Blue Plate Special (8 page)

for the tiny calendar i use

to keep track of my periods.

carol ann says

i’m lucky to be so regular,

that i’ll never be caught

like she was last june,

bleeding through a pair of white jeans

in the middle of a history final.

she’s right.

i’m never early. or late.

every month’s exactly the same—

four days, x’ed in red,

twenty-six days apart.

since larry did what he did,

i have a new calendar ritual.

just before i crawl into bed

i x away the day that just passed.

it’s like i’m saying to myself,

you survived another twenty-four hours

without killing someone or screaming.

except i mark my surviving larry x’s

with a black sharpie

so when i do get my period

and switch back to red,

i won’t screw up the system.

i’m still waiting though,

still watching those black x’s

march their asses across four rows,

moving in on the fifth.

after my first time with jeremy,

i mark black x number thirty.

A
fter talking with Dad, I start on my homework
. When the phone rings again, I let the machine screen the call.

“Hey, Ariel.” Shane sighs. “Look, I know you’re home ’cause your voice mail kicked in, which means you were on the phone. I need to talk to you. Pick up, okay?”

I hurry toward it. “I’m here,” I answer. “I just got off the phone with my dad.”

Shane’s one of the few people I told about having a dad in prison who didn’t get all weirded out. “Have a nice talk?” he asks me.

“Yeah, we did.”

“How’s your headache?”

I’d forgotten about my lie. “Better.”

“I left you two messages,” Shane says. “How come you didn’t call me back?”

“Oh, um, I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair first,” I lie again.

Shane clears his throat. “When I didn’t hear from you, I got worried you were still upset with me about the joke. Ariel, I shouldn’t have done that. I was playing around with you because
I was bummed you wouldn’t let me in. But it was a mean and stupid thing to do, and I’m really sorry. Forgive me?”

Even if I was still upset, the awkward softness in Shane’s voice could easily melt it away. “Yeah, I forgive you.”

“Good. Thanks.” Shane pauses. “Are you alone?”

“Yeah. Mom’s working late. We’re going out to dinner when she gets home.”

“Cool. Look, um, I still have an hour before work. Can I stop there on my way? Maybe we can sit at the kitchen table and talk. I’ll wear my Boy Scout badge.”

Not again. “Shane,” I start, trying to sound upbeat, “some night when you don’t have work—when my mom’s home—I’ll show you the house and we’ll hang out in the rec room where it’s private and watch a DVD or something.” I shove my hair behind my ear. Again and again. After about the eighth time, I stop myself. “How does that sound?”

There’s a long silence. I’m starting to get the headache I lied about.

“How old are you?” Shane asks.

I laugh nervously. “You know I’m almost sixteen. Why are you asking me that?”

“Because. The sixteen-year-old girls I knew at my old school passed the I-can’t-make-Mommy-mad-at-me stage at, like, twelve.”

His words hit me like a slap in the face. In fact, a slap would have probably hurt less.

“Shane, stop. You’re hurting my feelings.”

“And you think you’re not hurting mine, Ariel? More than anything, I want to take care of you, and you’re guarding the door and clinging to your mother’s rule like I’m a friggin’ predator or something. How do you think that makes me feel?”

Tears well up in my eyes.

“Look, Ariel, I care more about you than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

“You…do?”

“Yeah, I do. That’s why this is eating me up inside. I just want to see you. To sit in the same room with you and look at you and talk with you and, and”—his voice cracks—“and keep you safe from the
real
pricks of the world.”

Steadying the remote, I point it at Bart Simpson’s face. When the screen goes black, I get a sudden chill. Why do I feel like I’ve shut down something bigger than a TV show? I take a deep breath. Let it out. “Okay. Park near the shrubs so the neighbors can’t rat me out. And don’t come to the front door—cut through the garage instead.”

“Be there in fifteen minutes,” he says. “Can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too,” I say back, but Shane’s already hung up.

I hurry to the bathroom for a quick shower so Shane won’t find out I’ve lied. I wet my hair but don’t wash it. There’s not enough time for that.

