Blue Plate Special (14 page)

when i see mam and larry

leave the apartment,

i hurry inside,

cram jeans, t-shirts,

sweatshirts, sleep clothes,

and loads of socks and underwear

into my navy blue duffel bag.

in the kitchen

i take out the old red shoebox

mam keeps her savings in.

inside is the pink and blue wicker tube

my dad won for her

and a roll of yellowed tickets that say

good for one daily blue plate special.

pushing them aside,

i gather the money,

count the bills.

five hundred and ten bucks.

sweet.

nice going-away present,
mom.

when i go to put the lid back on the box

i notice something stuck underneath it—

a thin glossy paper about

the size of a bookmark.

i pull it loose,

glance at a strip

of black-and-white photos and

—
shit!
—

drop them like they freaking bit me.

the pictures land at my feet.

staring up at me is

me.

i mean, it’s not
really
me,

because i’m with this boy

i’ve never seen before,

but the she that isn’t me

is my twin—

same long, mousy hair,

parted off center,

same wide eyes,

dense eyebrows,

bony cheeks.

same square smile,

full lips,

dimples.

i bend, retrieve the pictures.

mam?
i wonder,

then just as quickly

i answer,
no way.

this girl’s too skinny.

too pretty.

too
happy.

it must be someone else.

next i study the boy—

his light, flyaway hair,

his wire-rim glasses,

the space between

his two front teeth.

shot one:

the boy and girl lean toward

the lens, looking clueless.

shot two: they are serious,

a phony cheek-biting serious

that makes it obvious they’re

about to bust up.

which they do

in shot number three.

in shot four,

they are kissing.

kissing like people do in movies,

like their survival depends upon it.

this boy is in love with this girl.

seriously,

completely.

i flip the photos over,

hoping something’s

written on the back

that will tell me who they are,

but there is only white space.

so i tuck the photos back in the box,

wedge the money in my pocket,

sling my duffel bag over one shoulder,

and pull the door closed behind me.

* * *

at the 7-eleven

i step into line with

ring dings and a diet coke.

but then i think of the baby

and switch the soda for a milk and

the ring dings for a blueberry muffin.

the muffin’s stale,

but i’m so hungry i eat it anyway.

on a bench

at the transit station,

i watch buses burp black smoke

and drive off.

at eight,

i walk to jeremy’s house

and knock on his bedroom window.

wearing just jockeys, he opens it.

shivering against the cold,

he exhales a cloud

of morning breath.

i need to talk to you, jeremy.

meet me at the geronimo, okay?

he rubs sleep gunk from his eyes.

okay. gimme ten minutes.

* * *

i sit in an open booth

next to the cigarette machine.

i haven’t had a smoke in twelve hours.

i decided to quit for the baby,

just like i decided to stop drinking.

i memorize today’s blue plate special,

posted on the chalkboard over the grill—

roasted chicken, noodles, diced carrots.

i mumble it over and over

so my brain won’t have

room to roam.

a waitress startles me.

what can i get ya, honey?

her face is pale as oatmeal and

she needs her mustache waxed.

a coke
, i say, so she won’t

bust me for tying up her table.

i pull a pen from my duffel bag,

print names on a paper napkin.

old-fashioned names.

elizabeth,

sarah,

abigail,

catherine,

sylvia.

except sylvia makes me think of

the poet we studied in english class

—the one who killed herself—

but when i go to cross

her name off the list,

i feel my baby flutter again.

the bell over the door jingles.

jeremy walks in wearing levi’s

and his favorite bills sweatshirt.

he looks so much like a little boy

i think i might cry.

except i can’t.

i need to be a grown-up now.

the waitress drops off my coke,

and jeremy slides in across from me,

hair still damp from a shower,

smelling of irish spring soap.

reaching for a menu, he asks,

what’re ya having?

as if today is like

any other day.

i lean forward.
jeremy
,

do you love me
—

i mean really?

he reaches across the table,

weaves his fingers through mine.

yeah, of course i do. why?

i’m shaking.

look, i’ve gotta go away for a while.

i can’t help it—i start to cry.

jeremy moves to my side of the booth

and loops his arm around my shoulder.

he feels so solid. so warm.

dez, what’s going on?

when i open my mouth to speak,

it’s like turning on a faucet full blast.

