Blue Plate Special (9 page)

I listen for the sound of Mom’s shoes hitting the floor near the door. I can tell a lot by the lapse between clumps. But I have to factor in the foot gear. Mom wore shoes with laces to the laundromat, not slip-ons. They take longer to remove.

Clump!

I wait. Count. Five-Mississippi. Six-Mississippi. Seven-Mississippi.

Clump!

Eight. Not bad. The record is twenty-nine. But that was in the winter, when she was wearing boots with zippers and buttons, and she fell after the first clump.

“Mad’line?” she calls. “Mad’line, honey?”

“In the living room,” I answer, monotone.

She weaves toward me, one hand on the wall to steady herself, then drops down beside me on the couch. When she props her feet on the coffee table, I notice that her socks don’t match. She lights a cigarette, inhaling. Her head rocks back, her mouth opens in a yawn, and smoke wafts out in sooty tufts, like it’s rising from a smoldering brushfire.

I wait for a commercial to ask, “Where are your Kotex?”

When she doesn’t answer, I glance at her. She’s passed out already. A paper pokes out of her breast pocket. I take it out. A phone number’s written on the back of a vanilla pipe tobacco label. Jesus, she doesn’t waste any time.

“I met someone too,” I tell her, even though she doesn’t hear me. “Why don’t you ask me what
his
name is? Why don’t you ask where I met
him?
” I turn to glare at her. “Oh, wait, I forgot. You don’t give a shit because everything’s all about
you
.”

Gray ash balances on the tip of her cigarette. Watching the red tip burn slowly downward, I feel anger bubbling inside me. “Tell
me what I’m supposed to do”—my voice grows louder as my heart speeds up—“if
my
boyfriend ever wants to touch me the way your boyfriends touch you.” I shove my sleeve up and thrust my scaly lizard arm forward. “Tell me!”

She doesn’t answer, of course.

As I grab her cigarette and mash it out—so hard I burn my fingertips—my brain registers a smell I’ll never forget. I rush to my room, slam the door, and put Janis Joplin on my turntable.

Tears cool my hot cheeks as I crank up the volume as high as it will go.

one tuesday night,

about a month after

jeremy and i start having sex,

i decide to take a shortcut home.

walking down railroad avenue

behind the tire store,

i watch for my cue to turn off—

an old dead-end sign

sprouting like a rusted tulip

from a sea of knee-deep weeds.

a car slows down behind me.

a voice calls my name.

a man’s voice.

i keep walking.

but the car speeds up

then turns in front of me,

so abruptly i plow into the hood

and fall backward.

larry steps out,

hurrying toward me.

you all right, desiree?

he holds his hand out to help me up,

but i stare a hole in it.
you hit me!

don’t be so dramatic,

he says, all calm,

you walked into my car.

i start to run.

at first i’m faster,

and larry has trouble keeping up.

but when i reach the dead-end sign,

he gains on me,

moving closer.

the mouth of the woods opens.

shadows gobble up the trees.

larry grabs my arm,

whirls me around.

what the hell’s the matter with you?

i try to pull away.

let me go or i’ll scream!

larry shakes me.

why are you ignoring me?

why can’t i ever see you?

jesus, we made love and now—

made love?
i shout.

are you crazy?

you raped me!

larry reels back like i’ve slapped him.

that’s not the way

i remember it,

sweetheart.

i rush forward and take a swing.

larry catches my fist midair, twisting it.

i’m a pretzel, bent backward and down

till my knees touch the ground

and pain rages in my shoulder,

sending a message to my brain.

my lips can’t help it,

they cry,
owwww!

larry lets go

except he doesn’t offer

to help me up this time.

standing on my own, i yell,

i’m telling on you!

i’m telling my mother what you did!

his face fills with concern.

i think he might apologize,

admit everything was his fault.

but his expression changes

as suddenly as rain evaporating

from a hot summer sidewalk.

a cold, hard stare takes its place.

your ma knows you’re sleeping

with your boyfriend, desiree.

she tells me what a slut you are.

who do you think she’ll believe?

* * *

i’ve missed two periods.

still, i pretend i have one.

i figure out where the

red x’s
should
go,

and when jeremy

asks me to do it,

i tell him i’m riding

the cotton pony,

moan about killer cramps,

say,
let’s watch the simpsons instead.

