Blue Plate Special (4 page)

I
t’s after midnight
. Mom’s snoring on the couch while I play a Beatles album in my room. Not much wakes her when she’s loaded. When Elmira flooded during Hurricane Agnes five years ago, emergency workers pounded on our door, evacuating us. They had to physically
carry
Mom downstairs and into their van. She woke in the shelter the next morning and whispered to me, “How’d I get here?” It’s no wonder she never could pinpoint who my father was.

Yawning, I click on my box fan and stretch out across my bedspread. But when my eyes start to drift closed, Marcia Brady is there with her perfect hair, pointing a finger at me and laughing. The cavern in my middle rages, threatening to implode and swallow me whole.
Feed me!
the Beast demands.
FEED ME!

I have to quiet it, of course. I head to the kitchen, polish off three peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches, a tall stack of Oreos, a jumbo glass of milk with several spoons of Quik stirred in, and a freezer-burned Fudgesicle.

The Beast coos, contented.

When I return to my room, everything inside me feels pleasantly numb. And calm. The Beatles album has ended. The record
player arm bobs back and forth, a soothing sound. I crawl into bed, curl into a large, round ball, and draw my arms around my middle. Hugging my stomach is almost like hugging another person. A person who’s happy with me.

This time, when I close my eyes, Marcia Brady is gone.

* * *

When I start for school in the morning, it’s barely light out and the air is cool. I like fall. I don’t sweat as much, or feel self-conscious wearing long sleeves. I cross the street to avoid a group of girls clustered together, waiting for the school bus.

My
last school-bus ride was in third grade. Kids mooed as I started down the aisle wearing an ugly plaid dress. I was inches from an empty seat when a foot shot out, tripping me. Fat Girl flies. Fat Girl lands with a splat. I could hear the stitches on my dress pop, exposing my slip underneath. A boy with Coke-bottle glasses grabbed my lunchbox, flinging what I’d packed in separate directions: two fluffernutter sandwiches, a package of Raspberry Zingers, a bag of Fritos, a Mallo Bar. The bus driver hit the brakes and whirled around.
Finally
, I thought,
someone’s going to make the kids stop being mean to me.
You still have faith in adults when you’re that age. But it doesn’t take long to smarten up.

“Hey, you!” she yelled. “The girl in the aisle! No getting out of your seat till I come to a complete stop. Those are the rules. What’s your name?”

Eyes on the floor, I mumbled, “Madeline.”

“I can’t hear you!” she snapped. “Speak up!”

“Fatty Maddie!” the boy who’d trashed my lunch hollered.

Everyone howled as I hurried toward an open seat, and the driver jammed the bus into gear. At school I went straight to the
nurse, who used several safety pins to hold my dress together. I begged her to let me go home to change, but we lived over two miles from school, so she told me to call Mom for a ride. The phone rang seventeen times before I gave up. Like I said, my mother can sleep through anything.

By the time I arrive at the high school, the streetlights have flickered off. I move through the day in the usual way. Show up for classes, turn in homework, eat my free lunch, draw stares. Still, I dread the three o’clock dismissal bell. School isn’t my idea of a good time, but it beats the hell out of what’s waiting for me at home. Usually I prolong leaving by hanging out in a wooden lean-to dubbed the Smoking Lounge because it’s the only place on school grounds kids are allowed to light up. Not that I smoke, but there’s a bench inside and a view of the athletic field so I can watch whoever has practice.

Today, it’s the varsity cheerleaders. As I park myself on the bench the coach organizes a pyramid. Jeannette Landeau kneels, then Sharon Ranson and Debbie Carter, and so on, until it’s time to start the second row. Muralee Blawjen waits. She’s the head cheerleader, so she’s usually on the very top. Except this time, as she climbs to her spot her foot slips, and the row-two girls tumble, collapsing on top of row one. Sharon Ranson goes into hysterics when one of her contacts falls out. But as everyone crouches, helping her look for her lens, they’re laughing the entire time. Even though it’s 100 percent Muralee’s fault the pyramid crumbled and Sharon lost her contact, no one’s mad at her. Everyone loves Muralee—even me, who has a thousand reasons to despise her. There’s no way she could ever screw up.

When practice is over, the coach blows her whistle. The cheerleaders hurry toward the school, and I walk to McDonald’s for a snack.

