Blue Plate Special (13 page)

F
orty-five minutes in Green Mountain’s room
feels more like forty-five days. My head hurts, and I’m grateful when a doctor arrives, asking us to leave during his exam.

As we start down the hall toward the elevators, Mom reaches in her handbag, tapping out two Motrin caplets. Before she slides the bottle back, I take it from her, removing a couple for myself. “You too?” Mom asks, tossing me a sympathetic look.

I nod, leading the way toward a water fountain. Swallowing the pills, I think to myself:
I could use an Aunt Lee fix. She always knows just what to say.

Mom glances at her watch. Reading my mind, she says, “Lee’s last class is over in ten minutes. Think we can use your phone to call her?”

I feel in the pocket of my jacket, but my cell’s not there. “Damn!” I say, so loud a nurse looks up from her pill cart. “I left the phone in the car.”

Mom pats my back. “It’s not a big deal, Ariel. I’ll walk out with you. The fresh air might do us good.”

“Mom, you don’t understand.” I hurry toward the elevator and push the down button over and over. “I told Shane I’d call him when we got in, and I totally forgot. He’s probably been trying to get me.”

“Ariel, Shane knows the circumstances, that you might not be available if—”

“He’ll be worried!” Again, I poke the down arrow, holding it in place this time.

Finally, the elevator opens. I bolt inside. Push G for the ground floor. Mom steps on behind me. But as the door starts to close she presses Open. My heart’s beating so hard I can hear the whoosh of blood in my ears. “What are you doing?”

She motions toward the hall. “The woman with the walker—she signaled for us to wait for her.”

“Just
great
,” I mumble.

Walker Woman inches closer. When she reaches the threshold, the rubber tip on one leg catches in the door track. “Oh, dear,” she says, “I’m stuck.”

Mom bends down, patiently wiggling it loose. Then she takes the old lady’s arm, guiding her to the rail. “What floor would you like?” Mom asks her.

“Three, please.” She smiles at Mom. Her face fills with a million creases. “That’s where my room is. I was visiting a friend on seven.”

We slow to a stop on the third floor. Mom offers, “Would you like us to walk you to your room?” Not me. Us.

If the hospital has a psych ward, I might need to check myself in.

Again, the old lady smiles. “My, that would be sweet of you.”

The door opens. Walker Woman crosses the threshold, managing not to get stuck this time. Mom signals for me to come along. If I don’t follow her, I’ll look like the most selfish jerk on the planet.

The minute we arrive in Walker Woman’s room, a nurse waltzes in with her meal. As the old lady struggles with its cover Mom asks, “Would you like some help?”

“Look,” I lie, “I really need to use the bathroom. I’ll get the phone after that.”

“All right,” Mom says, handing me the car keys. “I’ll meet you in the cafeteria. Then we’ll call Lee, okay?”

“Okay,” I say as I rush out.

When I arrive at the car, I’m cold and out of breath. I grab my fleece jacket and flip my phone open. I have ten missed calls. I press Shane’s number and pace beside our car, hugging myself to get warm.

Two girls, around eleven or twelve, walk past laughing. The shorter one reminds me of Olivia in middle school, and the taller one looks a little like me.

Shane doesn’t pick up. He’s probably giving me a dose of what he felt when I didn’t answer.

The girls cross the street toward a strip mall. I study the lineup of fast-food joints, remembering how Olivia always picked Taco Bell, and I always wanted Arby’s.

I sit on a nearby bench and check my watch. Liv should be home by now. I punch in the number for her cell.

It takes her forever to pick up. Finally she says, “
Hello
?”

“Liv? It’s Ariel.”

“Oh my God. I wasn’t going to answer. I didn’t recognize the number.”

“Shane gave me a cell phone. Actually, he got us both one.”

“Wow. Great. I’ll store the number. How’s everything going in Elmira?”

An ambulance speeds toward the ER, siren wailing. The sound rips through my brain. “I’ve got a headache right now. Can I give you the details a little later?”

“Sure. The dinner party’s not until seven, so there’s time. I can call you before everyone gets here.”

If Shane tries to get me while I’m on the phone with Liv, my voice mail will pick up.
Again.
I try to think of a reason why she shouldn’t call me. “Mom’s with me most of the time,” I explain, “so I don’t really have much privacy. Text me instead. Okay?”

“Will you know how to text me back?”

“Liv, come on. It’s not rocket science.”

“Yeah, but like you’ve said before, your mom has kept you in a state of technological deprivation.”

“I’ll figure it out,” I assure her.

I hear a girl’s voice in the background—which wouldn’t be a big deal except Olivia’s an only child, and there’s no other female in her household.

“Got company?” I ask her.

