Chameleon (30 page)

“Ya-vonne?” he said.

The line moved up by two people, and one person stood between me and the fine Burger Queen.

“You sure it’s not E-vonne?” I asked.

As the person in front of us finished giving their order, Dad said, “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”

I backed up behind him and grabbed his arm. “Dad, don’t . . .”

“Welcome to Fatburger. Can I take your order?”

We gave our orders without a hitch, and I thought I was home free, but as Dad reached for his wallet, he said, “Ummm, one other thing . . . We were wondering, how do you pronounce your name? I say it’s Ya-vonne, but my son”— he pushed me in front of him —“Shawn here, says it’s E-vonne. Can you help us out?”

I can’t believe Dad is doing this. My heart throbbed in my throat. My mouth watered, and my hands became slippery with sweat. I rubbed them up and down on my shorts. I looked out the window, over at the trash can, above her head, down at the bacon, over at the onions, behind her at the soda fountain; my eyes looked everywhere but at her.

Once her fingers punched everything up, I crept my eyes back in her direction.

“It’s E-vonne,” she said, moving some curls out of her eyelashes with her right finger before adding, “so I guess your son is right.”

Her eyes harnessed mine. Shoot! Why did Dad do this? I don’t even know this girl. I don’t even live near this girl. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what to do.

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

“What was your name again?” she asked, peering at me as I tried to hide behind Dad. He got slick and stepped over to the mustard and ketchup, leaving me all alone in front of her. There was nobody in line behind us, and her coworker stood near the grill making the burgers.

“Ummm, Shawn. My name is Shawn.”

“OK, ummm-Shawn.” She giggled, and her laugh lit up her face.

Think, Shawn, think. What to say? What to do?

“So . . . E-vonne, that’s a pretty name. Where’s that come from?”

Dumb question. Why’d you ask her that?

“My mom.” She laughed again.

“I mean, any particular reason she chose that name?”

Don’t insult the girl’s name, Shawn.

“It’s the same as hers,” she said.

“Oh. That makes sense.”

Oh, that makes sense?

Her necklace shimmered at me as she leaned forward on the counter and said, “What about you? Where does your name come from?”

“Number 242,” her coworker shouted. He handed Yvonne the tray, and she handed it to an older white dude as he handed her his ticket. Shoot, you better get on the ball, Shawnie-Shawn, before more people come in; the girl
is
still working.

“My Dad. He has the same name,” I said, nodding at Dad sitting near a window watching us.

“So I guess we have something in common, huh?” she said, twirling a finger into a short brown curl.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Number 875” was called out, and a pair of very large, very dark-skinned brothers came up and grabbed two very full trays.

Yvonne grabbed a washcloth and a spray bottle and started cleaning a stack of trays in front of me. She doesn’t wanna leave?

“So, Shawn, you live around here?”

“Sort of. My dad lives a couple blocks away, but I live in Carson. I see him twice a month . . . on the weekends.”

What are you doing? That’s too much information. What did Dad say? Ask about her.

“What about you? You live around here?”

Of course she lives around here. Stupid question, Shawn.

“Number 243” was called, and a young white woman and her toddler of a daughter came up. The mother looked at her tray, pursed her lips, then said, “Where’s my drink?”

Yvonne looked at the woman’s receipt, then grabbed a large cup and filled it with root beer. I glanced over at Dad, who sat with his hands behind his head, smiling.

“What’d you say again? Where do I live?”

I nodded.

“Right up the street — close enough to walk.”

She finished her trays and started filling the containers with assorted toppings. She excused herself for a second, and I watched her disappear into the back. A big bag of lettuce was in her hands as she emerged from the refrigerator. She reached under the counter and plunged a knife through the big bag. Ask about her.

“So . . . you go to school here?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be a junior at Uni High. What about you?”