* * *

on labor day weekend,

the last weekend

before school starts,

jeremy’s parents take off

to visit friends in the poconos,

and jeremy throws another party.

dan, his friend from the wrestling team,

pops a porn video in the vcr,

except the tracking is totally screwed up

and the dialogue doesn’t match

the mouth movements.

on my way to the bathroom to pee,

i bump into carol ann and eric,

just coming in from outside.

i can tell from their eyes

they got stoned.

plus carol ann’s top is on inside out

and eric’s fly is unzipped.

as eric starts toward the keg

carol ann leans into my side.

what’s up?

i want to tell her,

i’m three months late

for my period.

instead i say,

nothing. what’s up with you?

she laughs, then blurts out,

me and eric just did it

in his brother’s truck.

so much for motels

and candles and wine.

when i reach to touch her arm,

she slides past me,

calling eric’s name in a

strange high-pitched voice—

eeeeeh-rrrrrric
—like he’s a toddler

she’s lost track of at the mall.

* * *

when school starts again,

i’m actually psyched because

i’m bored out of my freaking mind.

even hanging out and partying gets old.

the second monday

after classes begin,

carol ann sits on the sink in the lav

watching me stroke on mascara.

soon my lashes look like spiders,

legs blinking opened and closed.

the eyes they encircle stare back at me,

dull as a pair of scuffed marbles.

carol ann fluffs her hair in the mirror.

has jeremy asked you yet?

asked me what?

it comes out sounding bitchy,

but i can’t help it.

i’m not in a carol ann mood.

lately i’m not in an anybody mood.

you know
, carol ann coos.

to the harvest ball.

i grab my handbag off the sink.

there’s a wet stain on the fake suede.

yeah, jeremy asked me.

carol ann grabs my hands,

jumping up and down

like a windup toy.

i pull away before i hurl.

all manic, she rushes out,

the four of us can double-date!

eric’s brother’ll let him borrow his truck.

me and you can shop for dresses together!

how’s this weekend? huh?

i break the bad news: that i can

barely afford to buy cigarettes,

let alone a dress for a dance.

no problem, she says,

my parents’ll loan you the money.

i picture saturday on my calendar—

black x number 97.

sure
, i say,

forcing a smile.

* * *

on saturday,

carol ann and i

meet at burger king

before dress shopping.

i order a bk big fish value meal

and dive at it when we get to our seats.

carol ann shakes her head.
ew. what’s up

with the stinky fish, whopper girl?

i shrug, talk with my mouth full.

just in the mood for something new.

she rolls her eyes,

squeezes sauce on her chicken tenders.

so did you and jeremy do it yet?

um
—i sip my soda,

chew on my straw—
yeah.

no way!
she slaps my arm.

and you didn’t tell your best friend?

it was jeremy’s idea not to tell
, i lie.

he wanted to keep it between us.

he said it would be more
—i search

for the right word—
sacred.

i wait for carol ann to laugh, but,

judging by the look on her face,

she’s creaming her jeans instead.

wow, i didn’t know guys

could be so romantic.

within minutes,

she’s inhaled her meal.

she jumps up, tugging my arm.

come on, we’ve got shopping to do!

* * *

i’ve never been inside

randolph’s department store.

i thought it was strictly

for the blue hairs.

a saleslady with

apple red lipstick that bleeds

into the cracks around her mouth

eyes us as we come through the door.

may i help you?
she asks,

curling her lip like she smells

fresh dog shit on our shoes.

carol ann flashes a phony smile.

we’re looking for junior party dresses.

red lips leads us

into a large pink room

filled with dresses the colors of

lucky charms marshmallows.

i feel like i’m trapped inside

a barbie doll case.

carol ann gathers

an armload of dresses,

and i find one i can semi-tolerate.

as i start for a fitting room

tucked behind a handbag display,

carol ann draws the curtain

on a extra-wide room in the corner.

pssst!
—she waves me over—

c’mon in here with me.

just what i need.

inside

i hang my dress on a hook,

turn away to unsnap my jeans,

wrestling them off, they’re so tight.

so is the size 7 dress i picked out.

damn, i can’t even zip it.

try a 9
, carol ann tells me,

that’ll work.

and it does.

but will it still work

a month from now?

