Blue Plate Special (3 page)

dressing for school,

i slip on a black pleather skirt

and my new halter top—

mostly to keep mam from finding it

when she snoops through my stuff,

treating me like a whore

who can’t be trusted.

she has no clue

i’m still a virgin.

over the halter top

i button a denim shirt,

tie it in a knot at my waist.

i twist my long, dark hair into a coil

and clip it at the back of my head.

downstairs,

mam’s at the kitchen table,

watching the morning news,

pigging out on sugar doughnuts.

as i walk to the fridge

and pour some o.j.

her eyes bore holes into my back.

skirt’s kinda short, isn’t it?

her version of good morning,

and a thick-tongued and slurry

one at that.

sure as hell,

she’s stoned on headache pills again.

i down my juice,

turn to set my glass in the sink.

still, she’s studying me,

recording my many fuckups:

skirt’s too short,

hair’s too long,

makeup’s too heavy.

too, too, too.

why are you staring at me?

she reaches for another doughnut.

sometimes i can’t believe

how much you look like

—she cuts herself off—

someone i used to know.

who?

without answering,

she reaches for the tv clicker

and ups the volume,

dismissing me.

* * *

after the last bell,

i meet jeremy and carol ann

by the bike rack.

eric used to walk home with us too,

but he lined up an after-school job

at the gas ’n’ go

making five bucks an hour.

lucky shit.

the three of us stop

at farth’s market,

aka the fart mart.

jeremy uses a fake i.d.

to get a bottle of cheap sangria

and a pack of newport 100s.

i don’t like menthol,

but i keep my mouth shut.

jeremy’s buying

and i am totally broke.

outside the fart mart, we light up,

start our usual trek

along a dirt road

littered with crap

no one ever cleans up—

beer cans, food wrappers, used condoms.

just ahead

the water tower rises

like a huge blue zit from

the pockmarked pavement below.

we lean against the turquoise blue tank,

unscrew the twist top on the wine,

pass the bottle back and forth.

the warmth goes off inside me,

a bomb that quiets everything.

carol ann tells knock-knock jokes

that aren’t the least bit funny,

but i slap my knee,

pretending they are,

because laughing

feels so damn good.

when the wine is gone,

we walk into town,

mildly buzzed, wavering.

burger king smells taunt me.

i’m starving. either of you got cash?

sorry
, jeremy answers,

spent all mine at the fart mart.

carol ann glances at her watch.

it’s time for dinner. i should go.

me too
, jeremy says.

ma’s making meat loaf tonight.

aw
—i scruff his hair—

her baby’s favorite meal.

he slaps my hand away.

jealous?

of course i am.

carol ann’s parents

are crunchy granola, and

jeremy’s mom sees a shrink,

but they’ve still got mam beat.

we’re about to go our separate ways

when larry’s brown nissan

slows to the curb beside us.

my long, skinny legs are reflected

in his mirrored sunglasses

as he leans his arm on the window ledge.

hey, good lookin’, wanna ride?

jeremy and carol ann exchange a look that says,

who’s-that-crusty-old-perv-coming-on-to-her?

so i tell them,
it’s cool
.

larry’s my mother’s boyfriend.

then,

because i feel lazy

and riding trumps walking,

i wave good-bye and

swing the door open.

there’s a paper bag

on the front seat.

dinner
, larry explains.

you can toss it in the back.

when i move it, i peek inside.

there’s a six-pack of beer,

a bag of doritos,

and a grinder,

meatballs and sauce.

my stomach groans. majorly.

larry laughs.
hungry?

i sit, buckle up.
starving
.

well, then
—he turns down a side street—

let’s find a place to eat.

larry parks behind the train tracks.

a salvage yard’s on one side,

woods are on the other,

and the air smells like dirty socks.

we sit on the hood,

still warm from the engine,

and larry parks the bag between us.

within seconds

we’re chowing down.

larry twists the tops off two buds,

passing one my way.

it’s nice to be treated

like a grown-up for a change.

i clink my bottle against his.
cheers!

how’d your day go?
he asks,

a question mam never thinks of.

i shrug.
the usual.

school’s not my favorite topic.

i show up. i leave.

maybe someday

i’ll graduate.

when the sandwiches are history,

larry claps crumbs off his hands,

reaches in his pocket for a smoke,

then tips the pack my way.

come on, have one.

i won’t rat ya out to your ma.

as we sit there, smoking,

larry complains about mam—

how she’s getting more headaches

and taking more pills

and never has energy for
anything.

he emphasizes anything.

i read between the lines.

gross.

i don’t know how you put up with her
,

i say, my words all loose and slurry,

and this time it’s larry who shrugs.

