Blue Plate Special (6 page)

“So how’s your mom doing?” I hear Dad light a cigarette.

“Busy. Aunt Lee’s got a deadline coming up so she’s putting in a lot of overtime.”

“And how about you? How’s school? You keeping those grades up? Still seeing that guy? Sean, is that his name?”

I don’t point out the fact that he shot me five questions at once. “It’s
Shane
,” I say. “We’ve been dating almost two months.”

“Wow. Getting serious.” He exhales loudly—blowing smoke out, probably—then he lowers his voice. “Has your mom, uh, has she had the Talk with you?”

“Oh, God, Dad. Please don’t tell me you’re asking what I think you’re asking.”

“Come, on, Peaches. Listen to me. We ain’t living back in the dark ages. If you’re planning to get serious with this Shane fella, make sure you’re taking precautions.”

Someone makes a catcall in the background.

Dad yells, “Get outta here! I’m trying to have a private talk with my daughter!” To me he says more quietly, “You’re young, Ariel. You got your whole life ahead of you. If you two decide to get, you know, intimate—”

Another catcall.

I’m sure my face is bright red. “I’ve got it”—I cut him off—“I’ll be careful.”

“Okay. Good.” Dad’s words land heavy and hard. He pauses then adds, “Look, Peaches, it’s really hard, being in here, but I think about you every day, and I want you to have the life you deserve. With all the opportunities and choices you’re entitled to.” His voice catches. He coughs to cover over it. “I love you.”

“I know, Dad. I love you too.”

There’s a long silence. “So, uh, is your mom around?”

“No. Sorry. She’s working.”

“Well, um, I’m almost outta time anyway. Tell her I called. And Peaches—?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Just remember, you only get to be a teenager once. Don’t grow up too fast.”

A lump crowds my throat. I’m close to the age Dad was when he was forced to
grow up too fast.
But I want our call to end on an up note, so I say, “Care to leave me with a Homerism?”

“Operator!” Dad shouts, sounding exactly like Homer Simpson. “Quick! Give me the number for nine-one-one!” Then, in his own voice, he says, “Look, Peaches, I’ve gotta run. I’ll talk to you again just as soon as I can.”

The phone clicks. The silence that follows is deafening.

I press the receiver to my cheek like I always do after Dad hangs up, holding onto those final few seconds, slowing the disconnect.

“I miss you,” I say out loud, even though he’s already gone.

W
hen I arrive at McDonald’s after school
, Tad’s at the same booth we shared the day before. He looks up from his orange soda and smiles as I walk toward him. An ache floods my heart when I realize no one’s ever looked glad to see me before.

“Hi,” he says, lighting a cigarette. The smoke swirls around his head. He looks like the mysterious Wizard of Oz.

“Hi,” I say back, sitting across from him. The waistline on my pants digs into my stomach. I shift, trying to get comfortable.

I wait for Tad to say something. Instead he blows smoke rings, watching me. I mean, really watching me. And he’s smiling while he’s doing it.

In no time at all, liquid trickles down the inside of my shirt, and I’m hosting my own personal Sweat-a-Thon. Maybe this is a mistake, I tell myself. Maybe Tad’s helping the cheerleaders play a practical joke, and in ten seconds the entire squad is going to spring out of hiding, laughing at me.

Tad’s voice zaps me back to reality. “You wanna cheeseburger?”

Of course I want a cheeseburger. I want five or six of them,
inhaled in rapid succession. My hands shake beneath the table. “Yes,” I mumble, as if I’m ashamed to admit I like food.

I reach inside my pocketbook for my wallet. The electric bill was higher than usual this month, so I’m glad I thought to slip a five out of my shoebox before school.

Tad stands, holding his hand up. “My treat. You want fries?”

I stare at a Happy Meal ad. I’m so nervous, I could eat the paper it’s printed on. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Small, medium, or large?”

Even large isn’t large enough. “Small.”

“And to drink?”

“Orange soda, please.”

Tad starts toward the counter.

A little boy two booths away turns in his booster seat to look at me. Tapping the woman next to him, he says, “Mommy, that lady has two chins.”

I stare at my lap, embarrassed.

When Tad reappears and sets a tray on the table, he tips his head toward the boy who insulted me. “Cute kid”—he smiles—“I wanna have a ton of them someday. How about you?”

Kids seem like a lot of work. But I don’t want to sound disagreeable, so I shrug and say, “Sure. Why not?”

Tad passes me a cheeseburger, and my mouth waters. Peeling back the wrapper, I remember something I heard once on a TV show—that if you focus on each bite of food and chew every mouthful twenty times, you’ll fool your stomach into feeling full faster. I decide to give it a try. The chewing sound echoes in my ears. On the count of twenty, I swallow.

Trying to think of something to say, I remember another bit of TV advice: If you don’t like talking about yourself, ask questions
instead. “So, um,” I start, “where did you go to school before you—?” I stop myself.
Damn! I’ve screwed up already.

“Quit?”

