Keeping the Moon (3 page)

When I walked in, the first thing I saw was a tall bony girl throwing some kind of a fit.

"I am telling you," she was saying to another girl, a curvy blonde with her hand on her hip. "If I get less than fifteen percent again tonight I am going to
kill
someone."

"Uh-huh," the blonde said. She was standing by the coffee machine, watching it brew.

"Mark my words," said the bony girl. She had a short haircut with bangs straight across her forehead. She turned and looked toward the back corner of the restaurant, where a group of men in suits were standing up and pushing in their chairs, making leaving noises.

The blonde turned from the coffee machine and looked at me. She had on bright red lipstick. "Can I help you?"

"I need to order some takeout," I said. My voice sounded loud in the almost-empty room.

"Menu's right there," she said, pointing to a stack right beside my elbow. She was staring at my lip. "Let me know when you're ready."

The tall girl brushed past me as she came out from behind the counter, then stepped aside as the suits left. One man toward the back was chewing on a toothpick, smacking his lips. The blonde settled in against the opposite side of the counter, watching me.

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"Y'all have a good night," the tall girl said.

"You too," one of the men mumbled.

I went back to scanning the menu, all of it standard beach food: fried seafood, burgers, onion rings, the kind of stuff that had been banned from our house since my mother was born again as Kiki Sparks. It had been months since I'd had a french fry, much less a burger, and my mouth was already watering.

"I knew it," the tall girl said from across the room. She was standing by the table the suits had just abandoned, a bunch of change in her hand. "A dollar seventy. On a thirty-dollar tab."

"Well." The blonde was clearly used to hearing this.

"Goddammit,"
the tall girl said. "Okay, then. That is
it."

The blonde looked at me. "You ready?"

"Yeah."

She took her time coming over, pulling out a ticket from the apron tied loosely around her waist. "Go ahead."

"I'm not going to take this anymore," the tall girl said as she started across the room. She had big, flat feet that smacked the floor with each step.

"Grilled chicken salad," I said, remembering Mira's request, "and a cheeseburger with fries. And onion rings."

The blonde nodded, writing this down. "Anything else?"

"No."

The tall girl stopped right next to me and slammed the handful of change down on the counter, one dime bouncing off to hit the floor with a
ping.
"I can't take it anymore," she said dramatically. "I will remain silent no longer."

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"You need ketchup with that?" the blonde said to me, ignoring her.

"Uh, yeah," I said.

The tall girl was taking off her apron, balling it up in her hands. "I don't want to have to do it," she said.

"Mayonnaise?" the blonde asked.

"No," I said.

"I
quit!"
the tall girl announced, throwing her apron at the blonde, who reached up and caught it without even looking. "And now, I will go out and give those rude, inconsiderate fascists a
piece
of my mind." She took two strides to the door, kicked it open with a bang, and was gone. The door swung shut, the screen rattling.

The blonde, still holding the apron, walked to the window and stuck my ticket on a spindle. "Order up."

"All right," a guy's voice said, and then I saw Norman Norman poke his head out and grab the ticket. The blue sunglasses were parked on top of his head. "Where's Morgan?" he asked.

"Quit," the blonde said in a bored voice. She'd pulled out a
Vogue
magazine from somewhere and was flipping the pages.

Norman smiled that sleepy smile, then glanced toward the door and saw me. "Hey, Colie," he said. "This for you and Mira?"

"Yeah," I said. The blonde looked at me again.

"Cool," Norman said, and he waved before disappearing back behind the window.

I stood there, waiting for my food; in the kitchen, a radio was playing softly. About ten minutes passed before the door creaked

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behind me and the tall girl--Morgan--came back in, mumbling under her breath.

"Already gone?" the blonde said in that same flat voice.

"Drove off just as I got out there," Morgan grumbled. As she passed, the blonde gave her the apron, flipping another page of the magazine.

"Too bad," she said.

"This is the last summer I work here," Morgan declared, pulling her apron strings into a perfect bow. "I mean it."

"I know." The blonde turned another page.

"I'm serious." Morgan went over to the soda machine and filled a cup with ice, shaking some into her mouth and crunching it with a determined look. Then she saw me. "You been helped?"

