Also Known as Elvis (4 page)

Zachary starts laughing his goofy laugh, which makes everybody else laugh, and Addie says, “Okay, you win.”

I love my friends. Seriously.

“And how's it going with you, E.B.?” Joe asks.

“Say what?” says Becca.

“E.B. Earring brother. Skeezie and I got our ears pierced together last Christmas, and we call ourselves earring brothers.”

“Oh-kaaaay,” Becca goes, like that's just about the uncoolest thing she's ever heard.

“I guess you had to be there,” I say to Becca.

“I guess,” she says. “But Skeezie, really, you could do better than that skull-and-crossbones thing. I mean, it's so trailer trash.”

“Ouch,” I say, and then Addie lets Becca have it for using that expression when all kinds of nice people live in mobile homes, including Bobby and his dad.

“Okay, okay, excuse me for living,” says Becca. “I didn't know Bobby lived in a trailer.”

“Even if he didn't, there are lots of people who do, and they are
not
trash,” Addie goes on in this high-and-mighty tone, sounding like, well, Addie.

“Anyway,” Becca says to me, “I didn't mean that
you
look like trailer trash, Skeezie. Just the
earring. In fact, I think this job has, like, improved your appearance.”

I wasn't aware that my appearance needed improvement. Apparently, that is a minority view.

“It's true,” Addie says, while Joe and Zachary nod. The traitors. “Maybe it's just that you're out of that leather jacket for a change and are required by law to wash your hands, but you look more . . . I don't know . . . wholesome.”

“Wow, the ultimate compliment,” I go. “Just slap me between two slices of white bread, lay on the mayo, and have me for lunch.”

This makes Becca laugh, and I notice that she has dimples.

And she notices that my face goes red.

“I'll have an ice cream sundae, with a cherry on top—just that color,” she says, pointing to my cheeks.

Fortunately, this guy in one of the booths snaps his fingers and calls out for a check.

“Yeah, yeah,” I tell him, but not so he can hear. “Don't get your panty hose in a twist.”

“So how does it feel when somebody else is doing the finger snapping?” Addie asks.

I'm all set to give her a wise-guy answer (wise-guy answers are kind of my trademark) when Steffi comes over to write up the guy's check and asks me to refill some water glasses at another booth.

“You're kind of adorable when you're being efficient,” Becca tells me as I grab the water pitcher. I feel my face go even redder as Steffi stifles a laugh.

After they're gone, Steffi says, “That girl with Addie—what's her name, Becky?”

“Becca.”

“Becca. She likes you, Elvis.”

“Right. A girl like Becca doesn't even
look
at a guy like me. Besides, who says I like
her
?”

“Nobody. But it's pretty obvious she likes
you
.”

Trust me when I tell you that there is no way Becca Wrightsman likes me. Up until a few weeks ago, she barely acknowledged my existence, and when she did it was to make some put-down
disguised as an observation. Like, “I can't decide which is older: that jacket you're always wearing or the food stuck in the corners of your mouth.” This is
not
the kind of thing said by somebody who likes somebody.

It is, however, the kind of thing I was used to hearing. My friends and I, we got called all kinds of names all through elementary school and into middle school. Some of that changed after we ran for student council this year as the No-Name Party. We lost the election, but we got the school to start this thing called No-Name Day, and next year Mr. Kiley (that's the principal) said he's going to make it No-Name Week. Anyways, it's not like nobody ever calls anybody a name anymore, but at least people think about it. Or most people do.

“Hey, look who's the soda
jerk
!”

That? That's what the cat just dragged in. His name is Kevin Hennessey, and I don't think he thinks about anything, least of all the names he calls people. It's a couple of days later, and Kevin's walking in the door of the Candy Kitchen with his
sidekick, Jimmy Lemon. Kevin doesn't go to our school anymore, so I haven't seen him in a long time. It's still not long enough.

“Perfect job for a
dago
like you,” says Kevin with a snort. “You can grease up your hair in the deep fryer anytime you want.”