Eleven minutes later, I hear knocking at the kitchen door. I rush to my room and glance out the window. Sure enough, Shane’s black Yamaha is parked beside our long row of hedges. “Just a second!” I call, grabbing my robe, reminding myself that if I really had showered when I said I did, I’d be completely dressed by now.

When I turn, I stub my toe on the corner of my computer desk and fall, face-first, cracking my forehead on my nightstand. I touch my left eyebrow, which is throbbing. Already there’s a goose egg forming.

I hear Shane trying the kitchen door, which, of course, I locked when I came in. “Ariel?” he calls. “Where are you?”

I throw open my closet, searching for something easy to slip on.

Shane’s knocking morphs into pounding, and I’m nervous the neighbors will hear. “Ariel, are you okay?”

“Be there in a minute!” I grab a black hoodie, faded Levi’s, a pair of bikini panties, and a sports bra. Then, remembering what Shane says about sports bras—that they, quote,
take two wonderful breasts and transform them into a uniboob
, unquote—I trade it for a satiny white one.

After I slip on my panties and bra, the pounding stops. Still in rush mode, I whirl back around, reaching for my shirt and jeans. But when I glance into the mirror over my dresser, I gasp.

In the glass, there’s a second reflection—Shane’s. He’s leaning against the doorframe to my room. Shane and I have unbuttoned and unzipped our clothing while we’ve made out, but the garments pretty much stayed put. Now, I feel exposed. “I told you I’d be there in a minute,” I say, grabbing my bathrobe and tying it around me. “How did you get in?”

Shane holds up the emergency key.

Shit. I completely forgot about the spare.

My pulse pounds in my neck. I’m usually so calm and rational. Most Likely to be Picked for Team Captain in the Event of a Natural Disaster—that could be my moniker. But now I feel something shift in my brain, the synapses firing differently.

I’m mad, I realize. I push past him and start through the door.

Shane grabs my arm and whirls me around. When he lets go, his eyes lock with mine. Even though he’s not touching me, I still feel pinned in place by that gaze.

“Don’t be upset,” he says, reaching for my chin, turning it toward him. “When you didn’t answer, I was scared something had happened to you. That you were hurt.”

I walk to my dresser and grab my hairbrush, tugging on a tangle. Mentally, I recap what just happened, looking at it from
Shane’s
point of view. Finally, I decide I can’t blame him. I might have done the same thing if I was that concerned.

Shane steps behind me and takes the brush. He glides the bristles down my scalp, clear to the end. “I worship every inch of you,” he says, gathering the tips of my hair into a clump, which he brings to his lips, kissing it. “Right down to your split ends.”

I elbow him. “I don’t have split ends.”

“Do too,” he teases. He rests his chin on my shoulder, studying our reflections in the mirror. When he lifts my bangs away from my forehead, the lump from my fall leaps into view. He touches the bruise. “Hey, how’d this happen?”

“I tripped and hit it on my nightstand.”

“Ouch.” He smoothes my bangs back. “I hope no one thinks I did that to you.”

Confused, I watch his face in the glass. “Shane, why would they?”

He laughs and I jump, which makes him laugh even harder. “Hah! Right! Why would they?”

He loops his arms around my waist, undoing the tie on my robe. The bow on my bra appears, a rectangle of stomach, a sliver of panties. Self-conscious, I reach to close it.

Shane moves my hand aside. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. Then he leans in, kissing my neck. I watch him in the mirror as his dark hair falls across his face, as his lips creep slowly toward my ear, then tenderly nibble the lobe. His tongue inches inside, exploring the innermost folds. Shane’s kisses ignite something that’s never been on fire before. And if we were making out somewhere else—in a movie or at a concert—I’d be fine with what’s going on. But this is not happening somewhere else.

Shane moves closer, pressing his full weight against me. His hand reaches through the opening in my robe. His fingers ease beneath my bra.

I glance at my clock. “Shane,” I whisper, “I should get dressed. It’s six thirty. You have to go to work. And my mother will be home soon.”

