Blue Plate Special (5 page)

B
y the time school’s out
, it’s turned into one of those gorgeous fall afternoons you really appreciate because you’ve said good-bye to summer and didn’t expect to feel the sun’s warmth again until spring. I stick my scarf in my backpack and revel in walking with my coat unbuttoned, making mental plans along the way. As soon as I get in, I’ll call Olivia. Since her cello lesson was canceled and Shane has detention, she and I will be able to hang out. She’s right, it really
has
been too long. Filled with anticipation, I feel my steps grow lighter.

But when I get home Shane’s motorcycle is parked in our driveway and he’s sitting on the front steps. This probably sounds terrible, but I’m actually kind of disappointed. “I thought you had to stay late,” I say, starting up the sidewalk toward him.

Shane reaches down, picks an aster that survived the first frost, and holds it out for me. “Now what kind of greeting is that?”

“Sorry.” I take the flower and bend to kiss him. “How’d you get out of detention?”

“Work excuse.” He grins. “I just left out the fact that I don’t go in until seven.”

“Aren’t you sneaky.” I sit beside him. “Can you believe how warm it is?”

He loops an arm around me. “That’s why I’m here. Wanna go for a ride?”

I notice the second helmet on Shane’s seat. “Sure. Just let me stick my stuff inside and make a superquick call to Liv.” I dig through my book bag for my keys, which, after searching every corner, I realize I don’t have. “I must have locked my keys inside,” I tell Shane. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a few.”

I duck into the garage and feel under the container of Ice Melt, where Mom hides the spare for the kitchen door. When I turn, Shane’s behind me, so close I plow into him. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting—”

“Anything wrong?”

Mom wouldn’t be happy if she knew Shane saw where the spare is kept. “No, I just—um, no.”

He glances at Mom’s empty parking spot. “Mind if I wait inside?”

Shane hasn’t seen much of our house. Everything’s been handled at the front door. Probably because Mom’s always been here. Having to remind him about the no-boys-allowed-inside-unless-Mom’s-home rule makes me feel like such a baby, so I tell a lie instead. “Shane, um, on second thought, can I have a rain check on the bike ride? I started to get a headache on the way home. I think I’ll take some Tylenol and chill.”

Shane studies me. Does he know I’m lying? “It’s probably tension,” he says. “You worry a lot about grades.”

“I
have
to worry about grades. The SATs and ACTs are coming up, and if I’m going to get into a decent college, then—”

“
Shhhh.
” He steps behind me, rests his hands on my shoulders, and gently works the muscles. As his thumbs glide up and down
my neck, rubbing with just the right amount of pressure, my eyelids drop closed and a sigh escapes from my throat. “Show me to your room,” he says, faking a French accent. Shane does amazing impersonations. “Monsieur Miller will give you a massage,
chérie.
”

What he’s doing feels so good, I actually consider his offer. But when he reaches to take the key from my hand, I come to my senses. “Shane”—I step away—“I, I can’t.”

Hooking a finger through my belt loop, he pulls me close again. “Come ooooon. Live a little.” He kisses my neck. I’m melting.

“Shane…please…” I say, out of options. “You know my mom’s rule.” I can imagine how juvenile that sounds to someone brave enough to stare down the Veep.

His lips nibble their way toward my ear. “But Momster’s not here to enforce it. Besides”—he stops, mid-nibble, rests his chin on my shoulder—“you don’t need a rule like that with me. I’m the one who’s gonna take care of you, remember?”

That’s what Shane told me on our first date. The Weather Channel had predicted thunderstorms, so he’d borrowed his mom’s car. On our way back from New Paltz, where we’d seen a movie and had dinner, it got foggy and started to pour. Sheets of rain blew sideways across the highway, jerking us back and forth, and traffic slowed to a crawl. Cars pulled off the road, their lights glowing ominously; I could barely make out the vehicles they belonged to. Just outside Poughkeepsie, thunder split the sky—which had taken on a bizarre greenish cast—and chunks of ice started to ping off the windshield. Then the chunks grew larger, the size of golf balls, pounding like an army of boots charging over our heads, slamming the windshield with such force I worried the glass would shatter. Finally, I couldn’t help it. I was so freaked out I whispered, “Shane, I’m scared.” One hand still on the wheel, he
reached over, touching me. “You’re shaking,” he said, and flipped his signal on. He pulled to the side of the road, reached into the backseat for a blanket, and opened it over me. Then he drew me as close as he could without either of us getting impaled on the emergency brake. His jacket smelled garlicky from the restaurant we’d eaten at. I nestled my face in his sleeve so I couldn’t see the windshield anymore. “Relax,” he said. “I’ll take care of you. I won’t let anything bad happen.” Those were his exact words. God, I felt so safe. So protected. Shane lifted my chin, kissing me. His lips were full and smooth and moist, tasting of basil from the bruschetta we’d shared. I didn’t sleep a wink that night—I was too busy replaying that kiss. My first.