* * *

larry finishes three beers,

and i polish off two.

when i lie back on the hood,

the clouds spin

and my stomach feels like hell.

i sit up slowly, telling myself,

you will not be sick
,

you will not be sick.

still, i lurch forward,

hurl orange dorito barf on larry’s fender

and all down the front of my shirt.

damn.

tears fill my eyes.

larry reaches over.
hey, it’s okay.

you got something on underneath this?

i nod.
yeah.

he undoes the knot

on my skanky shirt,

lifts it over my head.

i actually believe him

—that it’ll be okay—

until i notice

him staring.

hey, the top

looks great on you.

i cross my arms.

cleavage appears.

i uncross them.

larry opens the last beer and tips it back.

glugglugglugglugglugglugglug.

i close one eye because

i suddenly see two of him.

i wanna go home.

no you don’t, dez. trust me.

whaddaya mean?

i try to sit up straight

without lopping to the side,

but it’s hard.

why don’t i wanna go home?

your ma went on a royal rant.

she trashed your room today

after finding a love note

from that jerry boy.

shit!
jeremy
, i correct him.

what’d she say?

larry rubs his chin.

she said, i quote, if she’s sleeping

with that loser, i’ll kill her.

i roll my eyes.
bitch.

larry nods like he agrees.

so, are you?

am i what?

sleeping with him.

jesus, that’s none of your business!

we’re quiet as roadkill.

clouds gobble up the sun.

a raindrop lands on my shoulder,

then another.

i slide off larry’s hood,

stumble toward the passenger side,

where i trip on something.

the ground rises up to meet me.

like a plastic straw

someone dropped

on the cafeteria floor,

larry picks me up that easily.

i wait for him to let go,

but he doesn’t.

the solid place

between his legs

hardens as he

presses against me.

heavy rain stings my arms.

my halter top sticks to my front.

larry inches me toward the car,

tips the passenger seat forward,

waves his hand toward the back.

why don’t you climb in?

you can lay down.

you’ll feel better.

no. i wanna sit in the front.

i wanna go home now. please.

i reach to push the seat in place,

but larry sticks his arm out,

blocking me.

i.

want.

to.

go.

home.

larry doesn’t listen.

he takes my small hand in his giant one

and backs me through the open door.

i know what is about to happen.

it never occurs to me

that i can stop it.

again

i’m that

plastic straw.

larry is bending me,

bending me, lowering me

onto the ugly plaid blanket

i’ve sat on dozens of times,

doodling jeremy’s name on my jeans.

his boozy breath,

hot on my neck, whispers,

dez, i’ve wanted you for so long.

i tell him,
no, no, no,

but the sound can’t leave my throat

because a shadow collapses my lungs—

a heavy shadow with chest hair

like a wiry floor mat

that scrubs and scrubs

at my bare breasts,

and i wonder,

where did my halter top go?

before i can ask

my skirt’s hiked up to my waist

and larry’s pants are unzipped.

rain pounds the windshield,

and day surrenders to night.

black birds cackle and call,

and trees fold in on the car,

enclosing us

in giant parentheses.

as the thunder rolls in,

i say good-bye.

good-bye to

the mind that was mine

and the body that was mine,

which suddenly

aren’t mine

anymore.

now

i am a speck

of something microscopic

stuck to the dome

of the ceiling light,

watching a man’s ass

pump up and down,

up and down,

watching a girl’s hair

unravel like a skein

of dark yarn,

watching her

face go blank

as a smooth stone

someone has tossed

out to sea and

possibly,

quite

possibly,

forgotten.