“Um, actually, I’m highlighting someone’s hair? This girl in my drama class, Katelyn Carrick, she has the lead in
Evita?
And she asked me if I’d give her some blond streaks after school?” When Olivia’s on edge, she turns statements into questions.

“Well,” I say, “I should let you go then.”

“Yeah, probably. I just started putting on the blue foam junk. And it’s supposed to go on all at once so half of your head isn’t lighter.” Olivia laughs.

I force a laugh too, but mine sounds more like a cough. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“I’ll text you when I’m finished. And Ariel”—she lowers her voice—“I’m really glad you have a phone. Maybe now we can talk for more than just a few minutes before school. I hardly know what you’re doing anymore.”

Yeah
, I want to say.
That makes two of us, Liv.

* * *

Mom’s probably waiting in the cafeteria, wondering where I am, but I have to talk to Shane before I meet her. My hands sweat as I try his number again and again.

Twenty minutes pass. A half hour. Across the street, the two girls leave the Burger King and duck into a pet store. I think of the day Liv and I bought tropical fish at the mall. She picked a golden orange one to match her hair color, and I found a black one (the closest I could get to brown) to match mine. We named our fish after ourselves then traded. Olivia and Ariel lived two years—a long time for fish—and died within a week of each other. Olivia thought that was “cosmic.”

On my billionth attempt to get Shane, the ringing stops abruptly, and I hear breathing on the other end. “Oh, Shane,” I rush out, “I’m so sorry. I forgot to call when we got in, and then I left the phone in the car when we went inside the hospital. I know you’ve been trying to call.
Please
forgive me, I—”

“This not Shane,” someone says. It’s a man’s voice. He sounds Asian.

I panic. “W—where is he?”

“He not here. This not his number no more.”

“That can’t be. This was Shane’s number this morning. I—I—talked to him.”

“Sorry. No Shane. He say tell you good-bye.”

My head is pounding. “How do you know Shane?” I snap.

“How
you
know Shane?” he snaps back.

I feel like I’m trapped inside a
Twilight
Zone rerun. “I’m his girlfriend. He programmed his number into my phone. Shane wouldn’t change it and not tell me!”

The voice on the other end is silent.

I pace, circling the bench. If the hospital
does
have a psych ward, I won’t have to sign myself in. Anyone watching will come for me. “Look,” I say, trying hard to sound reasonable, “if you know Shane, you must know his new number, right?”

“Sorry. I go now.”

“Don’t hang up!” I plead. But he does anyway.

“No!” I shout. “
No! No! NO!
” Running to the nearest tree, I collapse against its trunk. That’s where I lose it. Completely. I cry harder than I’ve ever cried before. I’m hyperventilating, my nose is running, and I’m inhaling snot just to breathe. But then a sudden sound startles me, and I freeze.

Footsteps crunch across the dried leaves. I assume it’s the two girls again, and I don’t want them to see me crying, so I walk away. Into the sharp sun, which makes my head throb even more.

The footsteps follow me.
One
set of footsteps, I realize, so it can’t be the girls after all.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. It can be only one other person, I tell myself. My mother.

Except, when I turn, it isn’t.

D
uring sixth-period lunch I sit at a table
near the trash cans where no one else ever sits—probably because you can smell what got dumped during fourth period starting to rot.

I peel the wax paper off my lettuce, tomato, Velveeta, and Miracle Whip sandwich, which is actually a half-sandwich now. When I decided I wanted to drop another size, I cut back on my portions. The timing’s perfect for eating less since I’m waiting for my period, feeling so bloated I barely have room left for food.

Muralee Blawjen sits three tables over with the cheerleaders. Sharon Ranson’s braiding Jeannette Landeau’s hair, Jeannette’s nibbling a peach, and Nancy Topek, who I never see eat anything, is stroking pink polish on her nails.
Cosmetic rituals
, as they’re called in the school handbook, aren’t allowed in the lunchroom. But no one would say anything to
them.

Muralee stands, dumps her garbage into the trash, and carries her tray to the conveyer belt. Except, instead of returning to her table, she stops at mine. It’s been a month since Muralee asked me to keep her secret, and she hasn’t spoken to me since. But then, why would she? Muralee holds her blue and white cheerleading skirt close to
her thighs as she swings one leg over the bench and sits across from me. Her Love’s Baby Soft perfume scents the air, drowning out the stench in the trash cans. “Hi,” she says. “What’s up?”

My last bite catches in my throat. I swallow it down with diet cola. “Um, uh,” I stammer, “not much.”

Muralee tucks her hair behind her ears. I notice she’s wearing Glenn’s class ring, which is way too big for her finger. She’s wound red yarn around the backside of the band to keep it from slipping off.

