Authors: Debra Garfinkle
“I do, Evie. Shay’s helping me become popular. She and the Debbies even invited me to their lunch table.”
“You’re not actually going to sit with them, are you?”
“Of course I am. You too. Let’s boogie.”
“
Boogie
? Where the heck is my old friend Tyler?”
“What’s wrong with instantly upgrading our standing at school?” I point to the popular table. Shay is squeezed tight against The Dick, groping his bicep.
“That looks like a downgrade to me.”
I stand and pick up my tray. “You coming with me or not?”
“Not. And where’s the money you promised me for lying to your mother?”
“Shay stole it.” I leave the table.
As I approach Debbie M., she shouts, “Ty Ty! You made it! Alone! When I saw you in the nerd area, I freaked out that you were going to bring one back with you.” She shivers.
I feel like shivering myself.
“Sit here!” She points to approximately three inches of space next to her.
“I can’t fit there. Hey, I see a spot next to Shay.”
“Silly Ty Ty. I’ll sit on your lap.”
“But how am I supposed to eat, Debbie M.?”
She stands up. Her blouse is so sheer it’s practically invisible. “Call me Deb Deb.”
“Okeydokey, Deb Deb.” If she asked me to now, I’d call her Supreme Goddess of the Universe.
I sit on the bench, and she climbs onto my lap and leans against my chest. I think,
Who needs to eat, anyway?
But I can’t help looking down the bench—past the Weeble who tripped Evie in the hallway last week, past Loose Lori and Spacy Stacy, past Shay as she gets on The Dick’s lap—and peering toward my old lunch table. It’s too far away to see Evie. I hope she’s not eating alone.
Debbie M. twists her head toward me and kisses my cheek. She smells like a grove of rotting lemons. “So Shay says you’re throwing a gnarly party.”
“Definitely. For her birthday. We’re having a kegger.”
“My birthday girl.” The Dick grabs Shay’s face and kisses her.
Debbie M. grabs my face. She puts her lips close to mine.
“Deb Deb,” I whisper to stall for time.
“Ty Ty.”
“Deb Deb.”
I remove her hands from my face and check my watch. Phew. Only approximately two more minutes until the lunch bell rings. “Deb Deb, would you mind getting off my lap so I can eat some lunch?”
20
The past week has
been pretty cool. I ’ve got a little routine going—riding the bus to school, reading books back-stage in the theater, going to physics class, eating lunch in the cafeteria, working at the diner, taking the bus home, and hanging with the Grays.
It’s not a bad life. I even like physics. And I’m getting into reading, secretly, of course. I returned those beauty books to the library and swiped
Othello
and
Valley of the Dolls.
Shakespeare is almost as steamy as Jacqueline Susann.
Lunchtime is great today. Tyler’s sitting with us, everyone seems jazzed about my birthday party, and John says his brother can get us a keg.
Then Rick starts in on me again. “Will you let me walk you to fourth period today, or are you going to split again?”
I give him a dumb-girl shrug. He c an’t walk me to class after lunch because I don’t go to class after lunch. And I c an’t tell him that, no matter how many times he asks. He always wants to know stuff about me.
Who do you have for English? Where’s your locker? How come I didn’t see you at the assembly yesterday?
I keep trying to distract him with my hands and mouth, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep up the Sexy Mystery Woman thing.
I wish I had my cell. When you eat lunch or walk down the school hallways without a cell phone against your ear or an iPod, you actually have to talk to people. It’s weird. So even though the school is an open campus, people keep asking where I’m going. Rick especially.
“If y ou’d let me walk you to class, I could carry that for you.” He points to my feet, at the linen tote bag Mrs. Gray made me.
If Rick looked inside and saw my work apron, which I just washed but is still disgusting, and my books, h e’d probably ask a million more questions. So I clamp my feet around the bag, put my hands on Rick’s open shirt, and play with the hairs on his chest.
He grabs my hands. “Come on, Shay. Answer me for once. Why c an’t I walk you to your next class? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”
The bell rings. “Let go of me, Rick,” I say.
He does. “Sorry. I just want to be with you, that’s all.” “We d on’t need to walk around the halls, like, all a rm-i n-a rm cutesy.”
“We d on’t need to, but I want to. D on’t you?” he asks.