“I’m not afraid of the Momster,” he breathes, moving against me. The bones that stick out on either side of my hips grind against the edge of my dresser. When a sudden sharp pain rages there, I say, “Ow!”

Shane takes my hand. Turns me around. Lowers me onto my bed.

“I want you.” His lips graze my neck again. But now the good feeling’s gone.

“Please, Shane. I think we should stop. I don’t think I—”

Shane’s mouth covers mine, silencing me. He reaches to unzip his jeans.

My pulse races. I pray for Mom to show up. I don’t care that I’ll have to confess it was my fault Shane came over. Or how it looks that I have my bathrobe on. I just want to hear the familiar sound of her car pulling into the garage.

My heart wallops my throat so hard, I’m scared my neck might explode. “I’m not
ready!
” I blurt out. Except I can’t tell if the words make a sound, or if I only
think
them.

But they must. Make a sound, that is. Because Shane rises up from my bed. Avoiding my eyes, he zips his pants. Adjusts his T-shirt. Takes a step back. Then he starts down the hall, past Mom’s room, the bathroom, the guest room.

Suddenly I feel guilty. I’m not sure why, but I do. Big time. “Shane”—tying my robe closed, I follow him—“don’t go. You said we could talk. Remember?”

I step between him and the kitchen door.

There’s a raw, unfamiliar pain in Shane’s eyes I’ve never seen before. He looks so vulnerable. Could he really be the same confident person who took on the Veep? All traces of that person are erased now.

I reach to touch his face, but he pushes my hand away. That’s when I realize he’s crying. “Shane,” I whisper, “what’s wrong?”

Hard, wrenching sobs shake his body. It’s almost too private to watch. He gulps air, like someone trying to stay afloat. “I—I care—way too—much about—you.”

Our eyes meet. Then lock. Something deep in our centers connects. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. We’re joined. Perhaps permanently.

Shane doesn’t look away, either. “Y—you’re my whole fucking universe,” he chokes out. “You’re all I think about, Ariel, the only person I want to b—be with. Ever.”

Oh. My. God. Ever. As in
forever.
He cares that much about me.

When Shane blinks, our gaze is interrupted, and I feel like my lifeline’s been cut. I clasp his waist, holding tight, so I won’t drown without him.

Shane doesn’t reach back, though. He removes my arms, placing them at my sides like he’s posing a mannequin. Then he reaches for the doorknob.

“
Wait!
” I shout, surprising myself.

Shane turns. “Wait for what, Ariel?” He flips up the blank screen again. Studies me with the same cool look you’d use to examine a specimen in chem lab.

The detachment undoes me. I can’t take it. I want him back. I untie my robe, let it part. “I’ve changed my mind. I
am
ready.”

Shane reaches down, touching the bruise that’s forming on my hip. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he says, and his eyes fill again. He gathers the ties on my robe, knotting them across my front. “You’re not ready, Ariel. Not for someone who loves you the way I do.”

I open my mouth to speak, but Shane presses a finger to my lips.

Turning, wordlessly, he leaves.

As I watch him cross our garage, then start outside, activating the motion light, I make a silent promise to myself. I will be ready next time. Maybe after Mom and I return from our trip to Elmira.

Yes, I decide.

That’s when.

I
am officially dieting
, something I never dreamed I’d do. Food is the only thing that’s ever mattered to me. But now I have Tad. Tad, who thinks I’m pretty and smart and nice. I would like to add thin to that list. Looking good for him is my number one priority. And I love having a priority. I feel like I’m doing something normal people might do. People who don’t avoid everyone they come into contact with. People who don’t shut themselves in their room at night with a two-thousand-calorie “snack” because that’s the only thing they have to look forward to. I’m glad to leave that club. As long as I have Tad, I’ll never go back. Ever.

On Saturday morning, I wash Mom’s and my clothes at the laundromat, same as I do every weekend. Except, instead of coming straight home afterward, I park the laundry basket inside the door to Franklin’s Five and Dime. Wandering the aisles, I search for
AYDS
Appetite Suppressant Candy, which I saw advertised on a
TV
commercial. When I find it, I buy two boxes—one chocolate and one butterscotch.