I
comb my bangs flat
and give them a hefty blast of freeze spray. Still, Mom notices my bruise during dinner. “How did that happen, Ariel?”

I explain to her about tripping and cracking my forehead on my nightstand, leaving out one important detail—that I was rushing around like a maniac because Shane was pounding on our door. Fortunately, Mom’s so preoccupied with our upcoming trip to Elmira, his name doesn’t come up once. He’s there with me, though. All through dinner, I remember how fragile he looked crying in our kitchen.

The next morning, I wear Shane’s favorite outfit—an Old Navy hoodie that clings after it shrunk in the dryer, and my low-rise Riders. Except I have some serious
PMS
bloating going on, and the jeans fit tighter than usual. I check my backside in the mirror to make sure I don’t have
VPL
.

When I meet Olivia at Starbucks, there are two beverages on the newspaper box instead of one. “For you,” she says, handing me the taller one. “Chai tea. I figured you could use the caffeine since you looked like crap yesterday.”

“Thanks. I think.” I take the cup as we start to walk.

“So,” she says, “what happened after school yesterday? I thought we were going to try to do something together.”

“Sorry. Shane was there waiting for me when I got home.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be mad, Liv.”

“I’m not mad.” She sips her latte. Looks away. “We just haven’t hung out in, like, a really long time.”

A gust of wind whips past, lifting my sprayed-down bangs.

Liv stares at my forehead bruise. “Ariel, what happened?”

I reach to smooth my bangs back, except my glove creates major static and my hair boings out in every direction. “Nothing. I fell.”

I start walking again, but Liv doesn’t follow along. I turn. “
What?
”

Liv beams a look of concern. “Ariel, is there anything you want to tell me?”

She’s channeling Dad the Psychotherapist again. “No, Liv, there’s nothing to tell. But I am freezing, so let’s go.”

Liv catches up to me, touches my sleeve, whispers, “Ariel, did Shane hit you?”

I think of what Shane said when he saw the bruise.
I hope no one thinks I did that to you.
This creeps me out, but I try to act normal. “No, Liv. God. Why would you say such a terrible thing?”

“I don’t know, I just—” She forces a frown away. “Never mind. Sorry.”

When we start walking again, Liv’s phone bleeps, and I’m relieved to have the focus off me. She flips it open, reads a text, rolls her eyes. “Puh-
lease.
”

I try to peek at the message, but her scarf is blocking the screen. “What is it?”

“Dad wants to friend me on Facebook. Isn’t that covered in a parenting manual somewhere? ‘Do not stalk your sons and daughters on social networking sites.’ She claps her phone closed. “Speaking of Facebook, you really should sign up.” She flashes a phony smile. “
Virtual
visits are better than nothing.”

“Come on, Liv. You know I’m too private to report my status to the world every day.
Ariel is happy because she talked to her dad in prison. Emoticon: smiley face.
”

Olivia laughs.

“I could see my profile page now,” I continue. “I’d have, like, two friends. You and Shane.”

“My dad’ll friend you.”

“Okay. Three. Except, wait, Shane thinks Facebook is for losers.”

“Excuse me?
Maya Angelou
accepted my friend request.” Liv shakes her head and turns. “And FYI, you wouldn’t have to worry about a shortage of friends. No one knows all the people in their network. I’m friends with orchestra nerds and band geeks from schools all over the country I’ll never meet.”

We stop at the walk opposite school, wait for a bus to pass, then cross.

“Well, in my book,” I tell Liv, “a friend is someone like you—a real live person I can hang out with and have an actual conversations with.”

“Yeah? And when’s the last time that happened for more than ten minutes?”

“Offering free guilt trips today?”

She smiles. “Speaking of which, you are coming to the dinner party, right?”

We start up the stairs to the school. “Sorry, Liv, I can’t.”

“Ariel, come on. It won’t kill Shane to give up one Friday night with you. Didn’t anyone ever teach him to share?”

At the top of the steps I hold the door open for her. “It’s not Shane’s fault. My mom and I are leaving for Elmira on Friday morning.”

“Oh my God. To see your grandmother?”

I nod.

“Are you nervous?”

“Big time.”

She loops her arm through mine and bumps my hip. “See, this is why we need some time together. Rent a few chick flicks, ingest mass quantities of sweet and salty foods, commit a few random acts of insanity—” She crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue.