A single tear rolls down her pink cheek.

“Are you…all right?” I ask, immediately regretting I did. It’s a personal question. Something only a friend should ask.

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “After this weekend.”

“This weekend?” I repeat.

“The test you saw me stealing…” Muralee whispers, tugging at a string on the ring. “It was positive. Do you know what that means?”

Of course I do. I watch TV. I nod.

Muralee glances over her shoulder at the cheerleaders, who are leaning sideways, watching us. She offers them a halfhearted smile, then turns to face me again. “I’ve given things a lot of thought. I’ve decided what I need to do. I’m going to Ithaca on Saturday. I have an appointment. They’ll, uh…take care of it for me.”

“Take care of it?”

“Yeah. You know.” She leans in so close I can smell the school spaghetti on her breath. “Get
rid
of it.”

Oh my God. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

Muralee studies my face. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, just, um”—I shake my head—“nothing.” I don’t know what to say. Finally, I come up with something. “What does your boyfriend think?”

“I haven’t told Glenn. He’s waiting on a football scholarship to Penn State. He’s expecting an answer any day now. I can’t ruin his future.”

I can’t imagine
not
telling Tad if the same thing happened to me. Not that it would. Whenever we have sex together, Tad uses a rubber. Well, except for once at his trailer when his dad wasn’t home. But Tad promised me he pulled out in time.

“So, uh…” I wring my hands under the table. “You said you’re going to Ithaca. Is that where your doctor’s office is?”

She rolls her eyes. “Right. My doctor. Who my whole
family
goes to.”

“Oh.” I hesitate. “So are you going to a clinic?”

“No. The closest one is several hours away. I’d have to miss school, and I’d get home really late. Plus I’m underage, so I’d have to involve my parents.” She looks away. “Not an option.”

“Who is your appointment with, then?”

She drums her fingers on the table. “An independent agent.” “What does that mean?”

Muralee laughs nervously. “Let’s just say you wouldn’t find his name in the yellow pages.”

Oh, no. I read about back alley abortions in a magazine at the laundromat. The people who perform them aren’t clean. Sometimes they take the babies out with coat hangers. Women have died.

Muralee starts to cough. She eyes my soda. “Do you mind?”

I slide the can forward.

To anyone else, this might not seem like a big deal. But, to me, it’s colossal. I hold my breath, noticing every detail as Muralee extends her hand toward the can. As her fingers close around the same surface mine just touched. As she lifts the soda to her glossy lips. And sips. From my diet cola.

Jeannette and Sharon and Nancy walk toward us. They pause at the end of the table, addressing Muralee as if I’m not there. Which, to them, I suppose, I’m not.

“Ready?” Jeannette says. “We’re leaving.”

Muralee sips my soda again. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Jeannette rolls her eyes, and Sharon whispers something in her ear. Then Nancy bumps Sharon’s hip as they walk away, arm in arm, laughing.

“Thanks for sharing your drink,” Muralee says. “I’ve never tried diet soda before—I’m hooked on Dr. Pepper—but it’s not bad.”

Staring at the can, I nod.

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence.

“So,” Muralee says, “you lost a lot of weight, didn’t you?”

I feel myself blush. “Yeah. Forty pounds. I’ve got about ten more to go.”

“Wow. That’s great. You should be proud of yourself.”

The lunch bell rings, signaling the end of sixth period. Kids shuffle past our table. Some stare, probably wondering why Muralee Blawjen, head of the varsity cheerleading team, is sitting with Madeline Fitch, reformed fat girl.

Within minutes, we’re the only ones left. The bell for seventh period sounds. I picture Mr. Bennett noticing my empty seat. I’ve never been late for his class. Or any class. But I’m not moving until Muralee does.

A radio comes on in the distance—in the kitchen, probably—and “Lean on Me” starts to play. The cafeteria ladies appear with their buckets and sponges, wiping the tables around us. They move in unison like synchronized swimmers.

“I love this song,” Muralee says. “Who sings it again?”

I think it’s funny when people do that—tack the word
again
onto a question when it’s really the first time they’ve asked it. “Bill Withers,” I answer.

“Right. And what’s that other famous song he had? Something about sunshine.”

“‘Ain’t No Sunshine.’”

“Yes!” She sings the first line and smiles.

The cafeteria ladies work their way toward our table.

“Come with me,” Muralee says.

“Where?” I ask, confused.

“To Ithaca on Saturday.”

My hands shake below the table. “Um, why me?”

“Because you’re the only one who knows. The only one I want to know.” Her emerald green eyes lock with mine. “Please, Madeline. I need you.”

Muralee Blawjen needs me.
Me.

What else can I do?

I say yes.