Blue Plate Special (10 page)

I stare at the black travel bag. “Why do we have to go see her? Why can’t we just send flowers? Or call?”

“Because, she made a point to locate me. That tells me she wants me there. That she needs me.”

“God, Mom, look at the times you needed her, like when she found out you were pregnant with me and—”

“Ariel,” Mom interrupts, something she almost never does, “I promised myself I’d never be the kind of person she was—so consumed by my own pain that I wouldn’t have anything to give.”

“And you’ve kept your promise, Mom. This is different.”

She crosses the room to drop her tissue in my pail. “Maybe not as different as you think.”

“Mom,” I start, “what’s that supposed to—?” My phone rings, and I freeze.

“Ariel, is that a cell phone?”

“Um, yeah.” I bend for my backpack, digging through the pockets.

Mom reaches below my bed. The phone must have fallen out of my pack when it slipped off the comforter. She holds it out asking, “Is this what you’re looking for?” It’s obvious she’s waiting for an explanation.

“Can I explain after I take this call? Please, Mom?”

She hands me the phone, then leaves, closing my bedroom door behind her.

I flip the cell open. “Hi, Shane.”

“Decided to take the scenic route, huh?”

“The…what?”

“Your walk home. You went the back way—past the landfill and across the Meadows instead of going through town.”

I’m freaked out. “Were you
following
me?”

“Didn’t have to.”

“Then how…?” My voice fades, and the question hangs there.

He hums the
Twilight Zone
theme song. “Want some company?”

I tap the black bag with my toe. “My mom’s here.”

“Plan B then. Want to go somewhere? I don’t have to be at work till six.”

“Actually, Mom and I are kind of in the middle of talking.”

“About what? You sound worried.”

If I’m worried about anything at the moment, it’s telling Shane I’m going away for the weekend. Which is precisely why I haven’t mentioned the phone call to him yet. Like I said, we’ve never missed a Friday night date.

“Come on, Ariel. No secrets. Is this about the guy at Quik Pay?”

I almost laugh but think twice. “No, it’s not about him.”

“Then what?”

I walk to my window. Specks of half-rain, half-snow are falling, and it’s just starting to get dark. “My mom got a call from a hospital upstate. Her mother has cancer.”

“Bummer,” Shane says.

“Yeah.” Before I can chicken out, I add, “This weekend we’re driving to Elmira to see her. We’re leaving on, um…Friday.”

“Oh.”

A long silence follows. My shoulders clench.

“Well,” Shane says finally, “at least we’ve got our cell phones.”

I’m so relieved he’s not upset. “That won’t make it any easier to leave you.”

“You really mean that?” I can almost hear the smile in his voice.

I feel myself smiling too. “Of course, I do.”

T
he next morning
, I walk to Franklin’s Five and Dime for more
AYDS
diet candy. On my way to the register with two boxes, I see her. Muralee Blawjen. She’s wearing a peach jumpsuit and a navy blue blazer, hunched over a small package, her body bent forward like a question mark. I’m embarrassed for her when I realize where she’s standing—in the aisle where the condoms are kept. Rumor has it Mr. Franklin is the only store owner in the area who doesn’t hide the rubbers behind the pharmacy counter.

Muralee looks over her shoulder at Mr. Franklin, who’s on the phone with a customer, then back at the box she’s holding.

Ducking behind a display of Epsom salts, it occurs to me that I’m the only person in the galaxy who knows what Muralee Blawjen is doing at this moment. But I don’t get to gloat for long, because what I see next takes me by surprise.

Muralee opens her blazer and tucks the small box inside. Then she whirls on one heel and darts down the aisle in my direction.

I don’t move fast enough to get out of her way. She runs right into me. Literally. Stunned, she glances at her hand—the one hidden
inside her blazer—then up at me. Her eyes are green as summer grass. Softly, she says, “You saw me.”

“B—but it was an accident. I didn’t mean to. I—”

She glances toward the pharmacy again, where Mr. Franklin’s still on the phone, then leans in so close I feel her breath on my ear. “Please don’t tell. This’ll be our secret.” And then she kisses my cheek. Not Sharon Ranson’s or Jeannette Landeau’s or Nancy Topek’s cheek. My cheek.

The bell over the door jingles as she slips through it.

Something pulls me back to the spot where Muralee had been standing. I study the space on the shelf left by the package she stole. Then I glance at the box beside it. A home pregnancy kit.