Each morning that next week, I eat a bowl of Total cereal with skim milk then pack my lunch: a single sandwich—lettuce, tomato, and
Velveeta cheese with Miracle Whip—a bag of carrot sticks, an apple, and a Tab cola. And every day after school, I meet Tad at McDonald’s and drink a diet soda while I help him study for his
GED
.

The second Friday after Tad and I start meeting, I’m wearing a pair of size eighteen pants and a pink cardigan I bought at the thrift store. Coming through the door, I feel like Donna Fargo when she sang “The Happiest Girl in the Whole
USA
.”

But once I’m inside, all those good feelings vanish. Tad isn’t sitting in our usual booth, waiting for me. I case out the non-smoking section. The counter area. The hallway outside the bathrooms. No Tad.

My heart pounds so hard, I’m scared I’ll go into cardiac arrest. I hurry back outside, hyperventilating.

A voice calls my name. When I whirl around, my tote bag butts me in the rear. It’s heavy—loaded with books and binders for every subject, so I’ll be prepared for whatever Tad’s in the mood to learn about.

“Madeline!” I hear a second time.

I scan the parking lot. Tad’s head pokes out the window of a navy blue pickup truck. It’s rusted in spots, and there’s a dent on the passenger side.

I hurry to him, out of breath. “W—why aren’t you working?”

“They changed my hours,” he tells me. “I’m off at three.”

My heart sinks. I don’t get out of school until three, and then I have a fifteen-minute walk. I’ll never get to McDonald’s in time to see Tad. Suddenly I want a Big Mac. Three Big Macs. Five. I could kill for them. I reach into my pocketbook, unwrap an
AYDS
candy, and pop it in my mouth, chewing furiously. I’m not following the directions on the package—I’m supposed to chew two before a meal—but I have to quell the storm churning in my middle. I have to quiet the Beast.

“Hey,” Tad says, smiling, “don’t look so glum. It’s good news.”

I’m suspicious. What’s good for everyone else usually stinks for me. I narrow my eyes. “Like what?”

“They made me the new assistant manager for the seven-to-three shift.”

I glance at my watch. It’s three thirty. “So…” I start.

“So I’m off work,” Tad finishes.

“So…” I repeat. Like I’m an imbecile who only knows one word.

“Sooooooo, where do you want to go?”

“
Go?
” Now I’m turning into a parrot.

“Yeah. For a drive.” He hops out, motioning to me. “You’ve gotta get in on the driver’s side. The door on your side doesn’t work.”

Tad said
my
side. I stare at the open door.

“Don’t worry,” he says, watching me. “The dent wasn’t my fault. Honest. I was inside the 7-Eleven when it happened. Hit-and-run.”

My mouth won’t move. Nodding is all I can manage. I step up onto the running board. My thighs just barely clear the steering wheel as I slide across the seat. But I make it to the other side.

My
side.

Tad clears his throat. “I was wondering…” His thumbs do a nervous dance on the steering wheel. “If maybe you’d like to see a movie.”

“A movie?” I fasten my seat belt to keep from leaping into the air. “Uh, sure.”

“Good.” He smiles. “
Airport ’77
is playing at the Royale Theater.” He glances at the clock on his dashboard. “The next show’s in forty-five minutes.”

Tad parks near the recreation area that runs along the river. On the walk to the theater, I grow excited. I’ve never been inside a movie house before.

At the concession stand Tad asks for popcorn and Raisinets, and I get a Tab. Inside the theater, we sit near the back. I’m amazed by the size of the screen—a hundred times bigger than a TV. When the projector starts and the previews come on, the sound is everywhere. Above me, below me, around me, filling me up when I breathe.

In the darkness, Tad reaches for my hand, sending a million shock waves surging through me. My God, I’m actually being touched. I’m feeling what girls like Muralee Blawjen get to feel all the time. For a moment, I block out the giant screen and the amazing sound, and I focus on this one thing, attempting to memorize every detail. Tad’s damp palm, shielding my hand like a pup tent. The tickle of knuckle fuzz when he weaves his fingers through mine. And the amazing warmth. Warmth like I’ve never felt before but suddenly can’t live without.