Remembering, I blink back tears. I want to let Shane in. I want to hear him talk to me that way again. But Mom will be so pissed at me. “Shane,” I blurt, before I chicken out, “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in.”

Shane just stands there, watching me. It’s as if he’s dropped an emotional blank screen in front of his face, a screen I can’t see past or penetrate.

“Shane. Please. Say something.”

Silence.

Suddenly the garage feels claustrophobic. My forehead is damp, my stomach queasy. I glance outside, toward the driveway. Air. Sun. Open space. Just what I need. Except when I start toward it Shane takes my arm and whirls me around. We’re face-to-face. The blank screen has vanished. He’s smiling his sweet, shy smile.

“Wanna see what I brought you?” he asks me.

I’m reeling, attempting to adjust to the shift in his mood. But I’m a sucker for surprises, so I say, “Yeah, okay.”

Shane reaches into his jeans pocket, then sticks both hands behind his back.

If it’s that small, it might be jewelry. What if it’s a ring? My heart speeds up.

“Which hand?” he says, shoving his closed fists forward.

I tap a knuckle on his left hand.

Shane uncurls his fingers. His palm is empty. “
Ahhhhhnnnnnt!
Try again.”

Excited, I tap the other hand. He doesn’t open it, though. “Shane, come on.”

I wait. Shane doesn’t budge.

Standing there, staring at his balled-up fist, I’m beginning to feel like a jerk. Sure, I want my surprise, but I do have
some
pride. I turn toward the steps, pretending I’m not bummed. “Never mind, Shane.”

He shrugs, walks toward his bike. “Suit yourself. You would’ve liked it a lot.”

Shane’s halfway down our driveway when I call, “Okay. I give. Show me.”

He stops, but he doesn’t face me. It looks like he’s talking to our mailbox when he says, “You can ask nicer than
that
, can’t you?” There’s a sexy tease in his voice.

I start toward him. “Would you
please
show me what the surprise is?”

Shane turns, holding his clenched fist forward.

I peel his fingers back. One at a time. Just to draw out the moment.

Except Shane’s palm is totally empty. My face burns. “What the—?”

He flashes me the same smile he flashed Ms. Delphi. Then he drops that damn blank screen again. I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying as he heads down the driveway toward his bike.

* * *

I toss my book bag on the kitchen counter, right beside my missing keys, and dial Olivia’s number. I need to hear a familiar voice—a voice belonging to someone who won’t confuse the hell out of me.

Steve answers.
La Bohème
is playing in the background.

“Steve, it’s Ariel,” I rush out. “Is Liv there?”

“Sorry, love. She said to tell you she phoned a few times, and when she couldn’t reach you she went to the Galleria.”

I glance down at the answering machine. Sure enough, there are two new beeps.

“Want me to give her a message?” Steve asks. I hear sizzling noises in the background and realize he’s making dinner. I think of the Nightly Food Report, and miss Olivia even more.

“No, thanks,” I say, and hang up.

I change into my Nikes, grab my keys, tuck the emergency spare back below the Ice Melt, and head for the university where Mom works. I timed it once—if I jog instead of walk, I can be there in eighteen minutes.

The whole way there my brain OD’s on one question:
Why would Shane play such a mean joke on the person he supposedly wants to take care of?
As I step off the elevator for the English department, mentally exhausted, I still haven’t found an answer.

Inside the office a work-study girl is on the phone, and it’s obviously a personal call. I notice her nose piercing is infected. I clear my throat, but she ignores me.

I glance through the window of the conference room. Aunt Lee’s laptop is open on the table, and she’s explaining something to Mom. When Aunt Lee sees me, she smiles and signals me in.

Mom looks totally spent, like a weak sneeze could knock her over.

Aunt Lee kisses my cheek. “Want a Diet Coke? Mindy can fetch it for you.”