Jimmy Lemon, who isn't much for snappy dialogue, mostly lets Kevin get in the good lines and then just repeats part of them like, “Yeah, deep fryer. Good one.”

Before I can say anything, Donny, who happens to be up front at the moment, working the candy case, calls out, “Hey, none of that kind of talk in here. I'm Italian, my friend, and I'm going to ask you nicely to curb your language.”

“I wasn't talking to you,” Kevin goes. “And I'm not your friend.”

“Okay,” says Donny, “we got that established. Now I'm telling you—not asking nicely anymore—that if I hear that kind of talk from you again, you're out of here, and you won't be welcomed back.”

Kevin rolls his eyes and gives a kind of
yeah, yeah
look with his face while secretly flipping Donny the bird. It looks like spending most of seventh grade in Catholic school didn't do a whole lot for Kevin's manners.

“So,
Squeezie
,” Kevin says, throwing a leg over one of the stools at the counter like he's a cowboy and this is some Wild West saloon, “how about jerkin' me a soda?” This gets Jimmy Lemon laughing so hard he starts spitting. The two of them are like a small-town version of that movie
Dumb and Dumber,
I swear.

Lucky for me, I've only got five minutes left to work. Steffi jumps in and says, “I'll make that soda. Why don't you leave early? You didn't get a full break today.”

1. I took seven extra minutes on my break today.

2. I note that she doesn't call me Elvis in front of Kevin and Jimmy.

3. Steffi is awesome.

So it works out that I don't have to put up with any more of Kevin's crap that day, but I know he'll be back. He's like a bear that's figured out where the fish run through the shallow part of the river. Easy picking, and for Kevin that's half the fun.

On a Friday afternoon about three weeks into the job, I almost wish it
were
Kevin the cat dragged in. I'm restocking the cones—waffle, sugar, and wafer (also known as cake)—when my grandma Roseanne shows up with Megan and Jessie.

“Hi, Grandma,” I greet her.

“Everything in this place is fattening,” she greets me back.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “You must have been lookin' for Weight Watchers. That's down the street.”

“Don't be sassy,” she says with a hint of a smile. Despite herself, Grandma likes a good wisecrack.

It's not the usual thing to see Grandma with the girls. She complains that they wear her out, for one thing, and for another she stopped driving after Grandpa died and she moved in with Aunt Lindsay, so she doesn't get out much.

“We wanted to show Grandma where you worked,” Jessie says in that bubbly way she has. (I'm thinking that she must not have inherited a single gene from Grandma.) “Aunt Lindsay picked us up from day camp, and she's going to meet us here later.”

I wipe down the booth they slide into and ask, “So how was camp today?”

“It was all right,” Megan says, in this flat tone as if she is
so
over day camp and why does she have to go.

“It was
more
than okay, Megan,” Jessie bubbles. “It was the best! Oh, Skeezie, look at my nails!”

She shows me her fingernails, painted in alternating purple-with-yellow-stars and red-with-pink-hearts.

“Let me guess,” I say. “Joe did them, right?”

“Uh-uh. Kelsey. But she painted Joe's to match mine.”

“Figures.”

“And guess what else?”

“Um, you took a field trip to the moon? You
built a cabin out of Popsicle sticks? You sang all the verses of ‘Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall'?”

“No, silly. I don't even know what that is. And anyway, we don't sing about
beer
in day camp. Are you done guessing?”

Grandma shoots me a look that says,
Be done guessing.

“Yep,” I say.

“We're going to make family trees out of branches and pinecones.”

“That is so dumb,” says Megan.

Jessie punches Megan on the arm. “It is
not
! And that is
not
nice!”

“Well, good luck with
this
family tree,” says Megan. “Where are you going to put Daddy? May as well leave him on the ground with the rest of the pinecones.”

Jessie's eyes start to well up with tears.

“Okay, who wants what?” I ask. “I can do cones, dishes, sundaes, sodas, shakes, you name it.”