my words gush out

in one rapid stream.

i’m pregnant, jeremy, i found out when i went for the pills
,

i’m sorry i didn’t tell you sooner, but now my mother knows
,

and we had a terrible fight, and i’m not going back home

again, ever.

i don’t add that

larry’s the father.

i’m just not ready.

jeremy stands,

buys a pack of kools,

paces beside our booth, smoking.

when he finishes his second cigarette,

he stamps it out in the ashtray

resting on the edge of the table,

except the tray flips and

topples to the floor.

he stares at the ash

scattered near his feet,

mumbling,
shit, shit, shit
.

should i have an abortion?

i ask him, even though

i really don’t want to.

yes, it’s larry’s baby,

but it’s my baby too.

and it’s not
her
fault

larry did what he did.

why should she be punished?

but as i wait for jeremy’s answer,

i think to myself,

what if he sees something i missed?

what if he tries to change my mind?

and finally,

what if i let him?

could everything go

back to how it was

before?

look, i’m not ready for this
—

jeremy waves a hand over my stomach—

but that doesn’t mean you can
…

we can…

oh
,
shit
,
desiree
,

we can’t just kill it.

it’s ours.

i bite my lip to keep

from blurting out the truth.

what then?

jeremy’s forehead wrinkles.

he doesn’t look like a little boy anymore.

he looks like he’s carrying the whole

freaking world on his shoulders.

he takes a breath,

lets it out.

i’m going with you, that’s what.

* * *

i sit on jeremy’s bed,

watching as he stuffs clothes

in an army-green knapsack

then fills the pockets with

things i forgot:

toothbrush,

comb,

deodorant,

blow dryer.

his face is expressionless,

his movements precise.

downstairs,

he leaves a note

on the kitchen table:

mom and dad
,

i’m going away for a while.

i’ll call you when i can.

don’t worry. please.

i’ll be fine.

jeremy.

his shoulders fold in,

and i hear him crying.

i tell him,
you don’t have to do this
,

jeremy. i can go alone.

i’ll be okay. really.

but he leans his note against

a bowl of fresh pears

and starts wordlessly

toward the door.

* * *

i’ve never hitchhiked before,

but there’s not much to it.

you hold your thumb out,

someone stops,

you climb in,

pray the driver isn’t

another son of sam.

two hippies in an old vw van

who play the same grateful dead tape

over and over

drive us clear through to virginia.

in roanoke

forty bucks gets us a motel room.

jeremy and i sleep together

for the first time.

i don’t mean sex,

i mean
sleep
,

as in side by side

the whole night through.

it’s strange to wake up

and see him there—

a good strange,

though,

not a bad one.

in the morning,

i pluck my eyebrows thin,

cut my hair chin-length,

scrub off the last of my makeup.

then we buy two bottles of miss clairol

at the revco down the road—

grunge black for jeremy,

barbie-doll blond for me.

we buy sunglasses too—

the kind that reflect everything

instead of showing strangers our eyes.

now if we spot our faces

on a milk carton

we can waltz on by

without worrying.

* * *

we’re in florida

by ten the next night,

booking a room at the clover inn.

i have no idea why they call it that—

there isn’t a clover in sight.

there isn’t even a yard,

just concrete

as far as i see,

an endless ocean of gray.

the man who checks us in

gives us a discount on our room

since the toilet makes gurgling noises.

but me and jeremy don’t notice.

we’re sound asleep in no time at all.

in the morning,

it’s 82 degrees even though

it’s almost november.

i leave on the tank top i slept in

and cut the legs off my jeans.

damn
, i say, stepping

into the hot, hazy sun,

sure beats the hell out of snow.

next door,

at the clover diner,

there’s a paper shamrock

taped to every window.

while i study the breakfast menu,

wondering where we’ll wind up next,

jeremy points to a help-wanted sign

posted next to the register.

whaddaya say we apply?

save some money

before we take off again?

outside the window,

a truck pulls in,

gravel popping

underneath its tires.

that’s when i notice that

those paper shamrocks

are four-leaf clovers.

feeling their luck rub off on me,

i fake my best southern accent.

y’all got a fine idea there.

I
whirl around so quickly I feel woozy
. “What the—? How—?”

Shane smiles. “Surprised?”

