Blue Plate Special (7 page)

my report card comes in the mail

the week after school’s out.

my grades are just above passing,

enough to keep me out

of summer school,

which is good,

because i must have

some kind of stomach bug.

i’ve ralphed, like, a dozen times.

my appetite’s fine, though.

when jeremy bought me

breakfast at the geronimo,

i scarfed down my three-egg omelet

before he could butter his toast.

jeremy and i pass our days

doing a whole lot of nothing.

mostly we hang out

at the water tower.

if the weather sucks,

we play nintendo

or watch tv or make out.

i think about us going all the way,

but i worry: will jeremy know

i’m not a virgin?

in the meantime,

i pretend like i am.

when he tries to unzip my jeans,

i nudge his hand away and

concentrate on him instead.

he doesn’t seem to mind,

but i feel like such a liar.

* * *

one night,

when i get home from jeremy’s,

i smell food cooking.

not some bogus crap like

hamburger helper or

kraft mac and cheese.

homemade food,

which i haven’t tasted in ages.

i head to the kitchen to see what’s up.

mam’s radio is set

on the ’70s station she joneses on.

singing along to a sappy love song

by some vanilla motown wannabe,

she waltzes around

in a flowered muumuu,

shaking a spatula to the beat.

i clear my throat

so she’ll know i’m there.

she turns, actually smiles at me.

don’t you just love that song?

i shrug.
yeah, it’s okay.

her face is honest and soft.

the words to that song are so pretty.

they make me think of your father.

my father?
—i turn—

you never talk about him.

my heart fills with a million questions.

mam reaches into the cupboard

for the old red shoebox

she adds five bucks to every week

after cashing her kmart check.

moving the bills aside,

she holds up a wicker tube—

some cheesy carnival prize

the size of a tampon.

your father gave this to me.

he won it at the arcade

the day i decided what

i wanted my life to be like.

there was a family, picnicking,

that i knew was meant to be us.

and we were supposed to eat

hot dogs grilled on a hibachi

and hold hands when we said grace.

she turns the wicker tube

round and round in her hand.

but when your dad died
—

her face grays—
that family

died right along with him.

what’s that make us?

i want to ask.

a table with one

of its legs sawed off?

but a timer dings and mam

returns the tube to the shoebox,

closing the lid,

closing down the conversation too.

she slides a casserole out of the oven.

cheese bubbles on top,

and my mouth waters.

looks good
, i mumble.

i’m glad
—mam turns to face me—

‘cause larry’s coming for dinner.

it’ll be nice to have the three

of us together again.

i glance down at the third plate

set in front of larry’s sometimes spot,

and reality hits me.

i bolt toward the door, calling,

sorry, got other plans!

* * *

carol ann’s mom and dad

insist i call them pete and joan.

they let me hang out

whenever i want,

for as long as i want,

no questions asked.

bill clinton smiles at me

from a poster over their disposal.

before he got elected president

their kitchen was like a

freaking museum.

even the dish towels had

vote clinton!
pins

stuck through them.

i arrive just in time for dinner.

joan sets an extra plate,

loading it with tofu kabobs

and curried tempeh strips,

which i pretend to enjoy.

after dessert—

tofutti with carob chips—

me and carol ann wash dishes

while pete and joan slip out back

to smoke pot on the porch.

i glance out the window,

noticing how their hands touch

as they pass the joint back and forth,

how pete winks at joan and

she leans in to kiss his lips—

a deep, smoky kiss that

lasts until the joint burns down

to pete’s fingernail and he says,
ow!

and joan lifts his finger to her mouth,

sweetly kissing that next.

tears fill my eyes.

i’ve gotta pee
, i mumble.

i hurry to the bathroom,

sit on the edge of the tub.

i want what pete and joan have,

those small things bodies do—

like kissing a burned finger—

which say i love you

more than sex ever will.

* * *

upstairs, carol ann

fishes two hard candies out of

the drawer of her wicker nightstand.

i chew mine instead of sucking it and

my mouth fills with hot minty slivers.

how rude!
carol ann snaps,

imitating stephanie on
full house.

she loads a cd and

whitney houston’s voice

fills the room. i moan.

give me pearl jam, nirvana, metallica—

music to take me away from my feelings,

not draw me closer to them.

carol ann sits beside me

on the bed.
check this out.

she pulls her long hair back,

showing me a hickey on her neck.

i make a face. gross.

hickeys look like what

they are—skin sucked blue.

there’s nothing sexy about them.

me and eric are probably

gonna do it soon
, she tells me,

leaning backward across her spread.

her hair is a huge amber fan,

encircling her zit-free face.

when she stretches, her shirt rides up,

showing off the navel piercing

pete and joan signed for.

for our first time
, she continues,

eric and i are going to rent a motel room.

you know, so it feels more real.

and i want a bottle of red wine
—

one with a cork, not a twist top.

oh, and candles.

loads and loads of them.

she raises up on one elbow.

how about you?

what do you want

your first time to be like?

i used to wonder that all the time—

where jeremy and i would be

when it would happen,

how it would feel,

if it would hurt.

carol ann sits up.

welllll? i’m waiting for an answer here.

a voice inside nudges:
tell her!

my tongue wraps

around the words:

something happened
…

but when i open my mouth to speak,

the phone rings,

and joan calls up the stairs,

carol ann, it’s eric!

and i swallow

the words down fast.

