Fruit (19 page)

The parking lot at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope was pretty full by the time we got there, but we managed to find a spot and take our seats in the auditorium before the play started. It was weird being in a Catholic school and I thought about the time Daniela took me to St. Michael’s. I kept looking around for the hanging lantern that lets you know if God is there, but I didn’t see one.

“It smells funny in here,” my mom said as we took our seats. “I thought Catholics were supposed to be clean.”

The lights went down and the pianist came out. I wondered if he knew Mrs. Forbisher and how many breakdowns he’d had during rehearsals. I wasn’t very impressed with the scenery on stage. It looked fake and when the nuns came out and started to sing “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” one had a voice so high that it hurt my ears. I heard someone behind me whisper, “For the love of God.” As if that wasn’t bad enough, another nun said her lines like a robot. I kept checking her back for the fuse box.

“It’s going to be a long night,” I thought to myself.

Then Maria ran onstage and changed everything.

From the minute she opened her mouth, I could tell the actress playing Maria was different from the others.
She had star quality. She was very beautiful too, and reminded me of Brooke Shields. Her blue eyes sparkled under the lights and even though she was dressed in black, she looked like an angel.

“A dark angel,” I thought and sat up straighter in my chair.

When she sang “I Have Confidence in Me,” I knew I was falling in love with the woman onstage. She had the best voice I’ve ever heard and was so sweet, spinning around with her suitcase in her hand. I knew then that whoever she was, Maria was the kind of girl that I could spend my life with. She’d never get angry or tell me what to do and would always whisper “I love you” before we went to sleep at night. Everyone would want to be her friend, because she was so nice. But she’d want to be with me and me only.

“He needs me beside me. And I need him,” she’d say and smile.

Maria was the one that I’d been looking for. She was the one that could cure me of the bad things about myself. With one smile, she would heal my nipples, stop the Bedtime Movies, and help me forget all about Billy Archer. We’d run off and elope and when we got back into town, she’d show off the diamond ring to all of her friends. Maria would also get me plenty of boy friends and all of them would be jealous, because I had Maria and they didn’t. They’d see that they were wrong about me all along.

When the intermission came, I read in the programme that Maria was being played by Debbie Andover. Her
biography said she was a grade 12 student at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope and her favourite subject was religion. When she graduates, Ms. Andover hopes to pursue a career in either cosmetics or missionary work. Ms. Andover is thrilled to be playing the part of Maria and thanks her family and friends for their love and support.

I kept imagining my name in her biography.

“That Maria girl is good,” my mom said to me as we stood out in the hall. “She has a nice voice. Better than that von Trapp fellow, anyway. Isn’t he supposed to be bald? Or maybe I’m thinking of
Annie
. Is that the one where there’s a ship?”

I was angry at my mom. Debbie wasn’t just good — she was perfect, and one day, she would be a big movie star.

When the play ended, Debbie got the loudest applause. Someone came onstage and gave her a bouquet of roses. I wondered if she has a boyfriend and if she does, I bet he’s a jerk who spends more time playing football with his friends than taking her out on dates. But Debbie would never complain. She’s too classy for that. Instead, she would cry in bed each night, wishing that someone better would come along. That someone was me.

On the car ride home, I felt relieved that I’d finally fallen in love with a girl. It was something I’d needed to do for a long time. Especially since I was going to be fourteen in a couple of weeks.

That night, while I was lying in bed, I read Debbie’s biography over and over again. I wondered what she was doing at that moment. Was she lying in her bed, too? Was
she crying because her jerk boyfriend had forgotten about her opening night?

“What’s the big deal?” he’d say to her. “It’s just some stupid play.”

But to Debbie, it wasn’t. It was her whole life. She wanted her boyfriend to see her doing what she did best. She wanted him to see her in a way he never had before. And I knew what that felt like more than anyone else.

“I see you, Debbie,” I whispered, hoping that wherever she was, she heard my voice. “I see you.”

My birthday is next week and I get to pick where we go for dinner. It’s a tradition in my family.

“Within reason, of course,” my mom said. “We can’t afford to take you all to Walker’s, so don’t even think about it.”

