plans next weekend?” he asked.
“No,” I said quickly.
“I was thinking it could . . . you know, be fun to go to the Sundown Drive-in Saturday night. Wanna come?”
“Sure,” I replied, worrying only slightly about who would be there. Bluebirds for sure.
“Seven okay?” I nodded and tried to position myself for the kiss just in case it came.
“Um, sorry to say this, but . . . um . . . I have a curfew,” said Kyle. “I only have seventeen minutes to get home.” The clock on the dashboard glared 11:43.
“Oh,
God
!” Sorry!” I swung open the squeaky door and hopped down to the curb.
“
I’m
the one who’s sorry,” said Kyle. “I’d stay out later, but Mama would have a SWAT team looking for us, and all those helicopters might disturb your neighbors.”
Inside, I switched off all the lights, grabbed a bottled water from the fridge (the tuna casserole and angel food cake and extra Snickers bar weren’t even slightly tempting now), and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. The smell of perfume and Dove soap with a hint of nail polish still lingered in the air, and I breathed it in, wondering if
this
was how I’d smelled to Kyle.
Maybe he was driving home right this second, listening to song number four on the Van Morrison CD again, and thinking how his car still carried the scent of Rosemary Goode (which is a whole lot better than old sweat and mildewed athletic equipment, mind you). Maybe he was thinking about how much fun we’d had or how he couldn’t wait to see me in study hall on Monday or that next Saturday night seemed a long,
long
way off.
I logged on to my computer, and in seconds found the Van Morrison lyrics.
Beautiful vision—stay with me all of the time. . . .
chapter twenty-two
Thank You
Just a few minutes before ten, I arrived at the shop. Miss Bertha dropped me off at the front door, then drove around back to park. I hadn’t been at work two seconds when helmet-haired Crystal Lamay came pressing through the front door in a cloud of thick, sweet perfume.
“Hi, sugar!” she said, as if we were long lost friends. In fact, we hardly know each other. Crystal is
not
a client of Mother’s. She prefers to save money and do her own hair, a fact she announces loudly every time she enters the salon. Of course, she doesn’t need to announce this fact; her whole head screams “fine-tooth comb and Aqua Net.” “Hey Rich
aaard
!” she called across the salon. Richard gave her a hi-there-now-go-away nod and turned his back toward her. “Oh, he’s just always so busy, ain’t he?” said Crystal, clearly dazzled by Richard’s aloofness. “Didn’t he train in New York or something?”
“Or something,” I said. Just then Mother stuffed Ida Lee Harris under the dryer and headed our way.
“What can I do for you, Crystal?” asked Mother. She was looking at Crystal’s giant, plastic hairdo the way a dentist might eye rotten teeth. She was just dying to get her hands on it, I could tell.
“Now, honey, you just mize well take your eyes off my hair. I do it all myself,” she said, and glanced around to see if anyone had overheard. Apparently, no one had. “Well, anyways, I’m here about the pageant. It’s that time a year again. The Miss Fireworks pageant’ll be here before we can say jackrabbit.”
Jackrabbit,
I mumbled in my brain. “I’m shore hoping you’ll recommend all your teenagers apply. The pretty ones, of course,” she whispered to Mother, and glanced sideways at me. “The Jaycees is sponsorin’ it, as they do ever year, and the winner will receive a condo down in Gulf Shores and all kinds of local prizes, donated by fine merchants like yourself.” Clearly, Crystal was giving her spiel now.
“The winner gets a free condo at the beach? Last year all she got was a color television,” I pointed out.
“No, sil
ly
,” said Crystal. “Just a weekend is all. Now, Rose Warren, we could use a donation from you, too. Like maybe a full-day spa treatment and a complete makeover.”
“Why would she need a makeover?” I interrupted. “I mean, she did just win a beauty pageant, after all.” Crystal rolled her eyes.
“Rosie, the buzzer went off on the dryer again,” said Mother, trying to get rid of me.
I left Crystal to her soliciting and went to get the towels. I knew no matter how many smart-aleck remarks I hurled, Mother would still give Crystal a generous donation in spite of what happened last year. “You give to the community and the community gives to you,” Mother always said, which was the case for most contributions Mother made, but not this one. Last year, Mother donated a $300 gift card to the winner, and Crystal never even bothered to send a thank-you note, not to mention the fact that Miss Fireworks sold her gift card for $150 at a yard sale. And when the retired school bus driver showed up to redeem her prize, Mother actually honored it!
Normally on an insanely busy day, which pretty much describes every Saturday, I offer to stay late and help. Mother usually turns me down, but at least I offer. Today, I didn’t even offer. I didn’t want to stay. For once, I had better things to do. It was the first official day of spring and crazy warm—seventy-six degrees! Plus, I had my date with Kyle Cox to get ready for. It would take hours just to decide which black outfit to wear.
