Also Known as Elvis (9 page)

Zachary opens the door wearing one of his Joe lookalike outfits. Normally, this would make me laugh, but right now it just makes me miss Joe.

Greeting me with, “Oh, my goodness,” Zachary tells me to get inside quickly and not drip on the rug because his mother's kind of fussy.

“Where's your umbrella?” he asks.

“I'm a kid,” I tell him. “I don't own an umbrella.”

Handing me a towel, which appears out of nowhere (seriously, they keep towels by the front door?), he says, “I own three. I love umbrellas. And we've been having so much rain lately!”

When I say nothing to this, he tells me, “I'm learning to make pizza.”

“Cool,” I go. “That must be why it smells so good in here.”

Nodding, Zachary leads me to the kitchen, and five minutes later we're eating this amazing
pizza with pineapples and chicken and ham on it.

“You made this?” I ask. “Yourself?”

“It's called Hawaiian pizza.”

“Goes with the shirt,” I say, nodding at what he's wearing.

Zachary giggles. He's such a geek, you've got to love him.

“Your mom is okay with you cooking when she's not here?”

“Oh, she's here,” he says. “She's upstairs in her office. But she's cool with me cooking. I've been cooking my whole life.”

“Me, too,” I tell him. “Or it feels that way, anyway. Ever since my dad left—”

Just then, Zachary's phone buzzes and he squeals, “Ooh, it's Joe!” Reading it, he says, “Oh, my goodness, Joe is such a nut. You will never guess what he's doing!”

“Um, texting you while riding a roller coaster?”

Zachary's jaw drops. Literally. “How did you know that? That is so psychic!”

“Really? Is that really what he's doing?”

“Yes! He's on something called the Vampire and . . . oh, he's screaming now, look!”

Zachary thrusts his phone at me and I read,
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Pretty soon, Joe is off the ride, and he and Zachary are texting back and forth while I'm sitting there eating most of the rest of the pizza. I get to thinking how Joe texted me once this morning, which is how I knew he was going to an amusement park today, but he got off quickly. Maybe it was because he knows I have limited texts on my mom's cell phone plan, or maybe it's because he and Zachary have more to say to each other.

Whatever. By the time I leave a couple of hours later, the rain has stopped and I'm full of pizza, but for some reason I still feel hungry.

• • •

When I get home, I see my mom's car in the driveway. She must have gone in the back door, because otherwise she would have taken in the bag I spot by the front door. It's this Victoria's Secret shopping bag with
Skeezie
written on it in large
purple marker. The first thing I wonder is how long has it been sitting there and who has seen it and concluded that I ordered a see-through nightie or something like that. Seriously, how weird does my life have to get before I have my own reality show?

I crumple the bag under my arm and hijack it to my bedroom before the girls can spot it and say anything. Trust me, Megan can sniff out a Victoria's Secret shopping bag like she's a bloodhound and it's raw hamburger.

In my room, I uncrumple the bag and pull out a tennis ball from layers of pink and purple tissue paper. A tennis ball. Not one with feathers or beads or frilly, girly stuff all over it. In other words, not a Victoria's Secret tennis ball. Just a plain old tennis ball. And it looks used.

Digging around for an explanation, I find one in the form of a card. There's an envelope that somebody's written
Bow wow!
on, and inside is a note:

Skeezie,

This is for the dog you're
going to help me pick out on Tuesday. I thought you might like to play with her. Or him. My mom and I will pick you up at noon. She said we can go for pizza after. Unless we have to go right home because of the dog. And then we can have pizza at our house.

Look, I'm sorry about laughing at you. It was stupid, but I was with my friends and you know how it goes sometimes. Forgive?

xoxo,

Becca

First of all, I thought I was your friend, too. And yeah, I guess I know how it goes, but it wasn't you laughing at me that made me mad. It was you ignoring me, and all that weird, secret texting, like we're only friends (or whatever we are) when
you're not with your
other
friends who would go
Ew, how can you be friends with Skeezie?
if they ever found out.

I say all this in my head, knowing I'll never really say it to Becca. And then I reread her note and think how many times she's said she's sorry in her texts and how she still wants me to go pick out a dog with her. And have pizza together. And how she wrote:

xoxo

Part of me wants to take the note to show Steffi, because she'd probably be good at figuring this out, even if she doesn't know what to do about a boyfriend who wants her to be a teen bride, but it's still raining and it's really Bobby I want to ask, anyways. But he's time traveling in the Adirondacks back to the World Before Technology, where they're probably camping out in caves and eating bison meat or something.

So I grab my phone and text Joe.

What's up

About five minutes later, I get a response.

Comment ca va, frere de boucle d'oreille?

Seriously?

I text back:
???????

French for How are you, earring brother. Duh.

Like I would know that.

U would if u were here.

I would not be texting u if I was there. Duh.

Per tetre.

???????

Means maybe. But I spelled it wrong. So what's happening?

I am going nuts.

This is not news.

LOL not. Do u think Becca likes me?

Who are u and what have u done with Skeezie?

She's hanging with Royal and Sara and ignoring me, then texts me, then invites me to go get a dog with her.

It's too soon for you two to start a family.

Her dog. Her get a dog.

Awww. Un chien pour Becca.

ANSWER ME

Question?

DO U THINK BECCA LIKES ME?

u don't have to shout. Yes, I do. Tho pls do not ask me why.

Really?

You are the expert on love, MEB. Ask yourself.

I did but I didn't know the answer. MEB?

Monsieur Earring Brother.

You're scary weird.

You're scarier weirder. And yes Becca likes u. It's obvious. Gotta go.

Another roller coaster?

That is so two hours ago. We are in the gift shop.

Buy me something Canadian.

I will bring u a moose.

I will name it Joe.

