Blue Plate Special Read online

  “Nope. Haven’t stepped foot inside the front door since my mom was with me.” Tad swallows hard, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “It’s funny, but when you’re a kid, your brain gets a hold of these strange notions and acts like maybe they’re true or something. And I think a part of my little pea brain told me that if I ever used one of those tickets and ate a Blue Plate Special without my mom, that would prove she wasn’t coming back.”

  “You’re here now, though.”

  “Yeah.” He buries the tickets in my palm and squeezes my fingers closed around them. “Because you are.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I wake with a terrible headache. I swallow two aspirin, but a half hour later, I’m still hurting. Tiny lightning bolts zip back and forth behind my eye sockets. When I perk Mom’s coffee, the sound magnifies, hammering away at my temples, and the smell makes me want to puke. But I’ve heard coffee helps a headache, so when the brewing’s done I pour myself some. I add three spoons of sugar and an ice cube, then gulp it down before I can taste it.

  After two mugs, the pain lets up. I gather our laundry and start for the laundromat.

  I’m on a bench inside reading a True Story magazine when the bell jangles and Mom waltzes through the door. I always do our laundry alone, so her presence puts me on alert. “What’s up?” I ask, flipping a page.

  As she sits next to me, the scent of V05 hair spray settles down alongside her. “Madeline, I met this guy…”

  Jesus, here we go again. “Where’d you meet him?”

  “At Domenic’s.” Domenic’s is a newsstand where she occasionally picks up a paper and glances at the classifieds so she can report to the welfare office that she’s looking for work.

  “What’s his name?” I ask flatly. Not because I care. I’m just passing time.

  “He was buying vanilla pipe tobacco. I hope I get to smell it sometime.”

  I stare past her—at our sheets, twirling in erratic circles in the dryer. “His name?”

  She looks away, which I take to mean she either doesn’t know or can’t remember.

  The dryer buzzes. I give the sheets a quick feel and drop another quarter in the slot. “So where’s Mystery Man taking you?”

  Her cheeks look sunken, and there’s this weird blue cast to her face. “Huh?”

  I roll my eyes. “On your date. Where’s he taking you?”

  “Oh, well, we don’t exactly have a date yet. We talked is all. He works at the hardware store.” She giggles. “Never know when I might run out of nails.”

  “Or screws,” I mumble, standing to buy a Tab from the soda machine. When I return and pop the tab Mom licks her lips like one of Pavlov’s dogs. She feels in her pocket and pulls out several wrinkled bills. Her hands shake as she presses them flat on her knee. “I need to stop at the store. My redheaded aunt’s in town.”

  “I’ve got a box of pads in my room,” I say, testing her. “Take some of mine.”

  Mom holds the bills tightly, like a kid trying not to lose track of her allowance. “That’s okay”—she stands and starts toward the exit—“I don’t want to short you.”

  * * *

  A sound startles me, and I jump up from the couch. When I realize it’s Mom coming in, I glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. I think of the announcement that comes on just before the late news, saying, “Parents, it’s 10 P.M.—do you know where your children are?” When I was little, I used to wonder why they didn’t have one for kids, asking if they knew where their parents were.

  The TV test pattern is on, which means I fell asleep and missed the ending to Carrie. Damn. I was really looking forward to seeing her use her telekinetic powers to get revenge on her classmates at the prom.

  I listen for the sound of Mom’s shoes hitting the floor near the door. I can tell a lot by the lapse between clumps. But I have to factor in the foot gear. Mom wore shoes with laces to the laundromat, not slip-ons. They take longer to remove.

  Clump!

  I wait. Count. Five-Mississippi. Six-Mississippi. Seven-Mississippi.

  Clump!

  Eight. Not bad. The record is twenty-nine. But that was in the winter, when she was wearing boots with zippers and buttons, and she fell after the first clump.

  “Mad’line?” she calls. “Mad’line, honey?”

  “In the living room,” I answer, monotone.

  She weaves toward me, one hand on the wall to steady herself, then drops down beside me on the couch. When she props her feet on the coffee table, I notice that her socks don’t match. She lights a cigarette, inhaling. Her head rocks back, her mouth opens in a yawn, and smoke wafts out in sooty tufts, like it’s rising from a smoldering brushfire.

  I wait for a commercial to ask, “Where are your Kotex?”

  When she doesn’t answer, I glance at her. She’s passed out already. A paper pokes out of her breast pocket. I take it out. A phone number’s written on the back of a vanilla pipe tobacco label. Jesus, she doesn’t waste any time.

  “I met someone too,” I tell her, even though she doesn’t hear me. “Why don’t you ask me what his name is? Why don’t you ask where I met him?” I turn to glare at her. “Oh, wait, I forgot. You don’t give a shit because everything’s all about you.”