"Yeah," I said.

"She's Mira's niece," said the blonde.

Morgan looked at me with new interest, eyebrows raised. "Really?"

"You remember. Norman told us about her." The blonde put down her magazine and turned her full attention back to me. "Kiki Sparks' kid. Can you imagine."

"I can't," Morgan said, but she smiled. "What's your name?"

"Colie," I said warily. I'd had enough experience with girls in groups to be on my guard.

"What's the deal with that thing in your lip?" the blonde said bluntly. "It's creepy."

"Isabel," Morgan said, elbowing her. "How old are you, Colie?"

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"Fifteen," I said.

Morgan came closer to me, tucking her hair behind her ear. On her right hand, she wore a ring with a tiny diamond, just big enough to flash in the light. "How long you down for?"

"Just the summer," I said.

"Order up!" Norman yelled from the kitchen.

"That's great," Morgan said. "You'll be right next door. Maybe we can go to the movies sometime or something."

"Sure," I said, but I kept my voice low. "That would be--"

"Here you go," Isabel, the blonde, said, dropping my food right in front of me. "Ketchup's inside the box. That'll be fifteen-eighteen with tax."

"Right," I said, handing her the twenty. She turned on her heel and went to the register.

"Well, tell Mira I said hi," Morgan said, "and that I'll be by for Triple Threat tomorrow, since I'm off."

"Triple Threat," I repeated. That
had
to have something to do with wrestling. "Okay. I will."

"Here's your change," Isabel said, slapping it on top of one of the boxes.

"Thanks," I said.

She stepped back, next to Morgan, and squinted at me. "Can I tell you something?" she said.

"No," Morgan told her, her voice low.

I didn't say anything. So she did.

"That thing in your lip is, like, repulsive." She scrunched up her nose as she said it.

"Isabel," Morgan said sternly in a Mom voice. "Stop it."

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"And next time you decide to dye your hair," Isabel went on, ignoring her, "you should try to get all of it one color. I'm sure your mom can afford to send you to a professional."

"Label,"
Morgan said, grabbing her by the arm. Then she looked at me. "Colie," she said, like she knew me. "Just don't listen ..."

But I didn't hear her, couldn't, was already gone, turning and walking out the door with the food in my hands to the parking lot before I even knew what was happening. Over the years I had perfected removing myself from situations. It was kind of like automatic pilot; I just shut down and retreated, my brain clicking off before anything that hurt could sink in.

But every once in a while, something would get through. Now I stood under that one streetlight and the fries and onion rings stank in my hands. I wasn't hungry anymore. I wasn't even me anymore. I was bigger, a year younger, and back in my neighborhood the night Chase Mercer and I took that walk down to the eighteenth hole.

I didn't cry as I walked back to Mira's house. You get to a point where you just can't. It never stops hurting. But I was glad when I didn't cry anymore.

I didn't even know this girl, this Isabel with her blonde hair and pouty lips. It was like I wore a permanent "Kick Me" sign, not only at home and school but out in the rest of the world, too.
It isn't fair,
I thought, but those words were as meaningless as all the rest.

Mira was sitting in front of the TV when I came in. She'd put

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on a pair of blue old-lady slippers and replaced the kimono with a faded plaid bathrobe.

"Colie?" she called out. "Is that you?"

"Yes," I said.

"Did you find it okay?"

I looked at myself in the full-length mirror by the door: my black hair, my piercing, my torn-up jeans and black shirt, long-sleeved even in this summer heat. Isabel had hated me on sight, and not because I was fat. Just because she could.

"Colie?" Mira called out again.

"Yeah," I said. "Your salad's right here." I took it into the back room. She opened the box immediately and popped a piece of lettuce into her mouth.

"Oh, I just love their Caesar dressing!" she said happily. "Norman sneaks some home to me every once in a while. It's wonderful. What did you get?"

"Just a burger and fries. Here's your change." I put it on the coffee table, where she had two plates and two iced teas and a stack of napkins waiting.

"Oh, thank you. Now sit down and let's eat. I'm ravenous." Cat Norman hauled himself out from under the couch and nudged the bottom of the box with his nose.