M
om’s sitting at the kitchen table
wearing the lavender bathrobe I bought her two Christmases ago. She’s just showered and her hair hangs in long, damp waves. She looks so young. It’s no wonder people confuse us for sisters.

As I walk into the kitchen, two slices of cinnamon-raisin bread pop out of the toaster. Mom glances up. “Honey, would you—?” she starts, but I’ve already grabbed a butter knife and plate.

I set the buttered toast beside Mom’s Earl Grey tea. When I grab a Dr. Pepper from the fridge, she gives me the evil eye and gets up to pour me an OJ instead.

“Thanks,” I say sarcastically.

Mom sits again, dunking her tea bag up and down.

I notice that her eyes are puffy. “Still thinking about the phone call?”

Mom nods. “I can’t figure out what to do. Aunt Lee’s got a book deadline coming up, and I’m not even halfway through collecting—”

“Mom, what are you talking about? What’s Aunt Lee got to do with this?”

She meets my gaze. Sometimes it gives me the creeps how much we look alike: same olive skin, high cheekbones, long dark hair. Only our eyes are different. Mom’s are brown as dark chocolate, and mine are blue like my father’s. My biological father’s, that is. Though Mom’s always quick to point out that, unlike his,
my
eyes are a warm, vibrant blue—like a cloudless sky or cotton candy.

Mom’s teacup comes in for a not-so-graceful landing, clunking hard against the saucer. “I need to see her.”

“But you’ll see her today,” I say, sure she means Aunt Lee. “At work. Right?”

“I’m not talking about Aunt Lee.” She swallows hard. “I need to see my mother.”

I squint, as if Mom’s a blur I’m trying to bring into focus. “But you told me you didn’t want anything to do with her, and that’s why I’ve never—”

Mom holds up a finger, shushing me. “She’s got cancer. That changes all the rules.”

* * *

It’s only mid-November, but the cold weather must have put some of our neighbors in a festive mood. As I leave for school, I notice several have hung their holiday lights. I breathe into my scarf, hoping the half-mile walk will warm me.

Olivia’s waiting for me in the usual spot—in front of the Starbucks a block from our school. She’s hovered over the steam from her latte, marching in place to keep her feet from freezing. When she sees me walking toward her, she reaches to collect her stuff off the metal newspaper box beside her. But she’s interrupted by a bleep. She flips her phone open, moving her lips as she reads. “Text from Steve,” she says without looking up. “My after-school cello lesson’s
canceled. Hang on, I’m gonna answer. This’ll only take a sec.” Her thumbs fly faster than I can follow. Then she claps her cell closed and peers at me over her glasses. “God, you look terrible. What’s wrong?”

“Nice greeting.”

Liv grabs her things and we start to walk.

“I’m serious. If I could read auras, yours would be the color of pocket lint. Did you and Shane have a fight or something?”

I almost never talk about Shane with Liv. Her dad’s a psychotherapist, which has rubbed off on her; she tends to overanalyze things. “No,” I explain, “I didn’t sleep well. Last night Mom got a phone call from a hospital upstate.”

“Is someone sick?”

“Her mother.”

Liv sips her latte and her glasses fog up. “You never mentioned having a grandmother.”

“I’ve never met her. Mom and her haven’t spoken in, like, forever.”

“Then why the sudden interest?” Liv asks.

“Her mother has breast cancer.”

Liv turns to face me. “Oh, Ariel, I am so sorry.”

I shrug. “Thanks.”

We stop at the crosswalk opposite school, waiting for the light to turn.

“My mom, um,” I start. “She wants to see her.”

“Ouch. Family Dysfunction One-oh-One. Are you going too?”

The light turns and we cross.

Nervously, I laugh. “I have no clue.”

“Well, when would you leave if you did?” Without waiting for my answer, Liv adds, all dramatic, “
Please
don’t say this weekend. The dinner party is Friday.”

I don’t tell her that I wouldn’t have been able to make it anyway—like I said, Friday night is date night with Shane. I just frown and say, “Yeah, I know.”