  Gray ash balances on the tip of her cigarette. Watching the red tip burn slowly downward, I feel anger bubbling inside me. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do”—my voice grows louder as my heart speeds up—“if my boyfriend ever wants to touch me the way your boyfriends touch you.” I shove my sleeve up and thrust my scaly lizard arm forward. “Tell me!”

  She doesn’t answer, of course.

  As I grab her cigarette and mash it out—so hard I burn my fingertips—my brain registers a smell I’ll never forget. I rush to my room, slam the door, and put Janis Joplin on my turntable.

  Tears cool my hot cheeks as I crank up the volume as high as it will go.

  Desiree

  one tuesday night,

  about a month after

  jeremy and i start having sex,

  i decide to take a shortcut home.

  walking down railroad avenue

  behind the tire store,

  i watch for my cue to turn off—

  an old dead-end sign

  sprouting like a rusted tulip

  from a sea of knee-deep weeds.

  a car slows down behind me.

  a voice calls my name.

  a man’s voice.

  i keep walking.

  but the car speeds up

  then turns in front of me,

  so abruptly i plow into the hood

  and fall backward.

  larry steps out,

  hurrying toward me.

  you all right, desiree?

  he holds his hand out to help me up,

  but i stare a hole in it. you hit me!

  don’t be so dramatic,

  he says, all calm,

  you walked into my car.

  i start to run.

  at first i’m faster,

  and larry has trouble keeping up.

  but when i reach the dead-end sign,

  he gains on me,

  moving closer.

  the mouth of the woods opens.

  shadows gobble up the trees.

  larry grabs my arm,

  whirls me around.

  what the hell’s the matter with you?

  i try to pull away.

  let me go or i’ll scream!

  larry shakes me.

  why are you ignoring me?

  why can’t i ever see you?

  jesus, we made love and now—

  made love? i shout.

  are you crazy?

  you raped me!

  larry reels back like i’ve slapped him.

  that’s not the way

  i remember it,

  sweetheart.

  i rush forward and take a swing.

  larry catches my fist midair, twisting it.

  i’m a pretzel,
bent backward and down

  till my knees touch the ground

  and pain rages in my shoulder,

  sending a message to my brain.

  my lips can’t help it,

  they cry, owwww!

  larry lets go

  except he doesn’t offer

  to help me up this time.

  standing on my own, i yell,

  i’m telling on you!

  i’m telling my mother what you did!

  his face fills with concern.

  i think he might apologize,

  admit everything was his fault.

  but his expression changes

  as suddenly as rain evaporating

  from a hot summer sidewalk.

  a cold, hard stare takes its place.

  your ma knows you’re sleeping

  with your boyfriend, desiree.

  she tells me what a slut you are.

  who do you think she’ll believe?

  * * *

  i’ve missed two periods.

  still, i pretend i have one.

  i figure out where the

  red x’s should go,

  and when jeremy

  asks me to do it,

  i tell him i’m riding

  the cotton pony,

  moan about killer cramps,

  say, let’s watch the simpsons instead.

  * * *

  on labor day weekend,

  the last weekend

  before school starts,

  jeremy’s parents take off

  to visit friends in the poconos,

  and jeremy throws another party.

  dan, his friend from the wrestling team,

  pops a porn video in the vcr,

  except the tracking is totally screwed up

  and the dialogue doesn’t match

  the mouth movements.

  on my way to the bathroom to pee,

  i bump into carol ann and eric,

  just coming in from outside.

  i can tell from their eyes

  they got stoned.

  plus carol ann’s top is on inside out

  and eric’s fly is unzipped.

  as eric starts toward the keg

  carol ann leans into my side.

  what’s up?

  i want to tell her,

  i’m three months late

  for my period.

  instead i say,

  nothing. what’s up with you?

  she laughs, then blurts out,

  me and eric just did it

  in his brother’s truck.

  so much for motels

  and candles and wine.

  when i reach to touch her arm,

  she slides past me,

  calling eric’s name in a

  strange high-pitched voice—

  eeeeeh-rrrrrric—like he’s a toddler

  she’s lost track of at the mall.

  * * *

  when school starts again,

  i’m actually psyched because

  i’m bored out of my freaking mind.

  even hanging out and partying gets old.

  the second monday

  after classes begin,

  carol ann sits on the sink in the lav

  watching me stroke on mascara.

  soon my lashes look like spiders,

  legs blinking opened and closed.

  the eyes they encircle stare back at me,

  dull as a pair of scuffed marbles.

  carol ann fluffs her hair in the mirror.

  has jeremy asked you yet?

  asked me what?

  it comes out sounding bitchy,

  but i can’t help it.

  i’m not in a carol ann mood.

  lately i’m not in an anybody mood.

  you know, carol ann coos.

  to the harvest ball.

  i grab my handbag off the sink.

  there’s a wet stain on the fake suede.

  yeah, jeremy asked me.

  carol ann grabs my hands,

  jumping up and down

  like a windup toy.

  i pull away before i hurl.

  all manic, she rushes out,

  the four of us can double-date!

  eric’s brother’ll let him borrow his truck.

  me and you can shop for dresses together!

  how’s this weekend? huh?

  i break the bad news: that i can

  barely afford to buy cigarettes,

  let alone a dress for a dance.

  no problem, she says,

  my parents’ll loan you the money.

  i picture saturday on my calendar—

  black x number 97.

  sure, i say,

  forcing a smile.

