Blue Plate Special (15 page)

But when I start toward the door, she calls, “Wait!”

I look back at her. I mean, really look. Her eyes are blue, like mine. Her hair, streaked with gray, is the same shade of brown as Mom’s. And even though her face is very round, her features are small, almost delicate.“Yeah?”

“I didn’t mean you have to leave. I’ve got magazines if you like to read.”

“That’s okay.” I tip my chin toward the hall. “I should try to find Mom.”

“Oh, sure.” She nods, but I can tell she’s disappointed.

Suddenly I feel responsible for her. “Do you, um, need anything before I go?”

She lifts her chin toward an old transistor radio on the windowsill. “Put on some music for me. It’s too damn quiet in here.”

“What station?” I ask.

“Should be set already. Ninety-two FM. Only station I listen to. My bingo buddy, Thelma, goes for that toe-tappin’ country-western crap, but I like the seventies stuff.”

So does my dad
, I think but don’t say. Bringing him up wouldn’t go over well.

The reception on the radio is fuzzy, so I move the antenna around. An instrumental song comes on, one I’ve never heard before.

“That’s from
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
,” Green Mountain says. “Ever see the movie?”

I shake my head no.

“It’s about a seagull named Jonathan who doesn’t fit with the crowd.” Her face softens and she sighs. “I felt a lot like that lonely seagull when I was your age. Thought my dreams would save me. Anyway”—she forces a smile—“rent it sometime.”

“I will.” I wait until her eyes drift closed before starting quietly toward the door.

* * *

Outside, I press Liv’s number. She answers on the second ring. She must be in her room. I hear Coldplay in the background.

“Hey, Liv.”

“Hey, Ariel.”

“My condolences to Katelyn. Is she still there?”

“No. She had a rehearsal to go to.”

I’m secretly happy to hear that. I was worried Liv might invite her to stay for the dinner party.

“How’s your headache?” Liv asks.

“Better. My…” I hesitate. “My grandmother gave me some Excedrin and a Coke, then she had me do a visualization.”

“Wow. She sounds awesome.” Liv would say that. Her dad uses guided imagery with his clients. “What did she have you visualize?”

“She told me to pick something that makes me feel calm. The first thing that popped into my head was the weekend at Willow Lake, after you broke your wrist.”

“
Really?
”

“Yeah. Why do you sound surprised?”

“I thought you’d visualize something you did with Shane.”

I try to pinpoint what I’m hearing in Olivia’s voice. Is it jealousy? A by-product of feeling squeezed out of the picture? Does she think my Liv memories are history now?

Stepping back, taking a look at the situation, I realize—that’s how
I’d
feel if the tables were turned.

Suddenly I want to give her something. I need to give her something. Something a friend would give another friend. The truth.
“Liv,” I start, “I probably thought of Willow Lake because”—I force the words out—“I don’t exactly feel calm with Shane.”

“You…
don’t?
”

“No. I feel on edge. A lot.”

“Wow. Ariel. I had no idea. Not that I’ve seen you two interact much—Shane seems to want you all to himself—but, well, I got the impression you were happy.”

A door busts open inside me. A door to a room I haven’t dared enter. Until now.

“I don’t know
what
I am,” I tell Liv. “Confused, I guess. I’m always so busy trying to keep Shane from getting hurt or disappointed or mad that I sometimes feel like there isn’t a place for my feelings anymore. I can barely find myself. And when I do”—I picture Shane’s nosebleed—“I don’t always like who I see.”

Liv sighs. “Oh, Ariel, this relationship doesn’t sound healthy for you.”

She’s channeling her dad again. But she’s right.

After a long pause, Liv asks, “Do you think Shane had an ulterior motive for giving you a phone?”

I panic. The phone. Oh my God. If Shane has a tracking device on it, could it be tapped, too? Could he be listening to my conversation right now? “Liv,” I say, changing the subject, “I really want to have a long talk with you when I get home. I know I’ve been a terrible friend lately and I’ve hardly given you any time. But I want that to change. I miss hanging out with you and going shopping and being silly and laughing and doing all the things we used to do.”

“
Wellll
,” she says, “next Friday I’m performing a solo at the holiday concert. Dad and Steve are taking me out to dinner first. Maybe you can come too?”

Tears prick my eyes. I’m filled with a rush of feelings I don’t have words for yet.

But then reality hits. Friday is date night.