When the film ends, the downtown stores are closed. As we amble past them Tad slips his arm around my waist. I never want the moment to end. I want to walk up and down Main Street a billion times, Tad’s arm drawn around me as the stores open and close, as the window displays change from fall to winter to spring to summer and back to fall again. By then, I’ll be thinner than Muralee Blawjen. I’ll be finished with high school, and maybe Tad will ask me to marry him.

Tad stops in front of a poster gallery, studying a Salvador Dali print—the one with the melting clocks. “That’s so cool,” he says.

“It’s called
The Persistence of Memory
,” I tell him.

He looks at me, surprised. “Hey, how’d you know that?”

“Art history class.”

Tad turns to face me. He takes my hands in his. “Mind if I kiss you?”

“Yes,” I whisper, blushing. “I mean, no. No, I don’t mind. Yes, you can kiss me.”

Gently, Tad’s lips meet mine. I taste the lingering saltiness of his popcorn, the sweetness of his candy. But mostly, I taste life—which I’m discovering is quite delicious.

* * *

All that next week, I meet Tad at McDonald’s to help him study. Then we go for a drive and park along a country road and kiss some more. When it’s time for Tad to take me home, a part of me always dies. I never want to let go.

On Friday, he invites me to have dinner and see another movie. Other than having fried chicken at the bowling alley snack bar where one of Mom’s boyfriends used to take us, I’m not used to eating out. I have no idea how dressed up to get. So I play it safe and wear my new size sixteen bell bottoms and a frilly peasant blouse with elastic at the wrists so the sleeves won’t accidentally ride up and show off my ugly lizard arm. And because it’s late October, and the night air is getting chilly, I bring along a blazer too.

Tad parks in front of a diner called the Second Chance, just before the exit to the highway. I’ve driven by it dozens of times, on the way to Cherry Hill Cemetery, but I’ve never been inside. I feel like I’m on the stage set for
The Wild Wild West.
Saddles and wagon wheels and old shotguns hang from the ceiling beams. Movie posters from Westerns like
Rooster Cogburn
and
The Magnificent Seven
and
High Plains Drifter
line the dark, paneled walls. Tad leads the way toward a deserted back corner. He slides into a booth, and I sit across from him.

“You look really nice,” he tells me. “You’re wearing makeup, aren’t you?”

I panic, worried I didn’t put it on right. “Yeah. Does it look okay?”

“Sure. It makes your eyes stand out.” He squints. “There’s something else too.”

“I’ve lost weight,” I volunteer.

“That must be it.” He fishes in his pocket for a coin and drops it in the miniature jukebox mounted to the wall beside our booth. He punches a number and I recognize the song right away—“If You Leave Me Now” by Chicago. In it, a man is begging a woman not to go away. He says he’ll die inside if she does. I know exactly how he feels. That’s how I’d be without Tad. I wouldn’t have anything to live for.

A waitress arrives, wearing a Western shirt, blue jeans, and a cowboy hat. “Evenin’, kids,” she drawls, slapping two menus on the table. “Start ya off with a drink?”

Tad smiles. “Two beers, please.”

The waitress grins. “You got IDs saying you’re eighteen?”

Tad’s toe taps mine under the table. “Okay, make that two Pepsis.”

“Diet for me please,” I add, reaching in my purse for two
AYDS
candies.

When the waitress returns with our drinks I order a chef salad and Tad asks for the Blue Plate Special, which—that day—is fried fish, a baked potato, and a side of lima beans.

After she drops our food off, Tad’s lip curls. “I hate lima beans.”

I laugh. “Then why’d you order them?”

“Well, I didn’t order lima beans, per se, I ordered the Blue Plate Special.”

Tad must read my confusion. He reaches into his wallet, pulling out a flattened stack of tickets. He passes them over to me.

“Good for one daily Blue Plate Special,” I read aloud.

