God is in the Pancakes (16 page)

“You're sure?” he says, making it sound like he just bit into something that tastes a little funky.

“Absolutely,” I reply, absolutely sure of nothing.

“Okay.” He nods. “I guess I'll see you at lunch then.”

Lunch.

Terrifying.

I sit down at an empty table and half expect Eric not to show up. The thought of again eating alone—especially in the middle of a crowded cafeteria—is almost sickening. But he does come, and when Eric takes the seat next to me, he nods, making me feel like an awful friend for doubting him. When I see Natalie and Jake talking at the front of the lunchroom, I can't resist bringing us back to a conversation that I know will spark Eric's interest.

“What do you think they're saying?” I ask him, nudging my head in Natalie's direction.

“Well,” Eric replies, “if I'm Natalie, I'm looking at Jake and wondering what it ever was that I saw in him. And I'm probably saying something like, ‘Jake, you jerk, why is it that you're not buying my lunch for me, carrying me piggyback to our lunch table, and insisting I cross puddles by stepping on your head.' ”

“I can see that,” I reply, watching as Jake begins gesticulating somewhat more aggressively. “And I'll bet now he's saying, ‘But Natalie, my friends will think I'm whipped if I throw rose petals on the ground wherever you walk—I mean, I want to—but I have a reputation to uphold.' ”

Eric laughs and continues in his Natalie voice, “Oh, Jake, that's so funny—you don't have a reputation. And let's be real, you couldn't be more whipped! I mean look at me, tee hee!”

“But Natalie,” I say, staring at Jake, who is now rather wildly moving his hands in a chopping motion, “you know I'd do the Tomahawk Chop for you as many times as you asked me to. But I'm a dude, and we dudes need some sugar.”

Eric rolls his eyes and breaks character. “We dudes need some sugar?” he repeats.

“Look, just because I live in a house of crazy women does not mean I don't understand your gender.”

“Uh, yes”—he extends his pointer finger in the air—“it does.”

“Oh, yeah?” I reply, grabbing hold of his finger. Eric then grabs hold of my other hand and begins twisting as we both start laughing, “Hey! No fair using the moves you've learned watching the Wide World of Wrestling all these years.”

“If it weren't for what I've learned from TV wrasslin', I wouldn't know nuthin' at all.”

Because we're both now focused on our wrestling match that's playing out above our lunch bags, neither one of us notices that Natalie has approached our table until she pulls out the seat across from us and sits down.

“Hey,” she says, causing both Eric and me to drop our hands immediately, both of us feeling like morons.

“Oh, hey,” I reply.

Natalie nods to Eric, then says, “Hi, I'm Natalie.”

“Eric,” he replies.

“Oh,
this
is Eric! I've heard about you.” Natalie smiles at me. “You're right, Grace, he is totally cute.”

And somehow the moment just got more embarrassing still.

“Wait a second.” Natalie cocks her head to the side. “Are you Eric Ward?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Oh, that makes sense!”

“What makes sense?”

“Well, your name came up. Let's just say Grace isn't the only one who's talking about you.” She practically twinkles when she says this.

I've never had the impulse to ram a Ding Dong in someone else's face before, but I'm quite certain that would take the glint out of Natalie's eye, at least temporarily. I watch as she brushes the hair that's fallen across her eyes off her face, and follow her hands as they fold across her waist.

Natalie sighs and leans in. “I just talked to Jake.”

“Oh, really?” I try to sound blasé as I see Eric, who still looks a little uncomfortable, give me a conspiratorial smile.

“I told him I'm not going to go to the dance with him.”

“That was a good decision.” I nod.

“But here's the thing.” Natalie idly clasps and unclasps the hook on her wristwatch. “I still really want to go. Are you guys going?” She looks between Eric and me.

We both kind of shrug, trying hard to avoid eye contact for the moment.

“I don't think so,” Eric responds for the both of us, “we're not, like, typical dance people.”

“Well, what's wrong with you two? They're so much fun!” she replies. “Wait, okay, I have this great idea, we three should go to the dance together.”

“Oh, uh—” I hesitate.

“Um—” Eric says simultaneously.

“Excellent, I'll take those two eager responses as a yes.” Natalie smiles. Then she pushes her chair out and stands up. “See you guys later! And practice up on your moves, because we're going to be out on the dance floor all night.”

Eric and I sit there for a moment in silence after she's gone, then we both take a bite of our respective lunches and chew, mulling what's just happened and what it means.

At the very least it means that Eric and I will be going to the dance together after all.