“Stop”—I elbow her side—“you’re making me laugh, and I’ve gotta pee.”

She elbows me back. “Don’t let Shane hug you then. Things could get ugly.”

We pause outside the media center.

“Well”—Liv tips her latte toward my locker, where Shane’s waiting—“I should let you go.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“Call me after my cello lesson. Or stop by.”

“Yeah. I’ll try.”

Her tentative smile says,
Bullshit, you will.
“Buh-bye.”

I turn, approaching Shane, expecting him to look at least a
little
upset after what happened the night before. Instead he flashes a wide smile. How can he be the same person who cried his eyes out in our kitchen just over twelve hours ago? Studying him, I slip my jacket off and hang it on the hook. “Are you…
okay?
”

“Fine. But you’re finer. Look at you.
Grrr.
” He wrap his arms around my middle, pulling me closer.

My nether regions ignite. But the flame’s snuffed out when Shane pinches me, once on each side of my waist. Which hurts. “Hey”—I pull away—“why did you do that?”

He smiles again. “Just checking out your little muffin top.”

I’m so embarrassed, I could die. “It’s not a muffin top, I—oh, never mind.” When I reach for my books, I notice a gift bag on the top shelf.

“For you,” Shane says.

“Really? Why?”

“To make up for not having a real gift the other day. And”—he leans in to kiss me—“today’s our anniversary.”

I had no idea I was supposed to buy a present for our two-month anniversary, but I should’ve at least thought of a card. “Shane,” I confess, “I don’t have a gift for you.”

Thank God he doesn’t seem disappointed. He hands me the bag. “Open it.”

I wiggle my fingers beneath the tissue paper, gasping as I lift out a cell phone. It’s the same one I’ve been begging Mom to buy me at the mall. I flip it open. A photo of Shane appears on my wallpaper. He’s peering from behind a dark curtain of bangs, smiling that shy smile I love.

“I already programmed it for you.” Shane reaches over and pushes a button. A number I don’t recognize appears.

“Whose number is this?” I ask.

“Try it and see.”

I press the Talk button. “Only U” by Ashanti plays—Shane calls it our song. He reaches in his pocket and flips open a phone that matches mine. “Helllllooooo?” he answers, all sexy.

“I can’t believe you,” I say, talking into my cell. “This is so cool. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says into his.

It seems weird to be on the phone with each other when we’re only a few inches apart, so I clap mine closed.

Shane holds his out, clicking a picture of me.

I blink at the unexpected flash. “God, thanks for the warning. Let me see.”

Shane shows me the picture.

“Delete it,” I beg. “
Please.
My eyes are closed and my mouth is open.”

“I know.” He licks his lips. “Hot.”

I try to grab his phone away, so I can get rid of it myself, but Shane tucks it back in his pocket. “Now we have our own private love connection,” he says, imitating Arnold Schwarzenegger. Then, in his own voice, he adds, “Seriously, now we can be there for each other twenty-four-seven.”

This creeps me out just a little. I mean, I love having a boyfriend and feeling on the inside of some club everyone else signed up for, like, years ago. But promising every minute of every day seems kind of over the top.

“You want that too, don’t you?” Shane tips his eyebrows and frowns. And even though it’s obviously a put-on face, it makes me think of him crying in our kitchen, showing me a side of himself he’s possibly never shown to anyone. Yes, it really did happen. Just like I remember. Despite how Shane looks or acts today, it was real. And you can’t mess with a person’s trust after he’s let you in that deeply, that completely. It would be cruel. “Of course,” I say, losing myself in his eyes. “Of course, I want that, too.”

* * *

On my way home, I get a craving for a Diet Coke. Mom never buys soda unless Aunt Lee’s visiting, and then we’ll have Dr. Pepper on hand.

I duck into Quik Pay, grab a can from the cooler, and get in line. When “Only U” plays, I feel in my jacket pockets for my phone, but it’s not there. Then I remember I zipped it in my backpack, which I totally trash before I find it. “Hi,” I rush out.

“Hey, what took you so long?” Shane asks.

“I couldn’t find the phone,” I admit, holding it to my ear with one hand, digging for change with the other. I slide five quarters toward Counter Guy—a tall kid with blond dreadlocks and a pierced eyebrow.