Go, Shawn. Go, Shawn. Check you out, talking to a junior — a
fine
junior. But what do I tell her about my school? I don’t even know what
my
school is gonna be. Should I make something up? Nah, she may know somebody at either school.

“Well . . . I’m just getting ready to start high school, but I haven’t figured out which one.”

Her blade paused in the plastic as she heard my answer.

“For reals? You mean you not even
in
high school yet?” she said, choking back a laugh.

I knew it. I knew I shoulda lied about my grade. I blew it. Stop talking. Just stop talking, Shawn. You gonna mess it up if you open your mouth again.

Her knife started moving.

“Well, you sure don’t look like no freshman,” she said, smiling, then added, “But what you mean you don’t know which high school you gonna go to? How can you not know? You moving or something?”

“Number 876” was called, and Dad came over and took the tray away. Shoot! I gotta go. I was just getting going too.

“Not quite. It’s kind of a long story,” I said, brushing my fingers across my sideburns. Maybe that’s why she thought I was older.

I dropped my head and was about to follow Dad when she said, “Maybe next time you come in, you can tell me all about it.”

Next time? Tell her all about it? Dang — she wants to talk to me again? The words slid from her lips as she leaned on the main counter, about waist high. The second button on her polo shirt popped open. Her gold
YVONNE
necklace swayed back and forth like a watch swung by a hypnotist . . . and I was hypnotized —
Pop
. A picture of her snapped into my memory as I tried not to stare.

I excused myself, and me and Dad headed to our table. My head swiveled around, and my eyes bounced with Yvonne’s bottom as she disappeared into the back.
Whew!

Yvonne. Pronounced E-vonne. Named after her mother. Lives close enough to walk to work. A junior at University High. Wants to hear
my
long story. A junior! That’s like . . . sixteen. Go, Shawnie, go, Shawnie, go, Shawnie-Shawnie-Shawn-Shawnie!

Dad and I sat in silence except for the sound of burger bites, fry crunches, and soda slurps. Yvonne must have taken a break because she didn’t come out of the back for a while, but when she did, she tickled a wave at me. Just like Marisol.

Marisol. I hadn’t thought about her much this weekend. I mean, between the black eye, the haircut, and ball, I had other things on my mind. But Yvonne had made her pop back into my head: same height; skin color and eye color about the same too. The main difference was the hair; Yvonne’s was short and curly, and Marisol’s was long and straight. Yvonne’s body was also a little more, uh, filled out than Marisol’s too. A little more up top and little more in the corners department too.

I kinda wish the fellas were here to see this. They won’t believe I had the guts to talk to a girl as fine as Yvonne. But I know if they were here, they’d say something like they did the other day in front of the Hut. All them sounds and stuff . . . makes me mad just thinking about it. If they did that, Yvonne would definitely know I wasn’t in high school. It don’t matter now anyway, ’cause they aren’t here. I am. With Yvonne. Lorenzo was right about one thing though: life is good when girls are smiling at you, and Yvonne smiled a lot — a
whole
lot. At me. Even when she found out I was gonna be a freshman! I wonder if Marisol thinks I don’t look like a freshman? She knows how old I am, so it might not have even crossed her mind.

From now on when I come to Dad’s, no more In-N-Out or Tommy’s; strictly Fatburger on Sundays after church. Hallelujah! Too bad I’m only here twice a month. I wish there was a way I could see more of Miss Yvonne. Wait . . . what if . . .

“Dad?” I chewed.

A splash of bright yellow egg yolk squirted out of his burger and onto a fry as he took a huge bite. Ugh.

“What?” He chewed.

“It’s my decision where I go to school, right?”

I crunched a fry.

“Yeah.”

“Well, what if I went to school out here”— I crunched another fry —“and lived with you?”

He was about to take another bite of his mess of a burger but paused. “Why? Because of Miss E-vonne?” He nodded back toward the counter.

“Come on, Dad. You saw how she was talking to me.” I leaned in and whispered over the hot food. “Did I tell you she was a junior?”