I wouldn’t have pegged Nose Ring for a Mindy. “No, thanks,” I answer.

There’s a long moment of awkward silence. Then Aunt Lee says, “You look upset, sweetie. Your mom told me about the phone call from the doctor last night.” She glances at Mom, then back at me. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

I trace the stitches on the arm of the chair, realizing I shouldn’t have come. I mean, Mom’s mother has cancer, and I’m upset over a stupid joke that’s so inconsequential in the bigger scheme of things. Still I mumble, “Well, not entirely.”

Mom’s eyebrows arch. “Ariel, is it Shane?”

Sometimes I feel like she’s waiting 24/7 for the moment he screws up. According to her, Shane’s possessive, calls too often, and doesn’t give me enough space. Then there’s, quote,
something she just can’t put her finger on
, unquote, which doesn’t stop her from trying. Still, I really need to vent. So I shrug. “Maybe.”

Aunt Lee glances at the clock. “I’ve got a class in ten minutes. But you two stay and talk.” On the way out, she pats Mom’s shoulder. “Take all the time you need.”

Mom watches the door close. “Honey, what’s going on?”

I feel my eyes fill. It’s ridiculous, the way I’m overreacting to Shane’s joke, but I know I have to talk about it. So I tell Mom what happened. Except I pretend he and I were at school. I don’t want Mom worrying about Shane hanging around our house when she’s not there.

Afterward, I study Mom’s face, waiting for her to laugh, to inform me that Shane’s prank, although insensitive, is typical of how teenage boys act. Hell, maybe Dad used to play jokes like that on her.

Instead Mom’s forehead wrinkles. Creases collect at the corners of her eyes.

“Mom, what?”

She reaches for my hand. “Honey, I know you like Shane a lot. But what he did to you, well, it was genuinely mean-spirited.”

I pull my fingers away. “Mom, it was a joke.”

“Ariel, when someone needs to embarrass another person to make himself—”

“Time out! You’ve been watching too many Lifetime movies. You asked what was bugging me and I told you. I’m
over
it,” I lie. “Okay?”

Mom stares at a container of freshly sharpened pencils, and I realize I’ve hurt her feelings. “Look,” I say, “I’ve got homework I should start.”

Mom forces a smile. “I’ll be home around seven. I’ll take you to the Purple Planet if you don’t mind eating that late.”

The Purple Planet is my favorite vegetarian restaurant. Their baked risotto is to die for. “Sure,” I say, starting for the door.

I’m almost through it when Mom calls, “I thought we’d go this weekend.”

I turn. “Go where?”

“To see my mother. The trip should take about four hours. We could leave early on Friday if you don’t mind missing school. We’ll spend the day at the hospital, stay overnight, visit again on Saturday, then take off. That way I’ll have Sunday to work. How’s that sound?”

Shane and I haven’t missed a Friday night together since we started dating. “Give me some time to think about it,” I tell her.

Mom could pull rank, but it’s not her style. She nods. “See you at seven.”

By the time I get home, the sun is setting. When I check the answering machine, there are two new messages, both from Shane, but I don’t feel like talking yet. I hit Delete so Mom won’t find
them, nuke a bag of popcorn, and search for the remote control. Aunt Lee bought us a really nice hi-def TV for Christmas last year. Mom argued that we couldn’t accept such an expensive gift. But, I’m happy to say, Aunt Lee won in the end.

I surf the channels and stop at a
Simpsons
rerun, which makes me think of Dad. Mom says when they were teenagers, they used to watch the new episode together every Tuesday.

Just as I’m getting comfortable, the phone rings. I pray it’s Olivia, back from the Galleria. Still, I let the machine screen the call.

There’s a short silence, then a man’s voice says, “Peaches? You there?”

I hurry toward the phone and pick up. “Dad! You’re psychic.”

“Hey, who you calling psycho?”

I laugh. “I said psychic. I was just thinking of you.” I drop down backward onto the futon. “It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you doing?”

“Same shit, different day,” he answers. Mom gets mad when Dad swears while he’s talking with me, but I don’t mind. I think it’s kind of cool.

“Yeah,” I say back, “same here.”

I hear yelling in the background.

“Everything okay?” I ask him.

“Yeah. I’m on the phone near the TV room. Some bonehead got a hold of the remote and flipped to
Nancy Grace.
”

“I’d yell too,” I say.

We both laugh.