“It’s a dollar twenty-nine,” he informs me.

“Just a second,” I tell Shane. I set my cell on the counter and search for more change. But I come up empty. “Shoot,” I mumble, “I’m short.”

“Gotcha covered,” Counter Guys says. He reaches into a penny jar parked next to the
TV Guides,
removes four coins, and drops them in the register drawer. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Um, no,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Music theory class last year. You sat two seats ahead of me.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, even though I really don’t remember. “Thanks for the pennies.”

“Sure thing.”

I head toward the exit, trying to cradle the phone between my chin and shoulder, open the door, and pull the tab on my Diet Coke, all at the same time. No wonder Mom complains about people talking on the phone while they’re driving. Multitasking with a cell attached to your ear isn’t as easy as it looks.

“I’m back,” I tell Shane.

“Who was that?” Shane’s words are sharp and tight.

“A guy at the Quik Pay.”

“What’s his name?”

“I—I don’t know, Shane. He was behind the counter. I mean, he works there. And he claims he was in class with me. But I don’t remember seeing him before, I—”

“Why were you talking to him then?”

He’s scaring me. “Shane, I—I wasn’t, really, I just, well, I didn’t have enough money for my soda and—”

“Let me guess. Mr. Wonderful helped you out.”

My deodorant ups the Threat Level to orange, but I try to sound calm. “Shane, all he did was give me four cents. From a jar. They weren’t even his pennies.”

“Why didn’t you ask me? I would’ve come right over and given you the money.”

A nervous laugh escapes my throat.

“What the fuck is so funny?” Shane snaps. “That I care so fucking much about you that I’d drive a fucking mile to give you four cents so you won’t have to owe some fucking loser something for—”

“Shane,
stop!
” I shout, surprising myself. Then I add quietly, “It was four pennies. That’s all. Now let’s forget about it, okay?”

There’s a long silence.

My throat is dry. When I sip my soda, my hand shakes.

“Look,” Shane says, “I’m sorry. The minute I got in the door Ma started riding me about all this crap she needs done this weekend. Stuff my
father
should be doing.”

Shane never wants to talk about his past. All I know is that he and his mom moved here because his dad abandoned them to live with his twenty-one-year-old secretary. Shane has a lot of extra responsibility now. That would make anyone jumpy. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry too.”

Outside Quik Pay, our connection gets fuzzy.

“You’re breaking up,” Shane tells me. “Call me when you get home.”

“Okay. Talk to you then.” I stuff my phone in my backpack, take a swallow of Diet Coke, and decide to take the long way home.

* * *

Mom’s car is in the driveway. She’s almost never home before I am.

As I open the door, she calls, “Hi, honey, how was your day?”

I follow her voice. “Good.”

Two suitcases—the kind on wheels with collapsible handles—are parked in the hall between our bedrooms. One’s sky blue tweed, the other is black faux suede.

“What’s with the new bags?” I ask, tossing my backpack on my bed. It slides off my slippery comforter, does a double roll over onto my rug, and lands with a thump against my nightstand. I say a silent prayer that my phone’s okay.

“The bags in the basement smelled musty. No surprise. We’ve had them since we left Florida. These were on sale at Target. You pick, blue or black.”

I’m about to say blue since it’s my favorite color and the fabric matches my eyes. But then I think of Shane’s eyes, so brown they’re almost black, and point to the darker one.

Mom rolls it toward me. As I sit at my desk to unlace my Nikes, I notice she’s still standing in the doorway. Her look says,
I need to talk.

Aunt Lee claims there are two kinds of people in the world: the Slow Easers, who remove a Band-Aid bit by bit in slo-mo, feeling every hair pull loose, and the Quick Rippers, who endure a sudden, sharp pain but have that baby off in no time.

“Wanna sit down?” I ask, in my typical Slow Easer style.

Mom, the Quick Ripper, says, “I’m mad at her.”

“Who?”

“My mother.”

“Why?” I know why
I
would be. I’d have a hundred reasons.

“For getting sick.” Mom swipes a tear—roughly, like she’s mad about crying too. “For making
me
be the one to come to
her.
”

“She really sucked as a mother, didn’t she?”

Mom reaches for my Kleenex box and dabs her nose with a tissue. “On a scale of zero to ten, I’d give her a two.”