After explaining that I'd come down with a terrible twenty-four-hour virus, and was ready to make up the Vietnam test, my skeptical—but ultimately kind—American History teacher, Mr. Leightem, let me retake it after school. The questions were exactly the ones Eric and I had quizzed each other on, so for the first time in I don't know how long, I actually felt confident giving my answers. When I finished writing up a “working definition of
Vietnamization,
” I handed my paper back to Mr. Leightem, and headed for home since today was one of my Hanover House off-days.

Mom gets in from work around seven thirty, again looking like she'd been to war herself. “And how was your day?” I ask as she drops her bag and takes her shoes off by the door.

“Terrible. Refrigeration system broke in the restaurant on Lancaster Avenue.”

“So all the food went bad?” I wonder if this makes us the lucky recipients of a hundred pounds of almost spoiled ground chuck.

“Funny you should ask,” Mom replies, plopping down to the couch. “The answer to that is no. And why not? Well, because Jim, the chief operating officer—the guy you'll recall I've had some issues with before—well, he thought this was a grand opportunity for us to have an impromptu ‘all you can eat' promotion.” Mom puts her hand on her forehead. “I thought for sure it was a joke, but no. So Peter not only had me trying to call in as much press as I could to promote it, he then insisted I help hostess in the restaurant to handle the overflow.”

“You're kidding! You had to hostess?” I picture my mom wearing one of those awful You Say Potato . . . uniforms, and though part of me can't help thinking that it is sort of funny, the other part knows how horrible this would have to be for her.

“Do you believe that? I've worked there too long to have to put up with that shit.” Anger flashes across her face. She'd started working in one of the chain's restaurants as a kitchen manager when Dad quit his job at the roofing company, and gradually worked her way up. That makes this return to in-restaurant work literally a move back down the food chain for her.

“Well, I hope you told them it was beneath your dignity,” I say, suddenly feeling a wave of anger rising on her behalf. I look around our living room and realize it's a mess. After the day she had, I feel bad that Mom has to come home to this, so I start picking up the stray magazines and newspapers and making piles. “Hope you told him you wouldn't take it, Mom.”

“Sure,” she laughs, lying back on the couch, “and if I'd said that, he would have frog-marched me out the door.”

“Well, just so you know, I'd be happy to go into that restaurant and tell him off for you if you want.” I walk over to Mom at the couch and put my hand on her shoulder. “I mean, that's insane. You are just way too old to be hostessing!”

“Thanks, Grace,” she replies, “that makes me feel much better.”

“I mean—” I say quickly, “well you know what I mean.”

“I do and I thank you anyway.” Mom laughs again, then suddenly sits up and narrows her eyes at me. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Just straightening up. You had a long day, and I just wanted to help out.”

“Well, thanks again,” she says, rubbing her feet. “You wouldn't want to take over the foot rubbing thing for me here, would you?”

“Um, gross.”

“Worth a shot. You know what?” Mom says. “I don't really feel like cooking tonight, and I definitely didn't want to take any of the food home from work. What do you say we just order Chinese?”

“Good call.” I pull the menu from the drawer in the kitchen by the phone and hand it to Mom. But even before I do, I know what she's going to order: egg drop soup and chicken in black bean sauce. Then she'll tell me to remind them to put in extra of those “crunchy things.” But she surprises me tonight.

“I need red meat. This hot and spicy beef sounds good. And let's get a scallion pancake to start. What do you want?”

“I'll get the chicken chow fun,” I reply as I pick up the phone and dial the number for Hunan Pan.

“Is your sister around?” Mom asks, and when I shrug, she says, “Well, I suppose there'll be plenty left for her if she deigns to eat with us tonight.” She smiles at me slyly. Lolly's let it be known that she's no longer talking to me, and though I don't think Mom knows exactly why Lolly's been so angry, she definitely knows something's up. I know she's not supposed to take sides, but especially tonight, I'm glad Mom's chosen mine. “Oh, and Grace, remind them to put in extra of those crunchy things.”

“Of course.” I smile back at her.

As Mom and I wait for the delivery guy, I sit down on the couch next to her. It's the first time that I can remember being in this position and not immediately reaching for the remote, but it wouldn't feel right.

“So Mom,” I say, lifting her legs over my thighs so she can still stay sprawled out on the couch, “what ever happened to that guy who owns the dry cleaner's next to the restaurant?” She'd mentioned his name a bunch of times recently, and I had a feeling it wasn't just because she was fond of the way he pressed her cuffs.

“Funny you should mention Tom,” she says, a slight smile coming across her lips. “He's good. He actually came into the restaurant today.”

“Not while you were hostessing?”

“Yes!” she replies, immediately growing more animated, almost teenagery. “I was mortified. I mean, can you imagine?”