“It’s not just about
wants
, Rick.” What I really want is to walk to Krasno’s Diner as fast as possible before anyone sees me and before I’m late to work. I get up, smile at him, say, “Catch you later,” and rush off.
He follows me.
I walk toward the school entrance. Once he sees I’m leaving, I’m sure h e’ll turn around and head to his next class.
I go off campus. He keeps following me. I spin around and ask, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Let me take your bag for you,” he pleads.
I shake my head. “If you must know, I’m going to my p art-t ime job, okay?”
“That’s cool, Shay.”
“No, Rick, it’s not cool. It’s at a decrepit old diner. I spend fifteen hours a week there cleaning crap off stuff.”
He shrugs. “You want company?”
“Rick. You d on’t understand. I put my hair in a pony, wear an old apron, and end up greasy and smelly. It’s not sexy. Trust me, you d on’t want to see me in that dive scrubbing dishes.”
“Man. Here I am, totally stoked y ou’re being honest with me for once, and you act like all I care about is your looks.”
“But . . .”
“As long as I’m missing fourth period to walk my girlfriend to her job, I might as well help her a little.”
“Girlfriend?” I gulp.
“For sure.” He takes the tote bag from me. “Whoa, that apron really is ugly.” He laughs. “I bet you look cute in it. What else you got in the bag?”
“None of your—”
He peers in. “It’s books, right? You like to read?”
“Well, I—”
“I c an’t believe how lucky I am. Finding a hardworking girl who’s foxy and smart too.”
“And what about sweet?” I’m pushing it now.
“Sweet to the max.”
We hold hands all the way to Krasno’s Diner. Then Rick sits in a booth drinking a soda while I scrub the tables in my awful diner getup. After I ’ve cleaned every table I can and have to head to the kitchen, I stop at his booth and tell him g ood-b ye.
He kisses me, even though I’m sweaty and the ponytail is a bad look for me and my apron is already dirty. And for the first time ever, I get lost in a kiss.
It’s especially hard to leave Rick when I’m faced with stacks of dirty muffin pans, metal bowls sticky with dried pancake batter, and smelly breakfast dishes. At least Mariel’s in the kitchen. We stand side by side at the two sinks. Who would have thought I ’d be in an old apron, scrubbing stuff, next to my former housekeeper? Or, like, future housekeeper.
I close my eyes, try to breathe through my mouth, and imagine the shoes I ’ll buy with my pay—a pair of stilettos, k ick-a ss boots I bet Rick would love, high-top sneakers like Heather’s.
“You are good day?” Mariel’s English is as atrocious as ever.
I open my eyes. “
Háblame en español.”
Talk to me in Spanish.
“¿
Cómo sabe usted español?”
Meaning, roughly,
How the hell does a dumb white chick like you know Spanish?
Working in a greasy spoon for minimum wage, I’m not about to say I picked up Spanish from the housekeepers I ’ve had all my life. Instead, I shrug and ask, “Do you recognize me?”
“
¿Qué es
recognize?”
I translate it for her.
“
No le reconozco.”
Damn. She has no idea who I am.
“You help me
inglés
?”
I shrug. Why not?I’ve been helping everyone else around here. And if I can get Mariel to speak halfway decent English, it might even make things easier for me in 2006, on the off chance I ever return to 2006. “You sure you d on’t know who I am?” I ask her in Spanish.
“Are Shay. Are worker here.”
“Okay, first lesson. Say, ‘
You
are Shay.
You
are
a
worker here.’”
“
You
are Shay.
You
are
a
worker here.
¿Bien?
”
“Bien.”
Whoever knew I could tutor anyone? “Mariel, do you think someone whohasn’t gotten an A since sixth grade could actually be smart? Can you
become
smarter somehow? Like, by reading, or talking to geniuses, or taking physics classes and crap like that?”
“Slow,
por favor
,” she says.
“If a guy says y ou’re smart, it’s probably a line so he can get into your pants, right?”
“No comprendo.”
I talk slowly. “Two boys told me I am smart. They are probably lying, right? Boys want girls to like them, so they lie.”
“No, no, no all. Some yes, but no all. One or two boys maybe no lie.” She giggles.
It’s good to hear that h igh- pitched laugh of hers again. We used to watch
Jerry Springer
together sometimes. Even though I doubt she understood what people were shouting about, the show was always good for laughs.