I blink several times, in case my headache is making me hallucinate. But Shane’s still standing there. “H—how did you
find
me?”

“Same way I knew you walked through the Meadows the other day.” He holds up his phone. “Tracking device. GPS. As long as you’ve got your cell with you, I’ll
always
know where you are. Cool, right?”

“You mean you drove four hours to see me?”

“Uh huh.”

I run to Shane and mash my face into the shoulder of his jacket, inhaling the leather smell, squeezing for all I’m worth. I’m not happy about the spy-phone business, but I really need him to hold me. To provide a link to something familiar.

Eventually, I let go and step back. Actually, I stumble back. The pain in my head is so fierce that now my balance feels off.

“Hey,” Shane says. “You okay?”

I glance around for his bike. “I need a break. Take me for a ride, okay?”

Shane changes the subject. “Why didn’t you call me, Ariel?”

“I
did
call. Lots of times. You never answered. Then this other person did.”

“Really? Who?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t ask his name. He was Asian, I think. He said he knows you, and that you don’t have your phone number anymore,
he
does.”

“That’s odd,” Shane says, “because I tried and tried to call you too. You never picked up.” He shrugs his shoulders, as if to look casual, but the intense expression on his face gives off the opposite vibe.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I left my cell in the car. Then, when I came out to get it, I couldn’t reach you, so I called Olivia. I needed to talk to someone, Shane.”

He folds his arms.

“Shane, please. Don’t be mad. This has been really stressful for me. I—”

My phone bleeps. I freeze.

“What’s that?” Shane asks.

“Probably a text from Olivia.”

Shane takes the phone from me. He flips it open and reads, “‘Oh my god, Katelyn’s streaks are orange. Guess I’ll bag the backup career in cosmetology. Laughing out loud.’” He glares at me. “What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?”

“Olivia highlighted Katelyn’s hair,” I explain.

A sadness fills his eyes. “Ariel, this phone was supposed to be for
us.
You and me. Our connection. Which you’ve treated like…like…it means nothing to you.”

“No, Shane, that’s not true. I love that we can talk anytime.
Really. I just needed to hear Liv’s voice. She’s my best friend. Can’t you understand?”

“No, Ariel, I can’t.
Your
voice is the only one
I
need to hear.”

My eyes well up. “Oh, Shane—” I step toward him, but my phone bleeps again.

Shane looks down. “Now you’ve got a picture.” He pauses, studying it. “Jesus, who are the faggots?”

I grab the phone from him and check out the photo. Liv’s dad and Steve, both wearing suits, are standing beside the table they’ve set for the party. Irises fill the center. Candles glow. Everything looks so elegant. I wish I were there. “These two
men
,” I answer, speaking slowly to help me stay calm, “are Olivia’s father and his partner.”

He flashes me his Ms. Delphi smile. “How quaint.”

I take several deep breaths. “Shane, look, I think we should forget about the phone and focus on us right now. You’re here. We’re together. Let’s make the most of it, okay?” I reach my arms out to hug him again.

But Shane turns and walks away. I feel partly responsible for his bad mood, so I follow him—behind a tall row of evergreens where his Yamaha is parked. Except there’s only one helmet on the seat. Mom would kill me if she knew I planned to ride without one—she doesn’t even like me riding
with
one—but I have to get away from this place.

I hurry toward Shane’s bike. “Shane, take me for a ride. Please. Just a short one. Five minutes.” I’m about to swing my leg over the seat when Shane holds out his hand.

“No!” he says. “Don’t!”

I stop.

Shane’s eyes lock with mine. They remind me of the obsidian chunks we studied in earth science—dark and glassy and cold.

“Why not?” I ask.

Shane is so motionless he looks like a DVD on Pause.

But in an instant, he’s back on Play, breaking up. He laughs so loud and so hard the sound slashes at my temples.

I’m near tears. “Shane, come on. Let’s go.”

“We—we—can’t!” he chokes out.

The pain in my head is so intense, I think I might throw up. “But,
why?
”

Shane straightens, clutching his stomach. “Because. That”—he points at his motorcycle—“that not Shane’s bike no more. That
my
bike now.”

Oh. My. God. Shane’s voice. It’s the same as the stranger’s. On the phone.