I climbed the stairs to my room and glanced at the treadmill. An urgent, pressing feeling clumped up in my chest. I needed to run, to sweat, to burn off more calories, but I was so very tempted to do other things—change the filter in the coffee pot, clean the lint screen on the dryer, put a new bleach tablet in the toilet tank. Kay-Kay Reese jogged through my brain and smiled and waved.
Hi, Rosie! We should do this together sometime!
I heard her say. I was half tempted to call her up, but then I pictured her toned, tight, stretch-markless body in athletic shorts and a sports bra. The image of us running side by side was too humiliating.
It was too hot for sweatpants, so I rummaged through my closet until I found a large plastic box labeled Summer Clothes. Inside were two pairs of black shorts and a lime green tube top. The shorts were too loose, and the tube top was, well . . . a tube top. Wearing my lovely little ensemble, I climbed aboard the treadmill, set the Projected Workout Time for one hour, then switched it on. I vowed not to look at the angry little calorie counter or its matching clock. I threw a towel over the numbers, locked my eyes on the blue wall in front of me, and ran.
My thighs jiggled, my butt jiggled, my boobs bounced all around (okay, a tube top is probably not the best choice for high-impact exercise), and I could hear the wicked mirror laughing hysterically all the way from my bathroom. “Shut up!” I yelled. My shins ached, my feet felt as if they’d gone to sleep, my thighs protested, and my lungs were positively asthmatic.
After what seemed an eternity, I peeked under the towel—ten minutes, forty-eight seconds. “Oh, my God! That’s
all
?” I threw the towel over the screen again and vowed not to look at it until the timer went off. At 15:46, I peeked, then changed my Projected Workout Time from one hour to thirty minutes. At 17:51, I changed my workout time to twenty minutes. At 19:46 I climbed off. Those last fourteen seconds might possibly have killed me.
Kyle picked me up promptly at seven. This time he actually met Mother briefly, and I could tell by the expression on her face she was surprised by his good looks. She was also self-conscious. She wasn’t wearing her wig, and she kept pulling her blue cap down over her ears.
“Your mother has cancer, right?” Kyle asked when we got to the car.
“Hodgkin’s disease,” I corrected him. “It’s cancer, but a different kind.
Very
curable. She’s gonna be fine,” I said, as if Mother’s illness were no big deal (perhaps Mother isn’t the only one trying to make everything seem perfect).
Kyle looked at me. “I hope so,” he said, turning the ignition. The doubt in his voice annoyed me. “Hey, do you mind if I listen to the end of a game real quick?” he asked. Before I even had a chance to respond, he’d raised the volume. The game crackled noisily over the AM station.
“Actually, I
do
mind,” I replied. Kyle stared at me.
“I swear it’s almost over,” he pleaded.
“I’m kidding.”
Kyle grinned and turned the Suburban toward the Sundown Drive-in. I settled myself in the seat beside him and watched as he shouted and pounded the dashboard every time his team scored or didn’t. I tried to think of something in my own life that generated such enthusiasm, but all I could come up with was Kyle himself or the baked goods aisle at Piggly Wiggly.
The Sundown was like some scene from
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
or
Animal House
—wild teenagers, loud music, steamed-up car windows. A timid little thrill rippled through my stomach.
Escape from Alcatraz
, an ancient movie starring Clint Eastwood, was the featured film.
“I’m going to the concession stand. Wanna come?” asked Kyle.
“Oh, no, thanks,” I replied, for various reasons. Aside from the usual food temptations, I dreaded walking through the Sundown parking lot. Misty Winters and the other Bluebirds were surely lurking. “Can I bring you anything?” he tried. I smiled and shook my head.
It was twenty minutes before Kyle made it back with a jumbo-sized bucket of popcorn and two bags of peanut M&M’s. He’d stuffed two straws in his super-sized Coke, but I resisted and chewed my now-stale stick of sugarless gum.
“Do you know where the bathroom is?” I asked finally. Ever since we’d arrived, I’d been denying my full bladder.
“Over there,” said Kyle, pointing to a mile-long string of females. “Some girls just go back there, though. See that row of pine trees?”
I laughed. “I don’t think so.”
The moon was full, so there’d be no hiding in the shadows. Instantly, I spotted familiar faces from school—Margaret Abernathy, head cheerleader; Peggy Wells, homecoming queen; Rolanda Davidson, student council president. I actually
heard
Misty Winters before I saw her. She and Tara Waters were toward the front of the bathroom line, laughing their highlighted heads off—thanks to Mother, Misty’s highlights were perfect. Luckily, there were at least ten girls in between us. I turned my back to them and prayed they wouldn’t notice me (there
are
advantages to an all-black wardrobe).