“Maybe boys think are smart,” she says.
“Todavía le respetan.”
“No. Guys d on’t respect me.” I scrub the muffin pan so hard, it shines.
“No all boys same.” Mariel stops washing dishes. She stares up at me with her warm brown eyes.
“Rick Bowden might be different. I’m pretty sure he likes me for more than my looks. I mean, really likes me.” I put the muffin pan on the rack to dry, then spray the sink faucet until all the crap goes down the drain. “Tyler Gray might be different. We slept in his bedroom together and he d idn’t even make one move on me.”
“¿Qué dice?”
“He carried me up to my room when I was passed out drunk and he d idn’t even try anything then. Some boys are good. Right, Mariel?”
“Some boys are good.”
I wipe my hands on my apron. “A girl who works hard and acts smart and sweet and helpful can get respect. Some guys really appreciate that.”
I thought things were
okay with Shay, but I was wrong. I get home from school to find Mom made over, or Shayed-over. For one thing, Mom doesn’t have an apron on. Worse, she’s wearing teenager clothes: a bright yellow T-shirt and stiff, tight jeans that say “Gloria Vander-bilt” on the back pocket. Last week, Dad came back after their fight; but tonight, when he sees Mom in her getup, he might leave for good.
I walk upstairs without even stopping for a snack. It’s slow going with my backpack weighing me down. I picture Evie stooped under her huge green backpack loaded with books. Sometimes we studied together at lunch. More often we played backgammon with the travel set she carted around. I wonder if she even brings it to school anymore. Maybe she’s playing with somebody else.
By the time I make it into my bedroom and set down my backpack, the inside of my chest feels raw. I sit on my bed and stare at Albert Einstein. “How could a person be popular and lonely at the same time?” I ask him. “Should I apologize to Evie? How do I keep my parents together? Was Shay sent here to screw up my life or make it better?”
Always keep questioning
, Albert used to say. I go to my desk, open my physics book, search the index for tidal waves, and get to work.
I hole up in my room until it’s time for dinner, which smells like the school chemistry lab.
“What is this?” Dad points to the stench-emitting glass bowl of lumpy brown substance.
“Hamburger Helper. It’s new.” Mom, sitting down for a change, passes the bowl to him.
“Where’s our real dinner?” He slides it back to her.
The movement of the bowl spreads the stink across the table. I resist the urge to plug my nose.
“If you don’t like it, make something else,” she says.
My leg starts shaking, but I manage to take the Hamburger Helpless, dole out two spoonfuls, and pass the bowl to Heather.
“It smells good, Mom,” Heather says with a straight face.
I pick at the meat. It tastes like salted, burned dog food. Not that I’ve ever eaten salted, burned dog food. Or even plain dog food.
“What in heaven’s name have you been doing all day, Marlene?” Dad says. “Obviously not cooking.”
“For one thing, I’ve been filling out a job application,” Mom says. “I’m going back to work.”
I gag on the meat crumbs.
Dad shakes his head. “What has gotten into you?”
“I need to find myself,” Mom says.
“Find yourself? Find yourself?” Dad’s sputtering like a Chevy Vega. “You’re right here. In this beautiful seventy-two-thousand-dollar house where you belong. You find yourself, and I lose a wife and the kids lose a mother.”
“I found the perfect job, if they’ll take me. It’ll still let me be home before the kids. Shay told me about it.”
Shay, Shay, Shay. I knew it. She probably recommended the Hamburger Helpless too.
“I’m going to be the lunch lady at the high school cafeteria.”
21
Ugh. Mom is
(1) at my school, (2) serving kids lunch, (3) in a hairnet. But besides the hairnet and the overwhelming odor of overcooked canned peas, there’s something different about her today. I can’t figure out what it is exactly.
Evie stands in front of me in the cafeteria line, staring at Mom. We haven’t spoken since our argument that day in the lunch area. She’s not wearing her Godzilla-sized backpack. Someone at the lunch tables must be watching it for her. I wonder who.
“Evie! It’s lovely to see you,” Mom says.
“You’re working at the . . .” She adjusts her glasses. The genius seems confused.
“I’m officially a lunch lady!” She says
lunch lady
like it’s a good thing. “Tyler didn’t tell you about my new job?”