“Diet Coke,” Grandma snaps like she's made
some kind of earth-shattering decision. “With lots of ice. Don't stint on the ice.”

The girls order sundaes, which Grandma says are to be
kiddie
sundaes, but which I know to make regular and call them kiddie.

Anyways, it isn't Grandma and Megan and Jessie who make me wish Kevin had been the one the cat dragged in that day. It's who comes in later, while they are finishing up their sundaes and Diet Coke (Grandma asked for three refills and kept saying, “They're free, right?”). Grandma is digging through her purse while I get the check from Steffi and tell her not to expect a big tip. Or any tip.

I am standing next to the cash register with my back to the front door and Steffi is writing up the check, when I hear the door swing open and Grandma say, “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

I think it has to be a joke—or maybe Aunt Lindsay showing up—but then I hear Jessie squeal, “Daddy!”

I turn and, sure enough, my dad is standing there with a big smile on his face, looking like the happy pinecone who's just found his way back to the family tree. Except to me, he looks more like half a dead mouse.

Jessie runs to him with her arms spread wide. He somehow manages to scoop her up in a big bear hug at the same moment he reaches out and snatches the check from Steffi's hand.

“I'll take care of that,” he goes, giving her a wink.

Is he kidding? Dude's gone missing for two years and now he comes barging in like he's the hero in some movie! Who does he think he's fooling?

Not my grandma, that's for sure. Snapping her purse shut, she glares at him and says, “It's the least you can do, with all you owe. I'd call you a name, but I don't want to insult your mother.”

My dad smiles his famous killer smile. “Roseanne,” he says, “always a pleasure.”

It's not that I haven't seen my dad in the past two years. I have, maybe three or four times. Okay,
four. But each time it's been like a drive-by, so the recent pictures I have of him in my mind aren't so much pictures as blurs. And he's never shown up out of the blue before. He's always called first, and he's always wanted something.

I give him a good hard look, trying to figure out what he wants this time. The first thing I notice is that he's put on weight, most of it in his belly. I can't help wondering if he's upped his beer consumption. The second thing I notice, which really should have been the first thing because it's so freakin' weird, is that he's wearing a tie. If I told you that I'd seen my dad wear a tie even one other time in his life, I'd be exaggerating. Ties and black leather jackets don't exactly go together. And that's when I notice he's not wearing a black leather jacket. (The one I wear is some reject he left behind; he must own at least a half dozen, and he was
always
wearing one of them.) Instead, he's got on a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. I see he's added another tattoo, some kind of weird dragon thing, on his
left forearm. But he's clean-shaven. No 'stache, no stubble.

“What'd you go and do?” I ask him. “Join a cult?”

Jessie is hanging off his arm like a baby chimp. He's been pretty much keeping his eyes on her, avoiding the arctic wind that's blowing his way from Megan and Grandma. At the sound of my voice, he turns to look at me for the first time.

“I heard you were workin' here,” he tells me. “Good for you.”

“
Somebody's
got to pay for things,” I say, like it's me who's putting food on the table, when all I've done so far is help get the toilet fixed.

“Like I said: good for you. I'm impressed. You got a work ethic.”

“That's
one
of us,” I mumble. I know my attitude can only go so far before it gets me in trouble. Time to turn down the volume.

I don't know if he heard me or not, but he doesn't take the bait. “It's good to see you, Skeezie,” he says evenly, like he's practiced the line in a mirror. “You doin' okay?”

I shrug.

Then Grandma asks the question I've been asking in my head. “What do you
want
, BJ?”

Swinging Jessie from baby chimp position to piggyback, he answers, “Do I have to want something? Other than seeing my own kids once in a while?”

“You could have been seeing them every day instead of once in a while,” my grandma says, sliding out of the booth and dusting imaginary crumbs off her lap. “Girls, it's time for us to go.”

“Awwww,” Jessie whines. “But he just got here. Daddy, you're coming back to the house, right? You're going to stay, right? Does Mommy know you're here? Let's call her.”