Tara and Misty’s cackling grew louder. The queue inched closer. Surreptitiously, I tried to see what they were laughing at. Suddenly, I realized it wasn’t a
what
but
who
. Pretty, tiny Kay-Kay Reese sat slumped against the cement block building, her stylish white capris and bright blue halter top streaked with something pink. Kay-Kay was drunk. Falling-down, puke-your-guts-up drunk.
If I stepped out of line and tried to help her, Tara and Misty would surely notice me. In fact, they were sure to do more than just notice me. Already I could feel their sharp tongues sinking into my flesh, but in the scheme of things, what was one more Bluebird insult? I walked over and stooped down to Kay-Kay’s level. “You all right?” I whispered.
“No,” Kay-Kay groaned. Her breath was a sweet yet sour combination of alcohol and vomit. “I think I might be sick again.”
“Well, look who it is! Hey, Artichoke!” Misty yelled at my back. “Concession stand’s the other way!” I didn’t bother acknowledging her. I pulled Kay-Kay to her feet and pointed her in the direction of the pine trees. “You better be careful, Kay-Kay! ” Misty shouted after us. “Old Arti might get you in those pines and
eat
you for dinner!”
Carefully, I eased Kay-Kay onto the soft brown needles. Moonlight filtered through the trees, making it easy for us to see each other. “How much did you drink?” I asked, squatting down beside her.
“Three wine coolers,” she replied. “Oh,
God
. I think I’m . . . I think—” Quickly, Kay-Kay turned away from me. Vile gag, scary splatter, grotesque belch. I fumbled through my purse for some tissues and tried not to gag.
“Are you here with your boyfriend?” I asked when she’d finished.
“Soon-to-be
ex
-boyfriend,” Kay-Kay whimpered, and wiped her mouth. “He’s so mad. . . .”
“Logan?”
Kay-Kay nodded. “He said if I puked in his car one more time—” Kay-Kay gagged, but this time it was only a dry heave. “One more time, and he’d break up.”
“How many times have you puked in his car already?” I asked.
Kay-Kay’s face crumpled again, and fresh tears slid down her mascara-streaked cheeks. “Three times since I got shunned.” Kay-Kay looked up at me. Even a drunken mess, she was still beautiful. “They’re so mean,” she whispered. I nodded. I knew
firsthand
just how mean. “Mean and
stupid
,” said Kay-Kay childishly.
“And jealous,” I added.
“Jealous?” asked Kay-Kay.
“Who
wouldn’t
be jealous of you? You’re pretty much perfect as far as I can see—well,
most
of the time anyway.” Kay-Kay smiled slightly. “Do you think you can walk back to the car?”
She nodded. “I have to pee first, though.”
“Me, too,” I said. The two of us squatted side by side, our behinds undoubtedly resembling a Jenny Craig Before and After.
The Bluebirds must’ve moved their party from the bathroom to the car. By the time Kay-Kay and I were back at Logan’s car, there wasn’t any heckling. Logan didn’t even acknowledge his girlfriend’s return. He just stared straight ahead, clenching and unclenching his jaw. “Good luck,” I whispered. The second I closed the door, I could hear the two of them arguing through the thick, closed windows.
After the movie, Kyle drove through the Maury County Park and stopped at the Kiwanis shelter. He shoved an old Police CD into the player and cracked his knuckles. “Good for gripping the ball,” he laughed.
How about gripping me,
I thought, but didn’t say. For a while, we sat in silence and listened to Sting’s hypnotic voice. “So what do you wanna be when you grow up?” asked Kyle. It was a very out-of-the-blue sort of question, and it caught me off guard.
“A size two,” I replied, without thinking.
“No, seriously,” said Kyle, ignoring my idiotic response. “I worry about this sort of thing.”
“You worry about what I’m gonna be?” I asked.
“Well, no, but I like to ask smart people this question. I figure the smarter the people are, the more likely they are to have a plan. My only plan is to play football.”
“So you want to be a pro?” I asked.
“It’s not the most realistic goal in the world,” he pointed out.
I debated on whether or not to say what was on the tip of my tongue. Finally, I just said it. “My being a size two isn’t very realistic either,” I replied. For some odd reason, I needed to put the whole fat girl issue out there. I needed to see how Kyle would respond.
“I’m not sure I’d like pro ball even if I could do it, you know? All that time on the road and the pressure. The injuries. Sometimes I think I won’t last past college in the sport. What makes you want to be a size two?” he asked.

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