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Really?”

He sounded more surprised than me when I heard her say that. But that didn’t keep him from saying, “Now, come on, Shawn. Do you really wanna leave all your friends behind and everything you know in Compton
and
Carson to go to high school out here because of some girl you
just
met at Fatburger?”

His left eyebrow arched up as he took another bite of his burger.

“What if this girl has a boyfriend?” He chewed. “You ever think about that?”

Shoot. I didn’t. I figured that since she was talking to me, she was free as the breeze. It don’t matter anyway. I just think it’d be cool to live with Dad. I only see him once in a while, and we always have a good time. Lately me and Mama just been butting heads left and right. She’s constantly on my case and jumping to conclusions. Like with my black eye. The fellas in the barbershop treated me like a warrior coming home from battle. But Mama? She treated me like a ’banger-in-training.

“True, true. But what about me and you . . . living together?”

I bit into my burger again.

“I don’t know, Shawn. Don’t get me wrong. I love spending time with you, I really, truly do. But we see each other on the weekends; it’s easy. I don’t have to work. You don’t have school, and we can just hang out and do whatever we want. But when I’m working . . . I’m on the run and not home a whole lot.”

He bit into his burger, then took a big slurp of soda, adding, “Besides, your mother has you officially until you’re eighteen.”

“What do you mean ‘has me officially until I’m eighteen’?”

“Well, when we got the divorce”— he chewed to a stop —“she got custody of you until your eighteenth birthday. I’d have to go to court to change that.”

“And you don’t wanna do that?”

“Listen, Shawn, everything is cool the way it is right now and —”

“But it’s not cool, Dad. Mama’s always on my case. She don’t trust me. She don’t like my friends. And, to top it off, she still treats me like a child.”

He sat forward and clasped his hands on the table.

“Shawn, I know it’s hard with just the two of you right now, but a drastic change like that is just not gonna happen. That would kill your mother — you’re all she’s got. I know it doesn’t always seem like it, but she loves you more than anything in the world, and to pull you out of her life right now would be . . . it would be a big deal to her. A really big deal.”

I glanced up toward Yvonne, only to find her chatting with another guy who looked older than me. And her. I put up my burger up to hide my face.

“Besides, the only person you know out here besides me is Burger Queen. And you don’t really
know
her.”

Good thing Dad couldn’t see Yvonne going through the same motions with this new guy like she did with me. Smiling — like she did with me. Laughing — like she did with me. And leaning on the counter — DANG! — just like she did with me.

I’m glad Dad didn’t see her; I’d never hear the end of it. I can see it now: an endless stream of “I told you so’s” and jokes about how well I
know
her. I finished off my last few fries and sucked up my last swallow of soda. We threw our mountain of napkins onto our trays and gathered up our trash before standing. My arms stretched east and west and caught Yvonne’s attention. I looked at her and she looked away. How many other “Shawns” has she talked to since she’s worked here? Hey, I can’t be mad at her. A girl as fine as she is probably gets talked to all the time — at least she talked to me in the first place. I guess she
is
free as the breeze.

Dad and I made our way to the door just as Yvonne’s new “friend” was getting ready to leave. Dad held the door open behind me. The “friend” stood in front of me and couldn’t see me. The “friend” waved ’bye to Yvonne first. I couldn’t help it — I did the same. She tickled a wave good-bye. To both of us. Dad saw it all — and laughed.

WHEN WE GOT HOME, Dad jumped in the shower. I stretched my back across my bed, kicked my shoes off, and stared at the ceiling. Yvonne — sigh — Yvonne . . . a junior. I still can’t believe a junior was talking to me — li’l ol’ Shawn Williams from Carson. Future freshman at . . .

I sat up. I couldn’t finish the sentence. What was I gonna do? I wanted to hang with my friends at Marshall, but I wanted to give Carson a chance too. But what would I get out of going there?