As I’m finishing off a hot cherry pie and a chocolate milk shake, Muralee, Jeannette, and Sharon bound through the side door and start toward the counter—my cue to leave.

But as I collect my stuff, a boy in a McDonald’s uniform sits down across from me. He has blond flyaway hair and John Denver glasses, and there’s a ketchup stain on his collar. When he pokes a straw through the lid on his soda, it scrapes the slit and makes a farting noise. “Mind if I sit here on my break?”

I glance around, making sure he’s talking to me. There’s no one else even close.

“Okay,” I mumble, but I’m not sure a sound comes out, so I nod too.

He sips his soda. “I’m Tad. What’s your name?”

I clear my throat, hoping my voice will work. “Madeline.”

“Pretty name.”

I feel myself blush.

He—Tad—reaches in his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He taps one free and lights it. I notice that his nails need cutting. And they have breading or French fry paste or something packed underneath them. He tips the pack toward me. “Want one?”

“Um, no. But, thanks.”

Tad turns his head to exhale so he won’t blow smoke in my face. “You go to school?”

I can’t believe this is happening. That someone is talking to me. I pinch myself under the table, relieved when I feel pain. “Yeah. Eastside High. You?”

“Not anymore. I quit when I turned sixteen.”

I nod like I understand, thinking:
What would I do if I wasn’t in school all day?
The thought depresses me.

Tad studies me. Intently.

“What?” I say, blushing again.

He taps his cigarette in a small, tin ashtray. “
What
what?”

I whisper, “How come you’re sitting with me?”

He looks around. There are plenty of empty booths. “Want me to leave?”

“No. It’s just that I, um, I wondered, you know…why.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen you here before. You seem like a nice person.”

“Nice?” I repeat.

He flashes a crooked grin. There’s a gap between his two front teeth. “Yeah. Someone who won’t bust my balls.”

I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling. “Oh.”

The cheerleaders pass by, carrying trays. I notice Muralee has fries and a soda. The ends of her auburn hair are damp, and I can smell her fruity shampoo. She sits two booths over, and Jeannette and Sharon drop down across from her. Sharon glances my way. “Wow,” she says, loud enough for everyone in the smoking section to hear, “that guy’s into serious pork.” Jeannette laughs, but Muralee doesn’t. Her eyes connect with mine, and I get this feeling she’s sorry Sharon made fun of me.

“You know those girls?” Tad asks.

“No way. They’re cheerleaders.”

He stamps out his cigarette. “So?”

“
So?
They’re pretty and popular and”—it’s hard to say the word—“skinny.”

“
You’re
pretty,” Tad says. But before I can bask in the moment, he glances at his watch and adds, “Oops, sorry. Break’s over.”

I try to hide my disappointment. When Tad stands, I notice he’s tall. Not skinny but not fat, either.

“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “I always take my break at the same time.”

I’m not sure if he’s asking me to meet him or not. If I tell him
I’ll be here and he’s only being polite, I’ll look like a jerk. “Uh, I…” I fumble, trying to decide what to say.

Tad lifts his hands like he’s caught in a TV holdup. “Hey, no one’s forcing you.”

As he turns to leave I manage to free up my words. “See you tomorrow!” I call.

Two booths over, Sharon huffs and rolls her eyes.

But for the first time ever, I don’t give a rat’s ass.

we’re here
, larry calls.
you awake?

i’m in the backseat,

curled into a ball.

i don’t answer.

i had a nice time tonight, dez.

i can’t wait to see you again.

things’ll be tricky with your ma and all,

but if we’re careful, she’ll never find out.

i uncurl,

open the car door,

move slowly toward the porch.

it feels like i’m watching someone else

put one foot in front of the other.

i’m not sure where i’ve gone,

but i’m not here.

the apartment is dark,

so i let myself in with my key.

i tiptoe up the stairs

and pause outside

mam’s room.

i wish she’d wake up

and notice something is wrong,

that she’d pull me

into her thick arms,

tuck my head beneath her

flabby chins, and say,

there, there, it’ll be okay,

like all the tv moms do.

breath held,

i inch open the door to my room.

sure enough, mam’s trashed it.

drawers are tipped upside down.

clothes cover the floor.

jeremy’s notes are

strewn everywhere.

it’s a strange comfort,

seeing the room match

how i feel inside.

in the bathroom

i strip for a shower.

my shirt reeks of puke,

and my panties are bloody.

i bury them in the bottom of the trash,

duck beneath the pelting spray,

adjust the water so hot that

welts rise up on my skin.

i scrub my sticky thighs

with the pumice soap

mam uses on her feet.

my skin turns red

as cherry pop-tart filling,

but i can’t wash larry off.

his weight still crushes my chest,

and his smell won’t leave my hair—

even after i’ve shampooed

once, twice, three times.

when the water runs cold,

i sink to the shower floor,

shivering.