* * *

five minutes after i get home

jeremy phones to say

his parents are leaving

for the weekend

and he’s having a party.

i change into faded jeans and

my favorite nine inch nails tank top.

on my way through the door,

mam calls my name.

i follow her voice

to her tv chair,

where she’s watching
unsolved mysteries,

pigging out on double stuf oreos.

desiree,
she starts,

all serious,

like she plans to take a stab

at maternal concern.

that or she’s constipated.

you and that jerry boy

aren’t having sex, are you?

i stand in front of the tv.

it’s jeremy.

and why would

i tell you if we were?

she stares through me

like i’m invisible.

her x-ray vision freaks me out.

i step aside.

mam’s pupils light into mine.

he sounds so horny

in those notes he wrote you.

all he thinks about is getting in your pants.

i’m worried about you, desiree.

i fold my arms across my front.

well, if you hadn’t snooped,

you wouldn’t have to worry.

besides
—i grab my denim jacket

off a hook—
jeremy’s a really sweet guy.

i’d appreciate it if you’d cut him some slack.

mam reaches for another oreo.

you could treat larry better too.

he’s been like a father to you,

including you in everything we do.

lately all you do is ignore him.

my stomach is a lava pit.

i want to scream:

you have no idea what

your precious larry did to me!

but i don’t.

i watch mam walk to the fridge

for a coke, and before

her fat ass is planted

back in her chair,

i’m gone.

* * *

i stop at the fart mart

on my way to jeremy’s.

a counter kid with a

million greasy pimples

talks on a cordless phone,

going,
yes, sir, no, sir,

probably kissing ass with the boss,

mister mega-fart himself.

i waltz up and down the aisles,

lift a pack of marlboros,

a box of ritz crackers,

a can of spray cheese.

when i turn to leave,

the kid calls,
have a nice day!

i wave and holler back,
you too!

* * *

i can tell jeremy’s buzzed

as he weaves toward me

and hands me a beer.

the party’s small,

and everyone’s watching mtv—

“creep” by radiohead.

munchies!
carol ann squeals

as i unload the crackers and cheese.

a few hours later,

when the food and beer are gone,

everyone’s paired off, making out.

i follow jeremy to his room,

amazed by how neat it is.

his clothes are picked up

and his bed is made,

decked out in a new green comforter—

an emerald island, floating

in a sea of blue carpet.

with the sticky stars glowing on the ceiling,

it’s almost like being at the beach.

a light clicks on in my brain.

if we have sex while jeremy’s buzzed,

he’ll probably never guess

i’m not a virgin.

for a moment

i’m me again.

pre-larry me.

i lie across jeremy’s bed,

patting the empty spot.

jeremy inches toward me,

blurry-eyed from drinking.

but there’s something else

in his gaze—

like maybe he’s drunk on me too.

his lips move slowly,

soft and sweet as butter

melting across warm toast.

he unbuttons my shirt

then starts for my jeans.

when i don’t stop him

like usual,

he looks at me,

grinning, expectant.
dez
…?

i nod,

grin back.

except before jeremy continues,

he asks,
are you sure you’re okay with this?

are.

you.

sure.

you’re.

okay.

with.

this.

seven words

i should have heard before

but didn’t.

seven words that make me

want to cry.

yeah
, i whisper,

fighting tears,

because suddenly i realize

i’m not just covering larry’s tracks,

i’m clearing a new path for jeremy.

as his fingers glide across

my breasts, my stomach,

and down, down to a

place that is damp

and waiting,

i imagine i am new again.

i don’t float out of my body

or watch from the ceiling

like i did with larry.

i’m in my body

feeling every kiss,

every touch,

every quake.

jeremy is safe
,

my heart tells me.

* * *

afterward,

jeremy’s arm is

looped behind my neck,

nestled in just the right spot.

the other, sleep-laden and heavy,

is draped across my chest.

my boobs are smooshed,

but i don’t move.

i memorize every detail:

jeremy’s sweet, soapy smell

mixing with something

musky and mysterious,

the street light squeezing

through the mini blinds,

covering him in thin white stripes,

the smile teasing his lips.

if i were an artist,

i’d paint a picture of him.

but i suck at art

like i suck at everything in school.

so remembering will have to do.

* * *

when i get home,

i reach in my underwear drawer