Read Between the Lines (15 page)

But she’s all flustered. “I hate the finger. I hate it. Why do people do that? It’s terrible.”

“It’s just a finger,” I point out.

“But you didn’t deserve it. His poor children had to see that, too. Ugh.”

“Mom, don’t get hysterical. It’s no big deal.” I reach over and touch her arm reassuringly. “Really.”

“Both hands on the wheel,” she says. But she lets go of the bar with her other hand and touches her arm where I touched it and smiles.

“We’re going to Little Cindy’s, by the way,” she says. “Exit six.”

“Little Cindy’s? Really?”

“It’s our place. You know that.”

Of course it is. We’re talking about my mom and dad, after all. Their place couldn’t be a cool café somewhere. Or a nice upscale restaurant. No. It has to be a crappy chain restaurant whose sign is of a little girl with pigtails.
This
is my parents’ romantic meet-up. I’m telling you.

“I wish you wouldn’t make fun,” my mom says. “You know the story. You know why it’s special.”

“Yeah, I know.”

When my parents were in high school, my dad was a cashier there. My mom and her friends would go and give him a hard time. My poor dad would have to wait on them and ask all the usual required questions about what flavor milk shake they wanted, and they’d make these crazy orders to hold the onions and add extra tomatoes and all kinds of stuff just to torture him. One day an argument broke out between a customer and another cashier. This is my mom’s favorite part of the story, and every time she tells it my dad gets a little more heroic. My dad leaped over the counter to fight the guy, but before anything happened, the supervisor came out and fired my dad on the spot, even though the cashier and all the other customers said my dad was just defending her. My mom says the moment he jumped the counter was the moment she fell in love with him.

I don’t think my dad has done anything heroic since, but it doesn’t matter. At that moment, my mom saw his potential. His
goodness
, she says.

So that’s why Little Cindy’s. It’s where their lives together began. And, according to my mother, a reminder to my dad of what he’s capable of.

“I’ve never told you this,” my mom says. “But that place is special to me for another reason, too.”

“What’s that?”

“It reminds me of a time I stopped being so shallow and learned to look at people for who they really are, not what they seem. I was changed that day, as much as your dad.”

I still have trouble imagining my dad in this scenario they’ve played out for me a million times over the years. It’s hard to imagine my dad as the strong guy, the hero, that all kids want their dads to be. Because one question overshadows it all: What the heck happened to him?

And by mistake, I ask it out loud.

“What do you mean, ‘What happened’?”

I grip the steering wheel more tightly. “Never mind,” I say.

She looks out the window, ashamed of me. I deserve it.

But I do want to know. What happened to the handsome, muscular, brave man in the Little Cindy’s uniform? When did he become the slouching, potbelly guy with the receding hairline? When did he start wearing his sad-dad uniform?

When did he stop being a hero?

This time, I am sensitive enough not to ask out loud.

We inch through traffic. My mom rolls down the window a crack, even though the breeze from outside is November cold.

“People grow up,” she says. “People have to make sacrifices. For their family. Your dad, he always wanted to go to law school. Or be a real-estate agent. Or maybe a banker. Or something that required him to wear a suit. You know. A businessman. But . . .”

She looks over at me guiltily. I burned her, now it’s my turn to get a sting. I kind of want it, at this point.

“When I got pregnant, things had to be put on hold for a while. Your dad didn’t want you being raised by strangers in a day-care center, so I quit school and stayed home, and he . . .”

Oh, crap. Never mind. I don’t want the sting after all. Please don’t say it.

“He quit school to work full-time. Things were tight.”

So who my dad became was . . . my fault? Am I the reason the hero she fell in love with turned into . . . Dad?

“That’s why Dad never got his dream,” I say.

I sense her shaking her head. “Well, he’s getting it today.”

We pull into the Little Cindy’s parking lot. It seems kind of crowded for late afternoon, since it’s not really dinnertime yet. Lots of people from school come here because it’s cheap and a place to go instead of home. But I hate it here. The minute you step inside, all you can smell is this nasty fried meat smell — and I’m not talking about the kind of smell that makes your mouth water. I’m talking about the kind of greasy dead animal smell that makes you gag. I came a few times at the beginning of the year, but couldn’t stand smelling like a dead chicken when I left. I don’t know what the appeal is. I guess it’s a step above McDonald’s or something. Anyway, people show up. Grab tables. Give the poor people who work here a hard time, laughing together because goofing on some poor schmuck behind the counter is apparently the funniest thing in the world. Sit around. Tell everyone what they just did because they have nothing better to talk about, even though everyone saw them do it. Repeat. It’s not really my idea of a good time.

I find an open spot in the parking lot and practice my mad three-point parking skills. My mother sucks in her breath as I make the last turn and slide into the space. I don’t blame her for being nervous. It’s not as if I’ve had a lot of practice yet. But I manage to get the car between the white lines.

I cut the engine and wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans. We spot my dad’s empty Ford Taurus across the way and head inside. I walk slowly, letting my mom go ahead of me a bit. I realize that I might know some people here from school, and they are about to see me with my parents, and possibly my parents behaving very emotionally. This all has the potential to be the most embarrassing moment of my life. An image of my dad jumping up from some ketchup-stained table and running across the restaurant toward us, arms outstretched, picking my mom up and swinging her around in a circle, flashes in front of me.

Please no.

My mom pauses at the door like I’m supposed to open it for her. I mean I know I am, but, just this once, couldn’t she pretend not to know me? For pity’s sake?

I take a deep breath and open the door. A flood of warm, greasy chicken air engulfs us. My mom cranes her neck around like a turkey to spot my dad. Most of the tables are taken by kids from school or old people. There’s a long line at the counter that snakes through a maze marked by a metal railing. A few girls are sitting on the top rung, laughing and snapping their gum.