On the steps up to the school a band geek carrying a trombone case cuts ahead to hold the door open for us. “Hey, Liv,” he says, smiling widely.

“Hey, Derek,” Liv says back. “See you at practice tomorrow.”

When he’s out of range, she rolls her eyes.

“A secret crush?”

“Not too terribly secret. But so not going anywhere.”

We start down the hall toward the junior homerooms. In the distance, I see Shane, waiting at my locker for me. I feel the same rush I felt the day he appeared in my study hall after transferring in from California. His eyes were so dark they looked black, his lips were full and inviting, and his thick, just-below-the-ears hair fell in shaggy waves I found myself wanting to run my fingers through. And when he stood to leave, I couldn’t help noticing how his 501 jeans hugged his lean but lovely backside.

Today he’s wearing his biker jacket, a Ludacris T-shirt, faded jeans, and the black Harley boots I put a dent in my savings account to buy him last month. Mom had a fit when she found out I’d spent close to two hundred dollars on a gift for someone I’d only been dating four weeks. Even Aunt Lee, who’s usually the queen of diplomacy, agreed my gift was “excessive.” But I’m sorry—they didn’t see Shane’s face light up the day he tried those boots on at the mall. Or watch his expression gray as he slipped them off. When Shane mentioned his birthday was coming up, and that his mom never gets him anything except a card—if she remembers that—I knew I’d be back for those boots.

When Shane spots me, his chin lifts.

“Doesn’t that bug you?” Liv asks. “Shane, like, having your
locker open before you get there, and knowing everything you’ve got inside?”

My skin tingles as I slip into his orbit. “Why should it? He’s doing something nice for me.” Without taking my eyes off Shane, I elbow her side. “You’re just jealous.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Look, want to do something after school? You know, since my cello lesson’s canceled? We are soooo overdue for some girl time.”

She’s right. We are. But I’ll want to check with Shane first—to see if he’s made plans for us—so I try to sound hopeful without promising anything. “We’ll talk after school, okay?”

“Sounds good.” Liv turns toward her locker. “Buh-bye.”

Approaching Shane, I try to put on a sexy smile, but I can tell my lips aren’t cooperating. They’re grinning. I probably look twelve. I’m already self-conscious enough about being the youngest junior in my class—thanks to Miss Blandford who convinced Mom I should skip third grade because my standardized test scores were so high. When you add that to the fact that I have a parent in prison for murder, it’s easy to see why I haven’t exactly been a friend magnet. But now, I’m somebody. Half of a couple. Part of an us. I belong somewhere.

“Hey, there.” Shane’s eyes travel up and down and—gulp!—they’re like fingers, caressing me. “You look appetizing today.”

I’m wearing a velour shirt with a pair of low-rise jeans I ordered online because they reminded me of Shane’s favorite pair. “Thanks,” I say, glad he noticed.

Shane leans in to kiss me. His breath is minty, and his lips are waxy and soft. When our lip-lock ends, I catch my breath and hang up my coat. Reaching for my books, I panic, remembering I have an advanced algebra and trig quiz I forgot to study for. After the phone call last night, I could barely think, so I vegged out on the futon watching
Friends
reruns until I fell asleep. I woke up at three in the
morning—still waiting for Shane to call. Which he always does. Every night. Sometimes three or four times.

“I was surprised not to hear from you last night,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m pressuring him.

Shane flashes his shy smile—the one where a corner of his delicious mouth turns up, making a cute little dimple in his cheek while the other corner barely moves. “I couldn’t call,” he says. “I decided I need some cash flow to help keep my hottie girlfriend happy. So I got a job.”

I feel myself blush. I am so not a hottie. “A job? Where?”

“Pizza King.”

Shane claims he can’t toast a bagel without burning it, which is why he never eats breakfast. “
You
?” I joke. “Will that be good for business?”

He snags a belt loop on my jeans, pulling me to him. “Smarty, I’m a driver…” I turn and he draws me closer. “…and we
deliver.
”

Oh. My. God. I seriously want to put my hands on him. I glance around to see if any teachers are watching.