* * *

the next morning,

the body that claims to be mine

zones out in front of
x-men,

eating cocoa puffs straight from the box.

someone knocks at the door,

and mam hurries to answer it.

two sets of footsteps

climb the stairs.

i run to the bathroom,

close the lid on the toilet,

and sit, rocking,

waiting to find out who’s there,

even though i already know.

where’s dez hiding?
larry asks.

mam snorts.
who the hell knows?

the teakettle whistles.

the lid swirls off the

jar of instant coffee.

spoons clink against

the sides of mam’s ugly mugs.

shaking,

i hurry into the hall,

steal two of mam’s smokes,

grab my denim jacket off a hook.

i’m halfway through the door when

larry says,
whoa, somebody’s pants are on fire!

and mam just laughs and laughs.

* * *

jeremy’s dad works

at the jiffy lube on saturdays

while his mom does grocery shopping

and picks up her heebie-jeebie meds,

so jeremy’s the only one home.

i file past the annuals

that line the front walk,

color-coded to match the house,

and signal with my usual knock.

jeremy answers,

wearing levi’s with no shirt,

his hair wet from a shower.

normally, i’d smile and say,

you look sweet enough to eat.

but today i’m silent.

upstairs

jeremy loads

a steppenwolf cd

in his boom box

and “born to be wild”

rattles the speakers.

he’s such a ’70s retro junkie.

while jeremy moves to the beat,

i stretch out on his bed,

staring up at his

glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars,

inhaling the scent of his pillow—

a little-boy smell i love.

jeremy crosses the room,

bending to plug in his blow-dryer.

sometimes he kids around

and calls it a blow-
job
dryer,

saying if he could

invent something

that looks like a regular dryer

but secretly gives head instead,

he’d be rich in two seconds flat.

jeremy flips the on switch,

pointing the gun at his head.

his hair lifts up and out,

wild as a lion’s mane.

when he’s done,

he lies beside me,

rolling closer for a kiss.

tears fill my eyes,

barreling down both cheeks

like niagara freaking falls.

jeremy loops his arm behind my neck.

hey, what’s wrong?

when i don’t answer,

he pulls a blanket over us

and strokes my hair.

we lie side by side,

staring up at his ceiling,

at those goddamn sticky stars,

like maybe they’re real or something.

jeremy’s lids drop closed.

i turn to study his face.

other than a few stray zits,

his skin is perfectly smooth,

and he barely has enough fuzz to shave.

i know we’re the same age,

but he looks so much

younger to me now.

or maybe

i’m suddenly older.

i hate to disturb him,

but there’s something

i have to ask.

jeremy?

his eyes open,

but only halfway,

like he’s not ready

to let the world in yet.

um
, i start, licking my lips,

which are suddenly dry as burned toast,

what would you do if someone hurt me?

i’m not saying anyone did
—

i shrug, trying to look casual—

i’m just curious
…

he scratches an itch on his ear.
who?

anyone, i mean, no one.

well, let’s say it’s a guy.

what would you do if he,

you know, messed with me?

jeremy’s eyes are open wide now.

his gaze locks with mine.

messed with you how?

my palms are sweating.

i wipe them on my jeans,

tempted to say,
oh, never mind
,

but an invisible force won’t let me.

so i struggle to get the words out:

by making me have sex.

jeremy leaps off the bed

as if someone’s threatened

him instead of me.

what would i do?

he lifts his arms

like he plans to pluck

the answer from the sticky stars

then he slaps his hands

on his thighs, hard.

the sound echoes

like a shotgun being fired.

he shouts,
i’d fucking kill the guy!

words i find hard to believe.

jeremy couldn’t kill anyone.

not with those little-boy looks

and that little-boy smell

and that little-boy fuzz on his chin.

no way. not jeremy.

except when he lies down beside me again,

holding me tighter than before,

i have to admit—

i really do like his answer.