“There he is!” my mom says way too loudly. She grabs my hand as if I’m five and starts to drag me across the restaurant. I twist free (kind of like a five-year-old) and pray to God no one saw. My mom winds her way through the tables, stepping over backpacks left on the floor. My dad’s sitting at a big table all by himself, and most likely being silently cursed by everyone in the room for taking a huge table for himself.

He stands up and opens his arms to us. Only my mom walks into them. He hugs her tight, just like I envisioned. Thankfully, he does not swing her around. We all take our seats. Me across from them.

“Well?” my mom says. “Are you going to keep us in suspense?”

He beams at me. I’m not proud, but the first thing that pops into my head is,
What Willy Loman story are you going to try to sell us this time?

I feel terrible.

“Wait,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “I want to savor this moment.”

“Walt,” my mom says, giggling. “You’re such a goof.”

They’re holding hands on top of the table. I scan the room for people I know. I recognize a bunch from school but don’t see anyone I actually know-know, thank God. Not that there are many that would fall in that category.

“As you are aware,” he says, all serious, “I had a job interview today.”

“We know!” my mom says. “Now tell us what happened!”

“First, the interview lasted nearly three hours,” my dad says matter-of-factly. His face is glistening with sweat. He’s wearing his old brown suit, and I notice the elbow area is threadbare. It makes me sad. My dad has horrific taste in clothes. He wears light-blue polyester-type shirts with a breast pocket and brown pants and jacket of a similar material. This is his uniform. I’m surprised that these clothes are actually for sale anywhere. In fact, they probably aren’t. My dad has been wearing them forever. Probably since before I was even born. If it weren’t for the thinning hair and the fact that he’s old, his clothes might even pass for retro cool. But they don’t. Because my dad is wearing them.

“Three hours!” my mom says. “You must be exhausted.”

“It was intense, that’s for sure.” He grins.

“What’s the job, Dad?” I ask, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible.

“Managerial,” he says. He reaches below the table and fiddles in his pants pocket with his free hand, then pulls out a yellowed handkerchief. I’m pretty sure I am the only person under the age of fifty who has a parent who still uses a handkerchief. He carefully dabs the sweat off his face with it.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m still nervous! Can’t seem to calm down.”

My mom uses her free hand to pat him on the shoulder. “Well, you’d better tell us the news before we all need that thing,” she says.

I could be sweating buckets and I would not touch that handkerchief.

“OK, OK,” he says. He sits up taller. “They made an offer.”

My mom screams. Everyone looks over at us. She claps her hand over her mouth, then hugs my dad.

When they finally pull apart, they are both crying.

I glance around the restaurant, horrified. But everyone has already gone back to eating. No one seems to care that my parents just hugged and kissed in public. No one cares that they are sobbing tears of joy.

If that was Ben and me, everyone would be staring. Let’s face it. Two guys kissing is still a rarity. The captain of the basketball team kissing
me
in public would be epic.

I touch my bruised mouth and think of the two of us, hiding in the stairwell. Of Ben’s tears.

My parents don’t realize how lucky they are. They don’t realize how easy they have it, being able to love each other in public like that. Ben and I could be as out as flags on the Fourth of July, and we still wouldn’t get that kind of pass. Everyone would stare. Everyone would snicker. Everyone would judge.

It’s hard to believe I could ever feel jealous of my parents, but right now I kind of do.

“We’re so proud of you, honey,” my mom says, wiping my dad’s face. “We have to celebrate! Stephen, why don’t you get in line for some milk shakes. Chocolate, right, honey?”

“Sure, sure. That would be great,” my dad says. “And French fries. Remember how we used to dip ’em in our shakes?”

My mom smiles at him. “Of course I do.” She lets go of his hand and fumbles in her purse for some money.

“What flavor do you want, Mom?” I ask.

“Chocolate. Of course!”

They beam up at me, faces still glistening. So happy. Despite what happened with Ben earlier, I admit I feel happy too. My dad’s dream actually came true. Damn. He finally did it!

I take the money and go to the back of the line and wait. The group in front of me is definitely from my school but older. Maybe seniors. They’re talking about the colleges they’re applying to and how they hope to get as far away from here as possible. Good plan.

The chicken smell mixed with the person’s cologne in front of me is making me feel nauseous.

Every few minutes, we move forward a couple of feet, then wait. Pretty soon three guys get in line behind me. I know two of them from my lit. elective, but we don’t talk much. Jack Messier and Dylan something. They’re in the grade below me, so we weren’t friends when we were younger, and at my school, it seems the friend cliques that formed in elementary school stay that way, except in rare cases. Like Lacy and me, who became friends because we never belonged to a clique, and I guess eventually we circled around the outside long enough that we bumped into each other.

I touch my phone in my back pocket and think maybe I should call her. Try one more time. But I know it’s hopeless. She was so hurt when I told her the girls were just using her to get closer to Ben. She didn’t want to hear it. And then when she caught Ben and me together one night at her house, it sent her over the edge.

“
You’re
the one using me! Not them!”

And just like that, we went from being best friends to strangers.

Jack nudges Dylan, and he kind of falls into me.

“Sorry,” he says, not even looking at me.

He’s carrying a backpack that he keeps rehiking over his shoulder. He also keeps glaring at one of the guys behind the counter who appears to be giving orders to everyone else. Dylan sort of looks like he wants to kill him. Then the friend I don’t know grabs him and starts pulling him back. They all turn to peer out across the dining room at . . . my dad.

“Uh-oh, isn’t that the guy from this morning?” one of them whispers.