“Oh, Ariel, you were so funny.” He flaps his wrist in the air, acting feminine. “Look, I know this is Shane’s number. He programmed it into my phone. I’m his
girlfriend.
He wouldn’t give up his number and not
tell
me!”

My adrenaline kicks in, sending an enormous surge rushing through me.

I lunge at Shane, knocking him straight to the ground. Then I’m on top of him, arms flailing, swatting him.
Me
, Miss I’ve-Got-a-Dad-in-Prison-for-Murder-So-I’m-Always-Totally-Rational. I’m worse than the Spandex-clad riffraff on
Jerry Springer.

My hand connects with Shane’s nose. He winces as his head snaps sideways. Blood trickles from his nostril.

In one sudden move, he grabs my wrists and pushes me off him. Then he stands, swiping his nose with the back of his hand. The afternoon sun is over his shoulder, drilling a hole through my brain. “You bitch,” he says, staring at the blood on his knuckles. “I can’t believe you did this to me.”

I can’t believe I did it, either.

I roll in the opposite direction, away from Shane, and manage to stand.

Shane’s bleeding hard now. I know I should ask him if his nose hurts. I should tell him I’m sorry, offer to go inside and get ice and paper towels from the cafeteria.

I should.

I should.

I should.

But I don’t.

Instead, I tell him, “I think I’d like you to leave.”

* * *

I breeze past
Frieda: Volunteer
and duck into the first bathroom I come to. A lady balances an infant on the changing table. His diaper is open and the room reeks of baby shit. I barely make it into a stall. Within seconds, I’m puking my guts out.

When I hear the woman leave, I flush the toilet. Wash my hands. Splash cold water on my face. I avoid my image in the mirror, afraid of what I might see—a psycho who’s capable of shoving her boyfriend to the ground and giving him a bloody nose.

I reach for a paper towel, drying my hands. Then, I can’t help it, I have to look.

When my own reflection stares back at me, I feel grateful. Sure, my eyes are puffy from crying, my pupils are demented from the headache, and my hair is a total mess—but I’m
me.
The same Ariel I was an hour ago. Before Shane showed up.

I get this vague, gut feeling I’ve been given a second chance on something. Except I have no clue what that
something
is.

I check the cafeteria for Mom, but she’s not there. I pause in front of a soda machine, remembering caffeine helps a headache. Except, when I dig through my pockets, all I find is a quarter.

Out of options, I head back upstairs, praying I can count on a Coke.

Green Mountain’s sitting up in bed, watching another dumb soap opera. She sees me in the doorway and points the remote at the TV, turning it off.

I lean into the wall across from the empty bed. “Seen my mom?” I ask her.

“Nope. I thought maybe the two of you took off.” She shrugs. “Not that I’d blame you. I’m just a mean old woman without tits or tea manners.”

“You’re not that old—” I start, then kick myself, because it sounds like I’m agreeing with the rest. “What I mean is—”

“Sit,” she interrupts.

I pick the chair closest to the door, in case I need to make a getaway. I lower myself onto the cushion—gingerly, like you’d rest an egg on a counter.

Green Mountain stares at me. “What’s the matter with you? You look like hell.”

“I feel like hell. I’ve got a really bad headache.” I glance at the Coke can she’s semiconcealed beside her nightstand, praying she’ll offer me one.

“You seeing funny flashes?” she asks, waggling her fingers near her face. “Like spider legs in front of your eyes?”

I nod.

She lifts her Coke, sipping. I’m ready to dive at the can. “Smells bother you?”

“Big time. I got a whiff of a crappy baby diaper in the restroom a few minutes ago and—”

She laughs. “Woofed your socks off, didn’t you?”

“How’d you know?” I ask, hoping it’s not because my breath smells like barf.

“Classic migraine. They run in families. Does your ma get ’em?”

I shake my head no.

“Lucky her.” She motions toward the window. “The light hurt at all?”

“A little.”

“Close the blinds then.”

I cross the room and twirl the wand. The room grows darker. Cooler. It feels quieter too, even though there’s no less sound than there was five seconds ago.

“Grab yourself a Coke,” she tells me. “And get my pocketbook while you’re there. It’s hanging on a hook inside.”