“Uh, yeah, but I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand, I…”

“That’s okay. I don’t mind. My dad and I moved here about a year ago. But before that I went to school in Johnson City, this skanky town outside—”

“Binghamton.”

Tad smiles. “Been there, huh?”

I nod, not bothering to volunteer more.

“Ever seen Cherry Hill Academy?”

“Near the entrance to the cemetery.” I pray he doesn’t ask me how I know.

“Right again.” Tad’s glance lingers, and warmth flutters through my middle.

When he looks away, the temperature plummets.

Tad unwraps his cherry pie. I could suck down the entire thing in the time it takes him to open the end flaps. “I didn’t plan to quit high school,” he says. “I was getting by with straight Cs. Well, except for a D in American studies. But I was in it for the long haul. Cap and gown, diploma, the whole crop of crap. Then Benny Aldridge—he’s my best friend, well, was—he changed all that the day he stole a car.”

“He stole a
car?
”

“Yeah. Except Benny wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box. He drove it to school the next day. Parked it in the teacher’s lot.”

“
Really?
”

“Cross my heart. Third period, me and Benny are watching this dumb-ass movie in science when Mr. Myers, the principal, buzzes
in on the intercom, calling us both to the office. Man, Benny was freaking. And I can’t figure what I’ve done. But Myers’s face is all puffed up and red when he tells us to take a seat. Myers has these animal heads mounted on the wall behind his desk, and I keep picturing our heads up there too. Myers turns to Benny and says, ‘Mr. Aldridge, I understand you drove to school this morning.’ Benny says, ‘Yes, sir. Is there a problem?’ And Myers says, ‘There are two problems, son. First, you parked in the teachers’ lot. Secondly, you’re required to provide a copy of your vehicle registration to the main office in order to access our facilities.’ Benny’s face screws up—like I said, not the brightest crayon—so Myers translates for him. He says, ‘In order to
park
here, Mr. Aldridge.’ Then the light goes on inside Benny’s thick skull, and he says, ‘Ohhhhhh.’ Myers sits forward in his big leather chair and tells him, ‘I’ll excuse you for a moment to retrieve it.’ Benny gulps, looking like he’s gonna piss himself. ‘You mean now?’ he says, and Myers nods his little bald head.”

I can’t stand the suspense. I look up from my French fries. “What did Benny do?”

“Only thing he could. He leaves to get it. I try to go with him, but Myers tells me to stay put. He asks me, ‘Did you have anything to do with this, son?’ and I answer, ‘No, sir, Mr. Myers.’ He nods. Pauses. Then he says, ‘Perhaps if you could find a way to sever your connection with Mr. Aldridge, you’d have more time and energy for your studies, Thaddeus. I think you’re capable of far better work than you’re producing. In fact, your English teacher, Mrs. Dunbar, tells me you’ve got quite a knack for words.’ And even though most of what he said stinks, I concentrate on that last part. ‘
You’ve got quite a knack for words.
’ Best compliment anyone had ever given me.”

Tad sits back, silent.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Why’d you stop?”

“I just realized how I must sound. I’m telling you my friggin’ life story here.”

“But it’s fascinating. I want to hear more.”

“Really?” Tad squints. “You’re not shittin’ me?”

Little does he know how conversation-starved I am. “Not a chance. I swear.”

“Well, okay then. Where was I?”

“Your principal complimented you on having a knack for words…”

“Right.” Tad licks pie goo off his thumb. “But I don’t get to gloat long ’cause now Benny’s back, flattening out this piece of paper he found in the glove compartment. Myers takes it from him, reading out loud, ‘Marsden Williams, 45A Hamilton Court, Johnson City.’ He gives Benny the evil eye and says, ‘I’m sure you can explain this.’ Benny’s looking kinda green. He says, ‘Uh. Sure. He’s my uncle, sir. He let me borrow the car.’ Well, Myers gets on the horn and phones up Uncle Marsden and, of course, he doesn’t exactly agree with Benny’s explanation.”

My cheeseburger sits on its wrapper, half-eaten. I’m so caught up in Tad’s story, I’m not even hungry anymore. “What happened next?”

Tad reaches for one of my French fries, whirling it through a ketchup blob. When he places it on his tongue, I get a chill. Not a cold chill, though. A nice, pleasurable chill. One I wouldn’t mind feeling again.

“Benny got sent to juvie hall.” Tad sighs. “School wasn’t the same after that. These two nimrods on the wrestling team started badgering me. When they decided to make me their human punching bag and broke my nose, well, I got sick of it and quit. I’m kind of sorry I did, though. I woulda been the first person in my family to finish high school.”

“You could get your GED,” I say.

“I’d like to”—Tad shrugs—“but it’s a lotta work, what with a job and all.”

I force my voice to stay calm so I won’t sound as excited as I am. “I could help you study.”

Tad stares at his hands. I notice his nails are clean, trimmed close to his fingers. He doesn’t say anything back. Not one single word.

