Ditched (6 page)

“Yes. No. Not intentional y.” I readjust myself on the stool. “It’s complicated.”

Gilda closes the lid to the hot dog cooker, waits for the quiet click. “These things are.”

Yeah, so it’s a comforting thing to say, but all I notice is the fact that she isn’t offering me a hot dog; not that I’d eat one, but still. They are glistening—even the corn dogs have a thick warm glow about them, and I’m still starving.

The bel rings, and this lady wearing Bermuda shorts, a tank top, and a fanny pack attached tightly around her, 51

wel . . . fanny, flies through the door. “Morning, Gilda. Need my Red Bul . And my patch.”

“Sure thing, Donna.”

Donna heads off to search the refrigerators for her jumbo sugar-free Red Bul while Gilda digs through boxes next to the counter for a patch. A nicotine patch.

This feels like a routine these two have done many times before.

I can’t help but stare at Donna. Her hair is transitioning to a light gray color, and it’s so short it’s spiky—almost dangerous looking, like a barbed-wire fence. She’s strong, not like manly strong, but like garden-landscaping-rototil ing strong. I say that because her nails are dirty, ful of dark soil, or maybe pudding? And her arms are thick and tan, like a corn dog. I’m just so hungry!

Gilda starts ringing up Donna’s order, and that’s when Donna looks in my direction. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t pretend to be doing anything other than staring at me, and it’s making me uncomfortable. “What happened to you, dol ?” Her voice is strong and raspy.

I try to straighten out my dress, as if that will help.

“I . . . I . . .”

“This poor girl got ditched. At prom,” Gilda explains.

“Ditched? What kind of scumbag would do that to a sweet girl like you?” Donna peers over the counter to get a better look at me, and gives me the ful up-and-down once-over. “Do your shoes match your dress?” 52

“Yes.” I fiddle with my hem. “Mom’s idea.”

“Not a good one.”

I look down, feeling the tears well up as I think about Mom and her eagerness to make me perfectly color coordinated—in
every
way. And how sick it makes me feel, given all the suffering I went through because of these stupid matching shoes. And now Donna, who I don’t even know, is making me nervous with her dangerously spiky hair and eagerness to remind me of my bad decisions. “I really don’t need to have the obvious pointed out right now,” I say, like I’m all confident or something. But I can’t even look her in the eyes.

“Aw, doll, listen up.” She leans over the counter, folds her arms, and gets comfortable. “I got dumped once.

Homecoming. Jessie Saxton took off in his van and left me stranded at the Ledbetter Community Center. I had to walk a mile to a Piggly Wiggly. It was humiliating. I know what you’ve been through.” She pauses as if she’s remembering the details. Her face grows tough, like jerky. “True, I kicked him in the nuts for eyeballing another girl who it turns out was the girl in charge of playing music and he was giving her the eye to start playing our song, which was sweet and all, but still. How was I supposed to know?” She shakes her head, trying to convince herself. “No, he was going to be a scumbag
someday
. They all are.” Before she goes on, I say a quick silent prayer.

Please, please don’t let me grow up to be this hard and crusty.

53

But then I realize there may be some slivers of truth to what Donna’s saying.

There’s no excuse for what Ian did. I guess I should’ve known he’d turn into a scumbag
someday
.

I just wish that day hadn’t been prom.

My stomach growls.

Donna looks over at the hot dogs and corn dogs rotating under the warm glow of fluorescent lights. “You want one?

My treat.”

“Don’t you have a meeting?” Gilda starts bagging her box of nicotine patches. These two seem to know each other wel . Maybe Gilda listens to stories from lots of her customers.

“There wil be others.” Donna winks and says to Gilda,

“This young dol could use a corn dog. Don’tcha think?” Gilda scuffles over to get me a corn dog, and I turn to Donna. “What kind of meeting?” I immediately realize it’s probably an AA meeting and I should keep my mouth shut.

“DA meeting.”

I shrug. “A what?”

“Debtor’s Anonymous.” She pul s out a credit card and slides it across the counter. “I’m a compulsive spender. And a professional under-earner.”

Gilda holds her hand up. “Forget it. Put that thing away.

This one’s on the house.”

I might be the type of person to end up in DA one day too, but Mom’s monitoring of my credit card keeps me in 54

check. Most girls in my high school have credit cards, but they don’t have spending limits like me, and they don’t have moms who read their statements, making sure they only spend money at thrift stores, not the mal .

I have a $400 limit. Per
year
. That gives me $7.69 to spend on clothes every week. Since Tuesdays are orange-dot half-price at the Huntington thrift store, it’s the only day I shop.

If I had my credit card with me right now, and it wasn’t lost forever in the back of Brian Sontag’s Prius, I’d use it to pay Gilda for the glistening corn dog. But al I can do is thank her. I smother the corn dog with ketchup, then hold it up and look at it. I haven’t eaten meat in years. And I know how hot dogs are made. And I am disgusted that I’m about to break my pact to divorce myself from meat. But right now I’m so hungry I’d eat a bunny.

My hand trembles as I pul it closer to my mouth.

“It’s a tofu dog,” Gilda offers at the last possible moment.

“I kinda figured you were one of those.” I cram the dog into my mouth. “Fank you!” I say, relieved that convenient stores have now become convenient for
my
type, too.

Donna leans over the counter. “So who exactly is this scumbag?”

“His name is Ian.” Gilda answers for me, explaining where we are in the story since my mouth is ful of tofu dog.