"I'm not that hungry," I said.

"Bad cat," she said, pushing him back with one foot. To me she added, "But you must be starving! You've had such a long day, all this excitement."

"I'm really tired," I said. "I think I'll just turn in."

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"Oh." She stopped eating, glancing up at me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." This came instantly, like a reflex.

"You sure?"

I thought of Isabel, the way her eyes narrowed as she zeroed in on me. Of my mother in her purple windsuit, new shoes squeaking, waving good-bye. Of an entire summer stretching ahead. "Yes," I said. "I'm sure."

"Well, okay," she said slowly as if we were striking a bargain. "You probably are worn out."

"Yeah," I said, starting out of the room, my cold smelly burger still in my hand. "I am."

"Okay, well, then good night!" she called after me as I started out of the room. "And if you change your mind ..."

"Okay," I said, "thanks." But she was already settling back in her chair, Cat Norman leaping with a bit of effort to the arm beside her. She turned up the volume on yet another wrestling match, and I could hear the crowd roar, cheering and screaming, as I climbed the stairs to my room.

"Colie!"

It wasn't morning. The room was dark, with the moon big and yellow and hanging just where I'd left it in the corner of the window.

"Colie!"

I sat up in bed, forgetting for a second where I was. Then it came back: the train, Norman, wrestling, Isabel's beauty tips. My face was dry and tight, my eyelashes sticky from the crying I didn't do anymore.

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"Colie?" It was Mira, her voice right outside my door. "You have company, honey."

"Company?"

"Yes. Downstairs." She tapped the door with her fingers before walking away. I wondered if I was dreaming.

I pulled my jeans back on and opened the door, looking down the stairs at the lighted room below. This had to be a joke. I didn't even get company at home, much less at a place I'd been less than a day.

I started down the stairs, squinting as the light got brighter and brighter. Everything felt strange, as if I'd been sleeping forever. I was close to the bottom when I saw a set of feet, in sandals, by the door. Two more steps and there were legs, knees, and a small waist with a windbreaker knotted around it. Another two steps, and the beginnings of blonde hair, a pair of pouty lips, and then those same eyes, narrowed at me. I stopped where I was.

"Hey," Isabel said. She had her arms crossed over her chest. "Got a second?"

I hesitated, thinking of Caroline Dawes and all the girls like her I'd left behind.

"I just want to talk to you, okay?" she snapped, as if I'd already said no. Then she took a deep breath and glanced outside. This seemed to settle her down. "Okay?"

I don't know why, but I said, "Okay."

She turned and went out on the front porch, leaving the screen door in half-swing for me to catch. Then she leaned against one of the posts, bit her lip, and looked out into the yard. Up close, I hated to admit, she was even prettier: a classic heart-

38

shaped face, big blue eyes, and pale skin without a zit in sight. Somehow that made it easier to dislike her.

Neither one of us said anything.

"Look," she said suddenly. "I'm
sorry,
okay?" She said this defensively, as if I'd demanded it of her.

I just looked at her.

"What?" she said. "What else do you want?"

"Isabel." Morgan stepped out of the shadows by the bottom of the steps. Her face was stern. "You know that is not how we discussed it."

"It is too," Isabel snapped.

"Do it like I told you," Morgan said evenly. "Like you mean it."

"I can't--" Isabel said.

"Do it. Now." Morgan came up to the second step and nodded toward me. "Go ahead."

Isabel turned back to face me, smoothing her hair. "Okay," she began, "I am sorry I said what I said. I tend to be very critical of what I don't..." Here she paused, looking at Morgan.

"Understand," Morgan prompted.

"Understand," Isabel repeated. "What I said was rude and hurtful and uncalled-for. I'd understand if you never respected me again." She looked at Morgan, eyebrows raised.

"But?" Morgan said, prodding her.

"But," Isabel grumbled, "I hope that you can forgive me."

Morgan smiled, nodding at her. "Thank you." Then she looked at me.

"It's okay," I said, taking the hint. "Don't worry about it."

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"Thanks," Isabel said. She was already inching off the porch, toward the steps.