“You used to be able to buy those tickets in advance, and you’d save fifty cents on the meal.” Tad draws a breath and scratches his ear. “My mom gave me those two weeks before I started first grade. I asked her why she was doing that when we usually paid by the day. And she looked away, playing with her clip-on earring, telling me, ‘Well, you’re a big boy now, you won’t want your mama tagging along with you all the time. You might want to come here on your own. Or bring your dad or a friend from school.’ She forced a smile, and my stomach felt queasy, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. I said back, ‘Why would I wanna come here without you?’ but she just stared off again.”

“And then what happened?” I ask him.

“She left two days later. Up and moved to New Mexico to shack up with some asshole lawyer. Haven’t seen her since.”

A dark, aching silence crowds the space between us. I reach for Tad’s hand and ask him, “Did you ever use any of those tickets?” because that’s all I can think to say.

“Nope. Haven’t stepped foot inside the front door since my mom was with me.” Tad swallows hard, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “It’s funny, but when you’re a kid, your brain gets a hold of these strange notions and acts like maybe they’re true or something. And I think a part of my little pea brain told me that if I ever used one of those tickets and ate a Blue Plate Special without my mom, that would prove she wasn’t coming back.”

“You’re here now, though.”

“Yeah.” He buries the tickets in my palm and squeezes my fingers closed around them. “Because you are.”

* * *

The next morning, I wake with a terrible headache. I swallow two aspirin, but a half hour later, I’m still hurting. Tiny lightning bolts zip back and forth behind my eye sockets. When I perk Mom’s coffee, the sound magnifies, hammering away at my temples, and the smell makes me want to puke. But I’ve heard coffee helps a headache, so when the brewing’s done I pour myself some. I add three spoons of sugar and an ice cube, then gulp it down before I can taste it.

After two mugs, the pain lets up. I gather our laundry and start for the laundromat.

I’m on a bench inside reading a
True Story
magazine when the bell jangles and Mom waltzes through the door. I always do our laundry alone, so her presence puts me on alert. “What’s up?” I ask, flipping a page.

As she sits next to me, the scent of
V05
hair spray settles down alongside her. “Madeline, I met this guy…”

Jesus, here we go again. “Where’d you meet him?”

“At Domenic’s.” Domenic’s is a newsstand where she occasionally picks up a paper and glances at the classifieds so she can report to the welfare office that she’s looking for work.

“What’s his name?” I ask flatly. Not because I care. I’m just passing time.

“He was buying vanilla pipe tobacco. I hope I get to smell it sometime.”

I stare past her—at our sheets, twirling in erratic circles in the dryer. “His name?”

She looks away, which I take to mean she either doesn’t know or can’t remember.

The dryer buzzes. I give the sheets a quick feel and drop another quarter in the slot. “So where’s Mystery Man taking you?”

Her cheeks look sunken, and there’s this weird blue cast to her face. “Huh?”

I roll my eyes. “On your date. Where’s he taking you?”

“Oh, well, we don’t exactly have a date yet. We talked is all. He works at the hardware store.” She giggles. “Never know when I might run out of nails.”

“Or screws,” I mumble, standing to buy a Tab from the soda machine. When I return and pop the tab Mom licks her lips like one of Pavlov’s dogs. She feels in her pocket and pulls out several wrinkled bills. Her hands shake as she presses them flat on her knee. “I need to stop at the store. My redheaded aunt’s in town.”

“I’ve got a box of pads in my room,” I say, testing her. “Take some of mine.”

Mom holds the bills tightly, like a kid trying not to lose track of her allowance. “That’s okay”—she stands and starts toward the exit—“I don’t want to short you.”

* * *

A sound startles me, and I jump up from the couch. When I realize it’s Mom coming in, I glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. I think of the announcement that comes on just before the late news, saying, “Parents, it’s 10 P.M.—do you know where your children are?” When I was little, I used to wonder why they didn’t have one for
kids
, asking if they knew where their
parents
were.

The TV test pattern is on, which means I fell asleep and missed the ending to
Carrie.
Damn. I was really looking forward to seeing her use her telekinetic powers to get revenge on her classmates at the prom.