Walker’s is Sarnia’s fanciest restaurant. They have linen tablecloths and the waiters wear black bow ties. Or so I’ve heard. I’ve never been inside. Daniela went there once for her cousin Angela’s wedding anniversary. She told me that they even have someone who carries around a small brush and wipes the crumbs off the tablecloth while you’re eating.

“Now that’s fuckin’ class,” Daniela said and whistled. “I bet the guy makes a hundred thousand a year just for doing that. More than my dad will ever make.”

Sometimes, I feel bad for Mr. Bertoli because his restaurant isn’t that busy. Daniela says her mom is worried about paying the bills. The other day, I walked by Papa Bertoli on my way to the Shop ’N’ Bag and I saw Mr.
Bertoli sitting at the counter. There wasn’t one other person in the restaurant. He looked awfully lonely and I wondered how he’d survive. Maybe there was a way I could help him out. So when it came time to pick the place for my birthday dinner, I said what my Christian heart knew was right.

“I want to go to Papa Bertoli.”

“Oh Peter, be serious,” my mother said.

“I am being serious,” I said. “I want to go to Papa Bertoli.”

“Henry, will you please try talking some sense into your son?”

“Why? What’s wrong with going there?”

“Well for one, you don’t like Italian food and secondly, it’s dirty.”

“How do you know it’s dirty?” I asked.

“Oh, you can just tell about those kinds of places.” My mother shuddered.

“For the record,” I said, “the Bertoli’s house reeks of Lysol. So much so that you can taste it in your mouth. So I know for a fact that the restaurant would be the same.”

“Lysol linguine,” my mother said. “Now
that
sounds tasty.”

She knew she wouldn’t win because it was my birthday and she had to respect my choice. The same went for Nancy and Christine.

“Of all the restaurants in Sarnia, you pick
that
one?” That was from Nancy.

“I won’t order anything.” That was from Christine. “Just so you know.”

I grabbed the telephone book and dialled the phone number. It rang twice before Mr. Bertoli picked up.

“Allo?”

“Is this Mr. Bertoli?”

“Yes.”

“Hello, Mr. Bertoli. This is Peter Paddington.”

“Who?”

“From across the street. Peter the paperboy. I’m calling to make reservations,” I said proudly.

“You calla for what?”

“Reservations,” I said, more loudly. “To make a reservation. For six people. Do you have a table available for Friday night? Say 5:30?”

There was silence on the other end. I wondered if he was too choked up to say anything.

“Hello?”

“Daniela?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Peter.”

“Why the fuck are you calling here?”

“To make a reservation at your dad’s restaurant.”

“A what?”

I rolled my eyes. “Look, my family will be coming there Friday night for 5:30. There’ll be six of us.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my birthday and I thought it would be nice.”

“Oh. Well, if you want.” Then she hung up.

With service like that, it’s no wonder the restaurant wasn’t doing too well.

By the time Friday night rolled around, I wasn’t sure if I still wanted to go to Papa Bertoli or not. I’d forgotten about that new Chinese restaurant on Maxwell Street. But it was too late to change plans.

“I still don’t think this is funny,” my mother said as we pulled up in front of the restaurant. Nancy, Christine, and I were squished in the back seat. Uncle Ed was meeting us there.

“It’s not a joke,” I said as we piled out of the car. Mr. Bertoli was holding the door open for us. He looked so happy.

“Atsa nice, atsa nice!” he called as each of us walked by him.

“Hello, Mr. Bertoli!” my mother yelled. “Nice to see you!”

Daniela was standing behind the counter, wearing an apron and her hairnet. I smiled at her as we sat down at the table, but she didn’t even look at me, not even when she came to fill up our water glasses.

“We’re expecting another person,” my mother yelled at Mr. Bertoli. “My brother. He’s always late, though, Mr. Bertoli.” She laughed her company laugh and Mr. Bertoli said, “Atsa nice!”

Nancy gave Christine a nudge and pointed at the “Map of Italy” paper placemat.

“How are you doing tonight, Daniela?” my mother asked.

“Okay,” Daniela said. “Specials are chicken parmigiana
with pasta for $
7.95
and meatloaf with potatoes for $
6.95
. Includes pie, too.”