“May I help you?” a stern voice asks. Mr. Franklin is beside me with his stout belly and wiry eyebrows and clean, talcum-powder smell.

“N—no,” I stammer and turn on my heel, rush to the register to pay for my diet candy.

When I get home, my mother’s at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and smoking. The classifieds are open in front of her, and I notice she’s circled two ads. As I reach in the fridge for some orange juice, I feel her staring at me. “Did you lose weight?” she asks.

I pour the juice. Half a glass. The rest I fill with tap water. It’s important to cut calories wherever you can. “Twenty-two pounds,” I answer.

“Wow.” She stamps out her cigarette. “You look good. And pretty. I never noticed that before. That you’re pretty, I mean.”

I consider telling her there’s a lot she’s never noticed. But that would make it sound like I want something from her. Which I don’t. I’ve let go of needing anything from her because I have Tad now. “Thanks,” I say politely, setting my empty juice glass in the sink.

In my bedroom I begin my weekend homework, starting with English, my best subject. Mr. Bryant said to choose an object and write a narrative from the object’s point of view. I choose an egg because that’s the first thing that comes to me. An egg with tiny cracks in its surface and a hint of something inside, tenderly tapping its way out.

* * *

I do a juice fast over the weekend and drop another three pounds. On the way to McDonalds on Monday, a construction worker leans over a beam and whistles. I look around to see who it’s for, and he waves. At me. My God.

I arrive at McDonald’s at the same time Tad does. Inside, we drink sodas and study. Then we head for his truck, parked between a Dumpster and a row of trees. He holds the door open for me, and I slide in. When Tad turns the key, the radio comes on. One of my favorite songs, “Baby I’m-a Want You” by Bread is playing. Before he shifts into reverse, I ask, “Can we leave after this song?”

“Sure.” He closes his eyes, listening too.

The guitar strums low and sweet, moving from chord to chord, pulling me away from myself. I let go. Give in. Disappear inside the sounds. Velvety voices chime in. The lyrics describe my feelings for Tad exactly.

I
do
want him.

I
do
need him.

I
do
pray he’ll stay with me always.

When the song ends, I bite my bottom lip to keep from crying. I stare straight ahead and tell Tad something I’ve never told anyone. “Sometimes, when I listen to music,” I start, “my heart kind of, well, it swells, expanding like it’s connecting to something outside me.
Something
holy
almost.” I want to say more. To tell Tad the song made me think of him, but I can’t seem to take that step.

“What that guy said about someone being the one he cares enough about to hurt over?” Tad swallows hard. “That’s how I feel about you.”

“And that’s how I feel about you!”

I slide closer and we kiss. Our mouths part and Tad’s tongue finds mine, inviting it into a strange, wet dance. Then his lips nibble their way across my cheek.

As his tongue probes my ear, my heart beats harder and my breath quickens. I feel something I’ve never felt before. Yearning.

But when Tad slides a hand beneath my shirt, I think of my lizard arm and panic. I went on my diet so I could look good for Tad, but I never decided what I would do if he wanted to touch me. Or maybe I just found it hard to believe that would ever happen. I mean, touching is what other people do. I’m not other people.

Tad’s fingers inch upward toward my bra.

I have to find a way to make him stop. “Tad, wait”—I pull back—“we’re in a parking lot.” As if on cue, a crowd of kids races past.

Tad blinks several times, like he’s coming out of a trance. “Oh, yeah…I forgot.” Reversing out of our parking space, he says, “Guess next time we’ll have to go somewhere private.”

Next time. What do I do? I can make my fat disappear, but my scarred arm is here to stay. I say the first thing that comes to me. “How about someplace dark?”

Tad nods. “Dark it is.”

After we’ve driven several miles, he says, “I told my dad about you.”

“Yeah? What’d you tell him?”

“That there’s this girl I like. And it’s getting serious. He wants to meet you.”

On the edge of town, Tad pulls onto Commercial Drive—a road we’ve never been down before. As he weaves through the industrial park, my stomach does a nervous double flip. “Tad, um, where are you taking me?”

He crosses the railroad tracks, turning near a bus garage. “I told you. My dad wants to meet you.”

I grip the dashboard. “You mean today?
Now?
”

“Yeah”—he glances at me—“unless today’s not good.”

I can’t disappoint Tad again. I take a deep breath. Let it out. Check my hair and makeup in the mirror. “Today’s fine,” I tell him.