Gratefully, I take a soda from the cooler. And I hand her a brown suede bag that looks at least a hundred years old. I think for a minute what I’d do if this were a regular situation—if Green Mountain were really like a grandmother to me, and I was really like a granddaughter to her. I’d make a mental note on my holiday shopping list. Under Grandma, I’d write:
new pocketbook.
But I don’t even know if I’ll see her at Christmas. Or if she’ll still be alive at Christmas.

Green Mountain digs through her bag, popping the lid on a bottle of Excedrin. “They say to take two, but you need three for a migraine. Here, hold out your hand.”

I do what she says. She taps three caplets in my palm.

I swallow them with Coke and return to my chair, eager for the miracle of pain relief. “Mom always gives me Motrin,” I volunteer.

She harrumphs. “Motrin never did diddly for me.”

“Me neither,” I agree.

“Stick with Excedrin if it does the trick. Doctors’ll try to sucker you in with the prescription stuff. That’s what mine did. Got me hooked on Percocet. Ever hear of it?”

“Yeah. In health class. It’s got Oxycodone in it. A girl in my homeroom OD’d on Oxy. She’s in detox now.”

“Yeah, well, it turned me into a damn zombie. Your ma could tell you all about that. Wasn’t until I got treated for depression—after she left and my husband, well, died—that I realized I was hooked on the stuff. Hillbilly heroin, they call it in NA. She points a finger at me, a finger that obviously means business. “You stay away from the shit, you hear me?”

Her approach is so totally different from Mom’s, who trusts me to “make good decisions and do what’s right.” It’s a first, having someone just say no. And mean it.

She squints at me. “What are you grinning about? I asked you a question.”

I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling. “I won’t touch the stuff. Promise.”

“Okay. Good. Now shut your eyes. I’ll show you what my new doctor has me do when I get a migraine. She’s trained in all that touchy-feely stuff.”

I rest my head back, against the wall. I let my lids drop closed.

“Picture something nice,” she tells me. “The ocean or the forest or whatever makes you feel relaxed. Concentrate on it, like you’re watching a show on TV.”

I don’t have to decide what to picture, the memory just comes to me. I’m at Olivia’s cottage on Willow Lake the summer after fourth grade. Her dad and Steve said she could invite me along. Normally, their weekends were “family time,” but Liv had broken her wrist two days before, and they were worried she’d be bored because she couldn’t go in the water with her cast. Anyway, Liv led the way toward this tree, which was right next to where their boat was docked. It had huge pink blossoms that smelled sweeter than anything I’d ever smelled before. As we sat beneath it, I drew on Olivia’s cast. She’d sectioned off areas for different people—her cello teacher, her grandpa, her favorite aunt in New Paltz, her babysitter.
And me, of course. My spot was the largest. I filled it with flowers and hearts mostly, and I signed it:
VBFTTWE
—which stood for Very Best Friends Till the World Ends—
Ariel
. Then we lay back on the warm grass, watching the bees buzz through the blossoms, listening to the boat thump the dock.

When I open my eyes, I realize I must have dozed off. My neck is stiff, but my headache is completely gone.

A nurse in a pale yellow uniform stands beside Green Mountain’s bed, attaching a blood pressure cuff. She squeezes the rubber ball again and again and the cuff expands, making sounds like small, nervous breaths. The nurse stares at the floor, listening. “Much better,” she says. “One-fifty over eighty-four. Now we’re getting somewhere.” When she rips the Velcro loose, my eyes come to rest on Green Mountain’s white, fleshy arm.

Quickly, I turn away.

Then I look back again—the same way you do when you pass a gruesome car wreck and don’t want to see it, but at the same time you have this morbid curiosity.

Green Mountain’s arm is scarred. Badly. From the cap of her sleeve down to her wrist, her skin is scaly, mottled with patches of raised, off-color skin, clustered in erratic patterns.

The nurse scribbles something on a chart and turns to leave.

Green Mountain slips her arm back into her sweater. She smoothes it in place and glances my way. “Hey,” she says, “you’re awake. Feel any better?”

“Yeah, I do. Thanks.”

“Good.” She tries to sit up. Stops. Winces.

“Are you okay?” I ask. Which is stupid. How could anyone in her situation be okay?

Creases line her forehead. “Drainage tubes’re hurting. I think I’ll close my eyes for a few minutes. You mind?”

I stand quickly, worried I’ve stayed too long. “No,” I rush out, “that’s fine.”