“You don’t have to answer now,” Liv says. “We’ll talk about it when you get home.”

“Okay, Liv. Thanks.”

There’s a long silence, then she says, “I have no clue whatsoever why I just thought of this. But remember in fifth grade when we went to see
Holes
, and you got a major crush on Zigzag?” I can hear the smile in her voice.

For a split second, I slip back into fifth-grade me. “God, Liv, I miss you.”

M
uralee offers to pick me up on Saturday morning
, but I don’t want her seeing where I live, so I suggest we meet at Franklin’s Five and Dime.

I arrive first, dressed in a pair of size ten bell bottoms (with a sanitary napkin pinned to my underwear, in case I get my period, which is a week late) and a turtleneck sweater—emerald green, like Muralee’s eyes. Over that I’m wearing a brown corduroy jacket I found at a rummage sale. I think Muralee will like my outfit—it reminds me of something she’d pick out.

Remembering Muralee’s favorite soda, I buy a bottle of Dr. Pepper. It’s not diet, so I won’t drink much, but I hope she’ll be interested in sharing it.

I sit on the bench outside Franklin’s waiting.

Muralee’s late. By ten minutes. Twenty.

An excruciating half hour passes. I’m worried Muralee’s decided to ask Jeannette or Sharon or Nancy to go with her instead of me. But then a bright red Chevy Impala slows to the curb beside me. A window opens and Muralee sticks her head out, calling, “Hop in.”

I slide in and fasten my seat belt.

Muralee’s wearing powder blue slacks with an off-white cardigan sweater. Her dark sunglasses rest low on her nose like Audrey Hepburn’s in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Clutching a cigarette, her hand shakes as she inhales.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I say.

“I don’t,” she breathes out. “My dad keeps a pack in the glove compartment. He’ll never notice if a few are missing. Want one?”

I’ve never tried smoking before. But I’d probably drink arsenic if Muralee Blawjen suggested it. “Sure. Why not?”

Muralee lights a cigarette for me, handing it across the stick shift. I notice her lipstick print on the filter and place my lips exactly where hers were. I draw smoke into my lungs, just like I’ve seen Tad and my mother do.

Then I cough my brains out. I’m so embarrassed, I contemplate opening the door and rolling into oncoming traffic. But Muralee says, “God, don’t you hate that? You’re trying to look cool, and your body has the nerve to
betray
you.”

I’m thinking how profound the thought is, and how nice it was of her to express it, when Muralee starts to coughs too. Longer and harder than I did. She reaches her hand toward me, wiggling her fingers, trying to tell me something.

“Soda?” I guess.

She nods, choking.

I hand her the bottle and she drinks. Then we laugh until we’re both near tears.

* * *

Muralee parks in front of a tall brick building. Scorch marks left by a fire blacken the blood red stone. A third story window’s boarded up.

“Is this the place?” I ask, hoping she’ll tell me it’s not.

But Muralee nods her head yes.

We’re silent for several minutes. Then Muralee reaches beneath the neck of her sweater and holds out a silver medallion. “I wore my Saint Christopher necklace. Do you think it’ll help protect me?”

Mom never took me to church, so I’m not sure how these things work. But there’s only one right answer. “Of course,” I answer. “And I’ll pray for you the whole time you’re gone.” I don’t know where that last part came from. I’ve never said a prayer in my life. But for Muralee, I’ll figure out how.

“Do you, um”—she hesitates, glancing at the building—“do you think that when I die, I’ll go to hell for doing this?”

I have no idea what they teach in church about hell. I have to protect Muralee, though. So I tell her, “No, I think God will remember you as a good person.”

She reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “Thanks, Madeline.”

When she says my name, my skin prickles.

“This is for the best,” she continues. “Glenn, he”—her voice catches—“a baby would ruin everything for him. College. His football scholarship. Daddy would make him marry me. Glenn would probably end up resenting me and the baby, and then—”

“But what about
you?
” I ask. “How do you feel?”

“I’m starting at the University of Florida in the fall. It’s Daddy’s alma mater and he’s already worked it out so I’ll stay with my grandparents in Gainesville.” She swallows hard, and it’s obvious she’s fighting back tears. “Look, Glenn and I both want children someday. When we’re ready. But right now, well, it’s too soon. The timing isn’t right.”