Merci. Ciao.

Ciao?

Universal language for see ya.

I put down the phone and look out the window. Joe and Steffi both say Becca likes me. And even if
she didn't talk to me at the Candy Kitchen yesterday, she texted me, right?

And she left me a tennis ball in a Victoria's Secret bag and wrote

xoxo,

Becca

I pick up the ball and toss it from hand to hand, thinking
xo, xo, xo, xo,
when Megan starts pounding at my door.

“Mom says supper's ready!” she shouts.

Amazing. Supper's ready, and for once this summer, I'm not the one making it. Things are looking up.

When my dad shows up on Monday morning, he is not wearing a tie. He's got on his biking vest with
LIVE TO RIDE
written on the back and a shirt with torn-off sleeves. The tail of his tattoo dragon wraps up his arm. Even with the belly he's put on, he's still wiry and strong. He looks like the dad I remember.

He checks me out, too. “Nice,” he says, eyeing my (formerly his) leather jacket, “but isn't it kind of hot for that?”

I ignore the question. Instead, I focus on the beat-up Ford Ranger sitting at the curb. “What's up with the truck?” I say. “What happened to the Beast?”

That was my dad's nickname for his Harley.

“Like I told you, I still got it. I just needed somethin' practical. Sucks on mileage, but I can get a lotta crap in the back of this baby. Come on, jump in.”

I throw open the door and see that the Ranger
isn't in as bad shape inside as it looks on the outside. There's junk on the floor—crushed cans, papers, crumpled-up bags—but otherwise it's respectable enough.

I fasten my seat belt and stare straight ahead.

“What do you feel like doing?” he asks as he turns the key in the ignition.

I shrug.

He says, “You gonna be like that, it's gonna be a long day.”

I want to tell him, “It's gonna be a long day anyway,” but I just go, “Mm.”

“Okay, I'll figure something out.”

Pulling away from the curb, he clicks on the radio and the Stones are belting “Paint It Black.” I love the Stones. I love this song. It's killing me not to sing along, but I don't want him to make fun of my singing or to think I'm having a good time.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a white graduation tassel hanging from the rearview. Under it, suction-cupped onto the dashboard, is this football guy bobblehead.

He notices me noticing. “That's Gerri's,” he goes. “She's a big Buffalo Bills fan. Huge.”

“Cool,” I say, when it's anything but. I mean, how freakin'
un
cool is it to let your son know you've got a woman in your life—
other
than the woman you're
still legally married to
—by dropping her name like,
Oh yeah by the way that's GERRI's bobblehead you're lookin' at.

I see him trying to decide whether to say anything else, but he turns up the volume instead and bops his head to the music. Now there are two bobbleheads in the car.

Just as the song ends, we pull into Betty & Pauls, this diner that's been around for, like, ever. (Addie has a cow that “Pauls” doesn't have an apostrophe. I tell her it's because Betty is married to two guys named Paul, so “Pauls” is a plural, not a possessive. She doesn't find this funny, although she is impressed that I stay awake in English class.) I hate saying it, but the shakes at Betty & Pauls are even better than the ones we make at the Candy Kitchen. I don't know what their secret is. And their pancakes?
Their pancakes should be famous, like so famous you want to ask for their autograph before you eat them.

Addie in my head:
That is
so
not funny.

Me in my head:
You're on vacation. Leave me alone. And FYI, asking pancakes for their autograph
is
funny
.

“You're having the pancakes, right?” my dad asks as if he's reading my mind. “Gotta have the pancakes. And how about a vanilla shake, Skeezo?”

“Nobody calls me Skeezo,” I say.

“I do.”

“Like I said.”

Moving ahead of him toward the door of Betty & Pauls, I feel his hand grab my shoulder. “Hey!” he says sharply. I turn. His face is red.

“What?” I ask, all innocent, like I didn't just call him “nobody.”

His nostrils flare as he takes in a deep breath. “Nothing,” he says after a long exhale. “I just thought it was okay for me to call you Skeezo, like I used to. You're telling me it isn't. Got it. Let's move on.”

After we order our pancakes and vanilla shakes—along with two orders of seasoned curly fries, which if I ran the Candy Kitchen we would
so
have on the menu—my dad starts asking me the usual questions.

1. How was school this year?

2. So what are you into?

3. What do you mean, nothing? Not fishing? You're not into fishing?

4. You got a girlfriend yet?

(I tell him “no comment” on that one, and then I think,
Oh no, this is it! The Talk! The Man-to-Man Talk!
But he doesn't go there. He asks another question.)

5. You still bowling?

6. No? When did you stop bowling?

(Uh, when I turned, like, nine.)

7. You follow any sports?

8. None?

9. You made any other guy friends besides Bobby and Joe?

(Okay, now I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm gay.
No girlfriend. Doesn't like sports. 50 percent of his guy friends are gay. He's got to be gay.
So I brace myself a second time for The Talk. This should be really good, him talking to me about s-e-x while he's thinking I'm gay. Could be so entertaining that maybe I'll let him believe it. But once again he doesn't go there. He asks a question I should have seen coming all along.)

10. So how do you think your mom is doing?

“Why don't you ask her?” I say.

“Because I'm asking you. Because I want to know how
you
see her, Skeezo—sorry—
Skeezie
.”

Up until now I've been keeping my eyes looking down at the menu, down at the table, down at the pancakes, down at the fries, down at the shake, but now I lift them up and look straight into his.

“She works two jobs,” I tell him. “That's how I think she's doing.”

“Yeah, that's hard,” he goes, his voice all full of sympathy, even though his eyes don't blink.

I try to hold his stare, but before I know it my eyes are down again, looking at the crumbs stuck to the plate in the fake maple syrup like flies on flypaper.