“He picked her up for prom, he dazzled her mom and trained 55

her dog and brought her a cookie, and basical y presented himself as a perfect guy.” She looks at me for permission, wondering if this is accurate. I nod and chew and swal ow and she continues. “So they’re on their way to some pre-party at Dan’s house and Justina can’t stop thinking about kissing him.”

Donna nods, as if this story is familiar. “So you got tongue-tied with the guy in his car.”

I shake my head and make out a somewhat audible, “No.”

“Sucked face in the driveway?”

“No!”

“At the party?!”

Gilda sighs. “She never kissed him.”

“Oh, no.” Donna stands up straight.

“What?” I swal ow hard and clear my throat so I can final y speak. “Isn’t it a good thing I didn’t kiss him?”

“No, dol . It’s bad, real bad. You’l always wonder . . . was he or wasn’t he?”

I know exactly what she is getting at. And she is absolutely right.

I can’t believe I never got the chance to kiss you, Ian. Now that
we’re non-friends. A non-couple. A non . . . everything.

Donna folds her arms and lifts an eyebrow. “So why did Captain Scumbag ditch you?”

That’s the zil ion dol ar question. I shake my head. “It’s one of those long, complicated stories.” My voice fades away.

“I hear you.” Donna picks at the dirt under her fingernails.

56

“I have some long, complicated stories. But it’s not such a bad thing—it’s because of those stories that I can proudly say I am the cougar I am today. Look it up—cougar—in the wiki encyclopedia.”

“Wikipedia,” I correct her.

She nods. “You’ve seen me, then.”

I turn to Gilda, looking for answers. She holds her hand up like she can take it from here.

“Justina’s story isn’t al that complicated. Not yet,” Gilda explains. “Al we know so far is Ian tried cleaning yel ow curry off her dress and she thought it was adorable and she planned to kiss him at Dan’s pre-party. She got a kiss, except it sounds like it was from someone else.”

“Oh, you gotta tel me this story.” Donna’s eyes sparkle.

She approaches me and reaches out to touch my blue dress, but pul s back. “What are these stains? You an intern for Bill Clinton or something?”

“What? No. NO!”

I take a deep breath and settle onto my stool. Then I start to explain how the stains represent a tapestry of memories, and how they tel a story—

“That’s al fine and good,” Donna interrupts. “But let’s get to Captain Scumbag. And more importantly, this other guy you kissed—scumbag number two.”

I take a deep breath. “The kiss happened right after I got this.” I point to a long black stain, the shape of a thin, wimpy corn dog, just above my knee.

57

4

Dipping Sauce

(Soy, I Think)

WE PULLED INTO Dan’s driveway, the diesel engine rumbling in Ian’s old Mercedes—a clunky, distinctive sound that always made me feel comfortable. Most of the students at Huntington High drive cars that cost as much as a two-bedroom condo, and even though Ian’s car is technically a Mercedes, the fact that the back window doesn’t roll up and the seats have no springs and it is completely lacking in glamour makes me feel at ease. That car
is
Ian.

It was a long driveway—long enough to hold up to twelve cars, and we were lucky to snag the last spot. Dan lives in a neighborhood with sparkling sidewalks and manicured lawns—not a leaf out of place—and houses that have crisp 59

American flags hanging
all
year round, not just on school holidays.

I live in a smal cottage-type house with low ceilings and cracked countertops, over in the old part of town. When you drive down the streets around here, you’l be cruising in an immaculate suburban section, then sneeze and find yourself in a total y urban area. My house was zoned on the very edge of the Huntington High School district—I am one street away from being a Ledbetter girl.

Ever since the night of Jimmy DeFranco’s party, I sometimes wished I were one.

Beautiful people streamed by us as we sat in Ian’s car, not moving, waiting. For something. I wasn’t sure what. Ian leaned over in his seat and tied and re-tied his turquoise Converse high-tops. His fear of tripping extended beyond the track.

“Double knot ’em, babe,” I said.

“Babe?”

I was shocked it had come out of my mouth, too. But there it was—out there. So I had to go with it. “Yeah, it’s a term of endearment.” I narrowed my eyes, trying to look sexy—a look I had practiced hundreds of times by studying tampon ads in
Seventeen
. The girl always looks unhappy, but her crampy face also looks like her sexy face . . . pouty lips, narrowed eyes. “I endear you,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow. My tampon-ad sexy look must have worked, because he said, “I’l endear you later.” 60

“Sounds kinda painful.” I gave him a fake wince.

“If that’s what you want, babe.”

Toe-dip.

Maybe he was ready to take the plunge with me?

“Let’s go.” He popped a piece of Winterfresh gum in his mouth.

But I couldn’t move. I was an igloo—frozen and feeling a little hol ow on the inside. Part of me—a
big
part—did not want to go through that front door. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I do this?

When a limo pul ed up to the curb, I had my answer.

A half dozen couples poured out of the backseat as the driver held the door open for them. They giggled as they stumbled by our car, clearly already tipsy. And the girls were looking a little too . . .
sophisticated
, to say it nicely.
Slutty
whores
, to say it truthful y.

“Look at Brianna Portman’s dress,” I said, with my forehead pressed against the passenger window. “She looks like she’s twenty-five years old. Come on! Does her slit real y need to go
that
high up her thigh?”

“Yes.”

I turned and punched Ian on the arm. “Shut up, perv.”