Muralee opens the door and steps out. I watch her walk toward the ugly, red building. I imagine the smell of burned curtains,
the sight of coat hangers, men with dirty hands. I can’t let her go through this alone. I open my door and start to follow her.

Muralee turns. “Please,” she whispers. “Wait in the car. I’ll probably need you to drive. You have your license, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

She holds her hand up, stopping me. Then she hurries toward the wooden door, swings it open, dissolves into the darkness on the other side.

I return to the car, watching the clock on the dashboard, blinking only when I have to. And I pray, asking God to keep Muralee safe. At first I feel stupid, talking to someone who’s invisible. But eventually, I find the words comforting.

A half hour passes. Forty minutes. Fifty.

An hour later, the brown door opens. Muralee clings to the railing, starting slowly down the stairs. When she reaches the car, she leans against the passenger side door. “Slide over,” she whispers.

I straddle the stick shift and drop into the driver’s seat.

Muralee eases in carefully, like every movement hurts. “That cost me two hundred fucking dollars,” she says. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her swear.

She lifts the flap on her purse and hands me the car keys.

I start the car. I’m about to shift into first when I glance at Muralee, curled down low in her seat. There’s blood on the thighs of her slacks. “You’re, um…”

“Bleeding. I know. He couldn’t stop it. I’ve got a
dishrag
between my legs.” She leans sideways, collapsing against me. Her head is on my shoulder and she’s crying.

I wish I could be Muralee’s friend. A
real
friend like Jeannette or Sharon or Nancy—someone Muralee would choose. But I know that will never happen. We’ve only been thrown together by
circumstance. But, for now, I’m all she has so I rest my hand on Muralee’s reddish-brown hair. Stroking her long locks, I whisper, “Shhhh. It’ll be okay.” Over and over until, finally, she stops crying.

* * *

Back in Elmira, I park in the lot behind Franklin’s. Muralee’s asked me to buy her a box of Kotex napkins and a sanitary belt for her bleeding. Before I leave, I give her my corduroy jacket to cover her lap, in case anyone walks past the car. I feel proud of myself for guessing what Muralee might need.

Inside, I head straight for the feminine products aisle, pausing at the pregnancy tests. I glance at the pharmacy window, where Mr. Franklin’s busy filling a prescription, then reach for a box identical to the one Muralee stole. I stuff it inside my handbag, gather Muralee’s supplies, and start for the register.

When I return to the car, Muralee’s crouched down lower still. “I think the bleeding’s worse,” she says. “But I’m scared to look. Check for me?”

I lift the corner of my blazer. She’s right. It’s worse. “I think I should take you to the hospital,” I tell her.

Muralee grabs my wrist. “No, please! No one can know about this. You have to promise me you’ll never tell anyone.
Ever.
”

I nod. Smoothing the jacket back, I ask, “Then what?”

“Take me somewhere to clean up. A bath might help stop the bleeding.” She hugs herself like she’s cold. “Your place. Let’s go there.”

It’s too big a risk to take her to our apartment. Mom could be there, having sex with a stranger, or passed out in her own puke. Still, I have to think of something.

I check the clock on the dashboard. It’s almost three thirty. My brain scrambles to remember what Tad told me earlier—that after
he finishes work, he’s buying new brakes for his truck. A friend who owns a garage in Corning is letting him use the lift after the shop closes. And since it’s Saturday, Tad’s dad is on the four-to-midnight shift.

My heart races. “I know where we can go.”

Muralee closes her eyes while I drive. Fifteen minutes later, we’re at the turnoff for the trailer park. As I veer down the bumpy dirt road, dust clouds billow up around us.

When I swerve to avoid a pothole, Muralee’s eyes fly open and she grabs the door handle to brace herself. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere you can wash up,” I answer, pulling beside a rusty barrel propped on concrete blocks. There’s a foul smell in the air, like someone’s been burning rubber tires.

Hurrying to Muralee’s side, I help her out of the car. I hold her arm, steadying her along the walkway, then up the narrow metal steps. At the top, I reach inside an old work boot, lifting out the spare key Tad showed me the time we had the place to ourselves.

I unlock the door and lead the way into the kitchen. There’s a mound of dirty dishes in the sink. A fly circles a saucepan.

Muralee grimaces. “No offense, but you don’t live here, do you?”

Ignoring her question, I flip a light switch and start toward the bathroom. “This way,” I tell her. I dig through a tiny closet and manage to find towels but no washcloths.