“We’ve got any topping you want.” He licks his lips, and a bolt of white heat zips through me. “Hamburger, pepperoni, sausage…”

I reach my foot back and close my locker with my heel. Leaning into his shoulder, I say softly, “But I don’t eat meat, remember?”

“Soy chips, then…tofu…” Shane’s lips tickle my ear. “Bean curd…”

I giggle as he backs me against my locker. “Tofu
is
bean curd,” I whisper.

The bell for first period rings. The stragglers hurry past, ducking into their classrooms, which is what I should be doing.

“Shane Miller!” a voice booms. Ms. Delphi, the vice principal, is poised beside us in her I-mean-business stance.

My spine straightens. I expect Shane to step back. To put space
between our bodies. To apologize. But he doesn’t.

“Mr. Miller?” Ms. Delphi repeats.

I throw her a look that says:
I know we shouldn’t be doing this and we’re late for class, but I can’t move until Shane does.
She isn’t focusing on me, though.

Shane turns slightly to smile at her. A smile that isn’t shy. One that’s almost, well,
smug.
I’ve never seen it before. “Yes, Ms. Delphi?”

I squirm a little, but I’m basically pinned—something that might be kind of exciting under other circumstances, but not while the VP is watching.

Ms. Delphi glances from Shane to me, then back at Shane again. “It appears the young lady would like her mobility back, Mr. Miller.”

How is it that I’ve gone to school here since ninth grade and Ms. Delphi doesn’t know my name, but Shane’s been here two months, and she knows his?

“Oh!” Shane fakes a look of surprise. “
Would
she?”

My cheeks are burning and my heart beats double time. “Um, yeah.”

“Pardon me, then.” Shane steps to the side and blood rushes back into my limbs. “How could I be so…so
thoughtless
not to notice?”

Ms. Delphi studies me. “Are you all right, Miss—?”

Shane drapes an arm across my shoulder. “Of course she’s—”

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Ms. Delphi interrupts, and Shane glares at her.

I’m so embarrassed, I could die. “I—I’m fine, but I’m supposed to be taking a quiz. Excuse me.” I clutch my books and hurry down the hall toward class.

When I arrive, Mr. Hollenbeck has already chalked ten binomials on the board. “Late pass?” he whispers, so as not to disturb the communal scratch of pencil lead.

An unexcused tardy will cost me. And since I’m only carrying a ninety-two, my lowest grade this term, it’s not like I can afford it. “Sorry,” I whisper back.

I open my notebook and copy the problems off the board. But I can’t wrap my mind around all those x’s and y’s. Tapping my pencil, I glance over at Jenna Peters, who’s already solving problem number four.

She shields her paper, shooting me a
do-you-mind?
look.

A flood of thoughts force their way into my mind. Thoughts like,
Why was Shane so disrespectful to Ms. Delphi? Why didn’t he call last night to say he had a job?
I could’ve phoned Olivia if I’d known we weren’t going to talk.

When I glance up again, Shane’s parked outside the classroom door, holding a detention ticket.

How many?
I mouth.

Five
, he mouths back, grinning. It’s so obvious he doesn’t care he’s in trouble. I wish I had a fraction of his gumption, his confidence.

As Mr. Hollenbeck stands to collect the quizzes I notice Jenna’s finished all ten problems, and I haven’t solved even one. When he reaches for mine, he stops and leans in, so close I can smell his coffee breath. “Would you like to schedule a makeup, Ariel?”

I’ve always read people well—even when I was a baby, according to Mom. The one time I met my biological father, I threw a fit and cried myself blue. Now I’m reading Mr. Hollenbeck, and his face is filled with major concern. But I can’t embarrass myself by sucking up in front of Shane. Especially after his bad-boy act with
Ms. Delphi. I mean, how would that look—he shows off for me, and I turn around and act all vanilla?

I throw a quick glance at Shane and bite my lip to keep from buckling. “No, thanks,” I say, loud enough for him to hear, then I redirect my gaze to the floor. I don’t lift my head until Mr. Hollenbeck has moved on, collecting the rest of the quizzes.