“What’s in the news?” Uncle Ed came through the door. His face was as red as a tomato. “It’s freezing out there. Say,” he said, pulling off his gloves. “This isn’t a bad place.” He turned to Mr. Bertoli. “How long you been here again?”

Mr. Bertoli smiled and nodded.

“Who’s this pretty young lady?” Uncle Ed pointed towards Daniela.

“That’s Daniela, Ed,” my mother said. “Now leave her alone and decide what you want to eat. She’s just about to take our order. My goodness. I don’t know where to begin.” She did another fake laugh. “Everything just looks so tasty! Is the fish fresh, Daniela?”

“Fresh out of the freezer,” Daniela said. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

In the end, everyone ordered the meatloaf except for Nancy and Christine, who both ordered garden salads.

“It’s quite moist, actually,” my mom whispered halfway through the meal. “I didn’t think Eye-talians could make meatloaf.”

I couldn’t figure out what was up with Daniela. She barely spoke two words to me the whole night. And here I thought I was doing her a favour. We could’ve spent our money someplace else. Now, she might have a chance of going to college, thanks to me.

When we came back home, my mom brought out my birthday cake.

“Peter is a man today!” my mom said, putting the cake down on the table in front of me. It was chocolate and
covered with shredded coconut. My mom puts shredded coconut on all her cakes because she’s not very good with icing.

“You’re just growing like a bad weed, Peter. Your first birthday seems like yesterday. Now look at you!”

Then she pinched me really hard.

“Henry, take a picture before the candles set the house on fire.”

Uncle Ed got his camera, too.

“Over here, Peter. That’s it, smile nicely now.”

“Ed, make sure you’re centred before you take the photo,” my mom said. “Honestly, you take the worst pictures.”

After I blew out the candles, Uncle Ed asked me what I wished for.

“Nothing special,” I said.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Uncle Ed said as he shoved a forkful of cake into his mouth. He winked at me, like he knew about the secret birthday wish list I’d tucked between my mattresses last week. It was very disturbing.

I got the usual stuff for my birthday. My parents gave me a sweater, which wasn’t too ugly. Christine gave me a cookie cookbook, Nancy gave me a clock-radio, and Uncle Ed gave me the Olivia Newton-John
Greatest Hits Vol.
2
album.

The next day while we were sitting around watching
TV
, my mom said that since tomorrow was Sunday, we had to go to London and visit Great Aunt Vivienne.

“It’s the first Sunday of the month,” she said.

“Do I have to go?” I asked. “She won’t mind if I miss one visit.”

I know it’s not nice to say, but I hate visiting Great Aunt Vivienne in the hospital. The air smells like pee and butterscotch and everywhere you look, there are old people, just sitting around in the halls. They stare at me when I walk by. I usually try to smile at them, because who knows? Maybe they think I’m an Angel of Mercy. One time, though, I walked past this old woman on my way to the bathroom.

“Good day,” I said, because that’s how old people talk.

“Hello,” the woman said. “Fatty.”

I gasped. I couldn’t understand why she would say something like that. I mean, old people are supposed to call you “dear” and serve Mint Melt-a-Ways and chocolate buttons. I tried to put it out of my mind over a cheeseburger platter in the hospital cafeteria, but the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. What gave her the right to go and call me “Fatty” when I didn’t have to be nice to her in the first place? So every time I see her now, I walk by very slowly and make low moaning noises and hope she thinks I’m the Grim Reaper.

“Peter, you’re not staying home,” my mom said. “Aunt Vivienne lies in that bed seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Seeing you kids is the only joy she gets.”

“Well, maybe it wouldn’t be that big a deal if Peter stayed home tomorrow,” my dad said. “It’s his birthday, after all.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Then I’m not going,” Christine said.

“Count me out, too,” Nancy said. “If he gets to stay home, I can, too. Besides, I’m supposed to go over to Bubbles’ house.”

“Peter can stay behind, but you girls are both going to London tomorrow,” my dad said. “I seem to remember two young ladies who didn’t come with us the last time, either. I don’t think it would kill you to spend the afternoon with your aunt.”

“Henry, Peter can’t stay home by himself all day,” my mom said.

“Why not? He’s a man now, after all. You said so yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” my mom said, “something could happen.”