When I pull the shower curtain back, exposing the tub, its insides are stained a mossy brown. “I’ll scrub it for you,” I offer. “There has to be some Ajax somewhere.”

Muralee reaches behind the mildewy curtain, turning the water spigots on full blast. “Don’t bother,” she says. “I’m just going to make it dirtier.”

* * *

I’m in the kitchen sucking an ice cube when Muralee returns, a bath towel wrapped around her. Her arms and legs are pink from the hot water, and her wet hair’s a deep bronzy color. I’d love to be as beautiful as she is.

“Where should I put these?” she asks, holding out her blood-stained clothes. She sounds about ten, her voice is so small.

I jump up and take them from her. Then I search below the sink for a bag, stuff the garments inside, and set the bag next to the door. “How’s the bleeding?” I ask her.

“Better. It’s let up.” She pulls out a chair, wincing as she lowers herself into it.

Once, I saw a TV show about healers who can take away other people’s pain. I wish I’d paid more attention so I could do that for Muralee now.

I sit across from her, staring at the centerpiece of fake fruit. I bite my ice cube, shattering it in one quick chomp.

Muralee pokes a plastic grape. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Chew ice.”

I poke a grape, too. “Why?”

“It means you’re sexually frustrated.”

I laugh. “You made that up.”

Muralee leans her elbows on the table. “I didn’t. I read it in a magazine.”

When I don’t say anything back, Muralee says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. I was just making conversation.”

I consider telling her the truth—that I’m not only having sex, I’m a week late for my period. Instead, I say, “I’m not sexually frustrated. I have a boyfriend.”

Muralee grins. “The guy I saw you with at McDonald’s?”

I feel my cheeks redden. “Yeah.”

“How come he’s never in school?”

“He graduated,” I lie.

“Oh, an older man.” She says it with such authority. “Where does he live?”

I’m getting nervous with all the questions. But I’d never do anything to make Muralee not like me, so I lie again. “Out of the area. Owego.”

She smiles. “Nice town.”

I smile too, glad she approves. Then we both sit back, quiet.

The clock ticks.

The faucet drips.

The refrigerator moans and groans.

Muralee clears her throat. “Um, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me. You know, because I had an abortion. I really do want kids someday—when Glenn and I are finished with college and our lives are more copasetic.”

Copasetic
, I repeat to myself. I’ve never heard the word before. It reminds me of Chloraseptic, the sore throat spray. I’m not sure what to say back, so I nod, pick a dried ketchup blob off the salt shaker, flick it to the floor. I notice the linoleum is covered with dried, muddy footprints. I’d like to spend a day here, cleaning.

“So,” Muralee asks, “does this place have a washing machine?”

“No. Why?”

She tips her chin toward the bag beside the door. “My clothes, remember? I don’t have anything to wear.”

I consider offering to drive to the laundromat and wash them, but that would take too much time. Tad might be home by then. “What size are you?” I ask her.

“Ten.”

“Hang on. I have an idea.” I head for Tad’s room and rifle through his dresser drawers. I slip off my clothes and fold them neatly in a pile.

Tad’s jeans are big on me, but with a belt, they work. I put on an Impeach Nixon T-shirt and tuck it in. Over that, I slip on a long-sleeved flannel shirt. It’s loose and baggy, so I tie the tails together at my waist. Then I button the sleeves at the wrists so my lizard arm is completely covered. I check myself in the mirror. There’s a girl in my English class, Lydia Marcotte, who dresses like I’m dressed now. Rumor has it, she’s a lesbian. I can see why she prefers clothes like these. They’re comfortable.

Back in the kitchen, I hold my outfit out to Muralee. “Here, try these.”

She just stares at me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, worried I’ve offended her somehow.

She stands. Steps toward me. “Aren’t you afraid to wear those?” she asks, giving the flannel sleeve on my right arm a firm tug.

Everything happens in slow motion. The sleeve slips off my shoulder. Glides down the length of my arm. Gathers at my wrist. Stops.

Hesitantly, I look down. There they are. My scars. In plain sight.

Muralee blinks several times before politely turning away.

I hike the sleeve back into place and smooth the fabric flat. Again and again, like this might erase what Muralee has seen.

“What happened?” she asks me.

“It was, um, an accident. When I was ten I got burned.”

“So that’s why you wear long sleeves all the time, even during a heat wave.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

I stare at the floor. Nod.