I panic when I realize what I’ve done: I’ve forced myself on him and ruined everything. When Tad glances at me, I know what he’s thinking:
Sure, I’m nice to the fat girl and look what happens.

My stomach grumbles, waking the Beast. Suddenly I need to eat. A lot.

I stand quickly, before Tad can hand me any lame excuses about why he doesn’t want my help studying. It’s obvious why he wouldn’t want
my
help.
My
company.
My
anything. Just look at me.

Collecting my assignments, I hold them close, burying my heart beneath a fortress of books and binders. I plan my next stop: Belle’s Soda Shop. There’s a triple-hot-fudge sundae there with my name on it. I’m about to leave when Tad clears his throat and says, “Change your mind?”

I turn to study his face, trying to understand what’s going on. “What…?”

“About helping me study. Seems like you’re bailing out on me.”

“N—no,” I stammer. “When you didn’t answer, I—I thought—”

“I have to warn you. I really stink in history. I only got a—”

“—D in American studies,” I finish for him.

“Yeah.” Tad smiles. And as he does, he looks right at me. I mean, into my eyes, which I don’t remember anyone doing before. Ever.

The Beast relaxes. My whole body—all two hundred plus pounds of it—breaks out in goose bumps. I smile back, which feels
strange—working this muscle I’m not used to using, stretching it so far I feel the corners of my mouth start to quiver.

Just then, the side door bursts open. As the cheerleaders start toward the counter to order, Muralee glances my way. Maybe she notices me smiling. Maybe she thinks it’s directed at her. But she does the most incredible thing. She smiles back. A small, quick smile clearly intended for me.

Tad checks his watch. “Break’s over. See you tomorrow?”

“I think I’m free,” I tell him. And perhaps, for the first time, I am.

* * *

Mom’s passed out on the couch and there are a dozen or so empty beer bottles on the floor. One’s tipped sideways on the coffee table, and the daily paper’s soaked from the spill. She’s circled three help-wanted ads. I peer inside the soggy red ovals, curious to see what she plans to pretend to be qualified for this week. Receptionist. Accounting assistant. Teacher’s aide.

I toss the newspaper and bottles in the trash then sop the beer off the table. I can tell from the temperature of the spill that the puddle’s been there a while.

When I notice the spent cigarette clenched between her fingers, a familiar ache grips my middle. The “accident,” as she calls it, happened the day after my tenth birthday. Mom was drinking beer and watching TV, and I was in the kitchen, polishing off the last of the cake her boyfriend at the time had bought me. I smelled smoke—except it wasn’t the usual chalky smell of cigarette smoke—so I started for the living room. Mom must’ve fallen asleep and dropped a lit cigarette because flames were coming from the
blanket crumpled near her feet. I reached to grab an unlit corner and pull it away from her, but the hot red tongues leaped up, setting my nightgown sleeve on fire too. I screamed so loud Mom came to, shoved me to the floor, and rolled me across the rug. I howled in pain as she drove me to the ER, wavering all over the road, offering slurry promises she’d never smoke when she was “tired” again. But promises wouldn’t undo that night, wouldn’t unburn the scaly lizard arm that, thanks to her, became mine for life.

I grab a soda from the fridge and turn on the TV, waiting for the set to warm up. The picture tube’s shot, so everything’s either shades of red or shades of green, depending on how you adjust the color dial. Things have been green for so long, I decide to give red a try. I flip the TV dial, stopping at
Gilligan’s Island.
The channel’s fuzzy so I play with the antenna, then collapse on our ugly stuffed chair. When I open my soda, the tab goes
psssssssst
, and Mom’s eyes flutter open. It figures—that a can top popping would wake her.

She rubs her eyes, groaning. “What time is it?” she half-slurs, half-asks.

“Six o’clock.”

“How can it be that late already?”

“I don’t know,” I snap. “It just is.” I glance at her. She looks like hell. She probably hasn’t eaten all day. Jesus, I get so sick of taking care of her. But if I don’t do it, who will?

In the kitchen, I scrounge through the cupboards.

I have no explanation for what happens next, no idea why I pick this moment to start dieting. Except I know it has to do with Tad—the first person to really look at me. Suddenly I care what he sees.

I return to the living room with a SPAM sandwich and an instant coffee for Mom, plus a tossed salad and tap water for me.

Mom bites into her sandwich. “Mmm, good. Where’s yours?”

“All I want is a salad,” I say, piercing a tomato with my fork. “I’m not hungry.”

“Not
hungry?
” Mom opens her mouth and laughs. Bread crumbs are smashed against her teeth.

Grossed out, I look away. At the TV. At Mr. Howell, who’s got an idea for getting his shipmates off the island.

“That’s like
me
saying I’m not thirsty,” Mom continues. She sips her coffee, to which I’ve added three spoons of sugar, hoping to make it more appealing. If I can eat a salad for dinner, Mom can drink coffee with hers, right? People are capable of change.

Mom makes a face and spits the coffee back in the mug. She stands, leans into the wall to steady herself, and stumbles toward the kitchen, mumbling, “I could go for a beer.”