A rusty sign announces Valley View Rentals. Tad hangs a sharp left and we wind down a one lane road lined with mobile homes. He parks beside an oatmeal-colored trailer, and an old brown dog appears, half-running, half-limping toward the truck.

“Millie!” Tad calls, stepping out, scratching the dog’s scruffy head. He glances back inside the cab. “Ready, Madeline?”

“Not really,” I mumble to myself.

Tattered throw rugs are tossed across a soggy walk, their edges just shy of touching, like connect-the-dots that missed the mark.

I hop from one to the next and then follow Tad up a set of narrow stairs.

“Hey, Dad,” he calls. “I’m home.”

We enter through a small, dim kitchen. The linoleum is dingy, the color of an old person’s teeth. The living room is next, paneled in plasticky wood, its shelves lined with bowling trophies.

“Have a seat,” Tad says, starting down a skinny, dark hallway. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

I sit on a plaid couch, staring at the TV in the corner. A ball of tinfoil is shaped around its antennae. Even though the picture’s fuzzy, I still recognize the program.
To Tell the Truth.
I like that show. I can always spot the phonies.

A man appears, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. His hair is blond like Tad’s except his is thinning on top. “You must be Madeline,” he says, reaching to shake my hand.

“Um, yeah. Nice to meet you, Mr.—”

“I ain’t the mister type,” he interrupts, laughing. “Call me Ed. And make yourself comfortable. My son’ll get you a soda pop or whatever you like. Now, if you’ll excuse me”—he turns toward the kitchen—“I’m gonna fix you kids dinner.”

Ed ties on an apron, the same kind I’ve seen on ladies in magazines. Then he opens three cans of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and two cans of mixed vegetables.

When Tad returns, I notice he’s combed his hair and changed his shirt. He walks to the fridge, opens two bottles of root beer, and sits beside me.

“Cheers,” he says, and we clink our glass bottles together. Even though the soda’s not diet, I sip it, just to be polite.

I glance at Ed, warming the food on the stove, and get a sudden, sharp pain in my chest—the one that taunts me when I feel sad about not having a family. A normal family. For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to live with Tad and his father. I could bake them casseroles and clean—the place could use it.

“Your dad’s really nice,” I say.

Tad nods. “He’s a good guy. It’s been just him and me for a long time.”

I smile nervously. Did Tad just read my mind?

After several minutes, Ed calls, “Come and get it.”

There are three plates on the kitchen table, already filled with food. In the center is a loaf of bread, a tub of oleo, and a pitcher of milk. I’m looking at way more calories than my diet allows, but I don’t want to be rude. I decide I’ll eat less the next day to make up for it.

Tad holds a chair out for me.

Ed says, “Pardon the bachelor food, Madeline.”

Little does he know that it’s been years since I’ve eaten a meal at a kitchen table with another living, breathing person. “Don’t apologize,” I say, sitting. “It looks great.”

I open my napkin, which is a paper towel folded in two. I’m about to reach for my fork when Ed extends both hands, palm up. At first, I think he wants us to pass him something. But when Tad clasps one of his dad’s hands, and he offers the other one to me, I get it. We’re supposed to join hands.

My fingers are the happiest they’ve ever been, nestled in those two warm palms.

Tad bows his head. Softly, he says, “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” Ed echoes.

“Amen,” I say too.

Ed passes me the Parmesan cheese. “You got any brothers or sisters, Madeline?”

I shake the cheese on my spaghetti. “No, I’m an only child.”

“Me too,” Tad says. “It’s lonely, isn’t it?”

I want to say:
You think not having a sibling is lonely? Try not having a functioning parent.
Instead, I shrug and say, “I guess.”

Tad says, “That’s why I want to have a ton of kids someday.”

Ed points his fork at him. “Better find yourself a good job, kiddo. They’ll cost you.” He turns to me and asks, “What kinda work’s your old man do, Madeline?”

My stomach clenches. “I don’t live with my dad,” I say, not bothering to add that I don’t even know who he is. “My mom’s raising me.”

“Tough lot for a lady alone,” he says. “What’s she do for a living?”

“Oh, uh”—I fiddle with the paper towel—“she’s between jobs.”

Ed nods. “What’s she do when she is working?”

I think fast. “She’s an entrepreneur.”

“Shoot!” Ed laughs, slapping the table. “I’ve known a few of them in my day.”