  * * *

  on saturday,

  carol ann and i

  meet at burger king

  before dress shopping.

  i order a bk big fish value meal

  and dive at it when we get to our seats.

  carol ann shakes her head. ew. what’s up

  with the stinky fish, whopper girl?

  i shrug, talk with my mouth full.

  just in the mood for something new.

  she rolls her eyes,

  squeezes sauce on her chicken tenders.

  so did you and jeremy do it yet?

  um—i sip my soda,

  chew on my straw—yeah.

  no way! she slaps my arm.

  and you didn’t tell your best friend?

  it was jeremy’s idea not to tell, i lie.

  he wanted to keep it between us.

  he said it would be more—i search

  for the right word—sacred.

  i wait for carol ann to laugh, but,

  judging by the look on her face,

  she’s creaming her jeans instead.

  wow, i didn’t know guys

  could be so romantic.

  within minutes,

  she’s inhaled her meal.

  she jumps up, tugging my arm.

  come on, we’ve got shopping to do!

  * * *

  i’ve never been inside

  randolph’s department store.

  i thought it was strictly

  for the blue hairs.

  a saleslady with

  apple red lipstick that bleeds

  into the cracks around her mouth

  eyes us as we come through the door.

  may i help you? she asks,

  curling her lip like she smells

  fresh dog shit on our shoes.

  carol ann flashes a phony smile.

  we’re looking for junior party dresses.

  red lips leads us

  into a large pink room

  filled with dresses the colors of

  lucky charms marshmallows.

  i feel like i’m trapped inside

  a barbie doll case.

  carol ann gathers

  an armload of dresses,

  and i find one i can semi-tolerate.

  as i start for a fitting room

  tucked behind a handbag display,

  carol ann draws the curtain

  on a extra-wide room in the corner.

  pssst!—she waves me over—

  c’mon in here with me.

  just what i need.

  inside

  i hang my dress on a hook,

  turn away to unsnap my jeans,

  wrestling them off, they’re so tight.

  so is the size 7 dress i picked out.

  damn, i can’t even zip it.

  try a 9, carol ann tells me,

  that’ll work.

  and it does.

  but will it still work

  a month from now?

  Ariel

  I comb my bangs flat and give them a hefty blast of freeze spray. Still, Mom notices my bruise during dinner. “How did that happen, Ariel?”

  I explain to her about tripping and cracking my forehead on my nightstand, leaving out one impor
tant detail—that I was rushing around like a maniac because Shane was pounding on our door. Fortunately, Mom’s so preoccupied with our upcoming trip to Elmira, his name doesn’t come up once. He’s there with me, though. All through dinner, I remember how fragile he looked crying in our kitchen.

  The next morning, I wear Shane’s favorite outfit—an Old Navy hoodie that clings after it shrunk in the dryer, and my low-rise Riders. Except I have some serious PMS bloating going on, and the jeans fit tighter than usual. I check my backside in the mirror to make sure I don’t have VPL.

  When I meet Olivia at Starbucks, there are two beverages on the newspaper box instead of one. “For you,” she says, handing me the taller one. “Chai tea. I figured you could use the caffeine since you looked like crap yesterday.”

  “Thanks. I think.” I take the cup as we start to walk.

  “So,” she says, “what happened after school yesterday? I thought we were going to try to do something together.”

  “Sorry. Shane was there waiting for me when I got home.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t be mad, Liv.”

  “I’m not mad.” She sips her latte. Looks away. “We just haven’t hung out in, like, a really long time.”

  A gust of wind whips past, lifting my sprayed-down bangs.

  Liv stares at my forehead bruise. “Ariel, what happened?”

  I reach to smooth my bangs back, except my glove creates major static and my hair boings out in every direction. “Nothing. I fell.”

  I start walking again, but Liv doesn’t follow along. I turn. “What?”

  Liv beams a look of concern. “Ariel, is there anything you want to tell me?”

  She’s channeling Dad the Psychotherapist again. “No, Liv, there’s nothing to tell. But I am freezing, so let’s go.”

  Liv catches up to me, touches my sleeve, whispers, “Ariel, did Shane hit you?”

  I think of what Shane said when he saw the bruise. I hope no one thinks I did that to you. This creeps me out, but I try to act normal. “No, Liv. God. Why would you say such a terrible thing?”

  “I don’t know, I just—” She forces a frown away. “Never mind. Sorry.”

  When we start walking again, Liv’s phone bleeps, and I’m relieved to have the focus off me. She flips it open, reads a text, rolls her eyes. “Puh-lease.”