Gimme Everything You Got

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  I showed up at five, because even though supper wouldn’t be until six, I always helped Candace make a salad and lay out plates and utensils. The big treat for Lasagna Night was that we all ate on tray tables in the TV room, and by the time the ABC Sunday Night Movie started, Mrs. Trillo would have dessert ready. My family had never had these kind of rituals, and now I wondered if that was why my parents had split up, or if we’d never had the rituals because they were people who didn’t belong together.

  The front door was unlocked for me. The smell of Candace’s mom’s sauce—a simmering mixture of garlic and tomatoes that made me feel as warm as it did hungry—created its own weather. I followed the aroma into the kitchen, where Candace was slicing a loaf of Italian bread and her mom was laying a final wavy lasagna noodle atop a layer of cheese and sauce.

  “Susan!” Mrs. Trillo said. “Can you fetch me the ladle, sweetie?”

  I grabbed the ladle from a ceramic jar on the counter and handed it to her.

  “We’ll do the salad and get the plates out and then we’re going to go to my room, okay, Ma?” Candace said. I could tell that she wanted to talk, so we worked fast, me slicing a cucumber and Candace tearing the lettuce. We layered it all in an oversize orange bowl. Candace dotted it with red cherry tomatoes before we left it on the table with the rest of the stuff for dinner.

  We crossed through the TV room on the way to Candace’s room, and her brothers, Frank Jr. and Marty, offered up a lazy “Hey, Suze” as we walked by.

  “Where’s your dad?” I asked.

  “In the garage. They’re going to be laying people off at his job, and he’s the one who has to do it. The Folgers can is almost full,” she said, referring to the coffee can Mr. Trillo ashed into when he was stressed and smoking in their garage.

  In Candace’s room, I picked up a copy of Seventeen with Phoebe Cates on the cover. “What’s the Sunday-night movie this week?”

  “The Sting,” Candace said. “Paul Newman. Your favorite. Unless you only have eyes for Coach McMann now?”

  I tossed a pillow at her. “It’s not like that,” I said, even if it was a little like that. “He’s my coach. I’m not throwing myself at him.”

  “You did wear fake eyelashes to soccer practice,” Candace said, grinning mischievously.

  “Look at this,” I said. In the magazine, there was a two-page photo spread of girls playing soccer. Their shirts were tucked neatly into belted shorts, and none of them were sweating. An inset box contained totally basic soccer facts, and I felt as if I were reading a profile of a celebrity who I knew personally. It was wildly self-satisfying to be ahead of the average Seventeen reader on something. “Would you ever want to rejoin the team?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, without even thinking about it. “I went to the football game last night. With some of the pep club.”

  It sort of bugged me that she was skipping right over a chance to ask me about soccer to throw the pep club in my face. I had been planning to tell her about Joe, just for something to talk about, but I knew she’d barely ask about our soccer practice and only want to talk about his boyfriend potential. And since there wasn’t any, I kept my mouth shut.

  The doorbell rang, and Candace’s head swiveled to look at me. “It’s George!” she said.

  “Wait, who?” The news hit me in the stomach, especially the way she announced it, like I should have figured this George person would be there. “What George?”

  “Tomczak,” she said. “I was about to tell you—he drove me home from his practice the other day and Mom invited him to stay for dinner, then yesterday I saw him again at the game.” Candace practically skipped toward her dresser. She lifted the top from her Coty powder and patted the puff against her nose and cheeks and checked her angles in the mirror that hung on her wall.

  “You had George Tomczak over for dinner and you didn’t say anything? Garbage Breath George?”

  “He ate three plates. Mom was in heaven.” Turning away from the mirror, she said, “I know I sometimes pick guys who aren’t the greatest, so I wanted to wait to tell you anything until I knew he wasn’t a jerk.”

  He might not have been a jerk, but no one would pick George Tomczak so much as get stuck with him. He had one of those “aw, shucks” personalities that drove me nuts and a haircut that you just knew his mom gave him. Plus, his breath. Had Candace forgotten she’d blown him off for Reggie Stanton at Dan O’Keefe’s party a few weeks ago? The only thing George had that Candace said she wanted in a boyfriend was a spot on the football team. But even I knew the names of the football players who were supposed to be good, and he wasn’t one of them.

  “Do I have to mention again that we call him Garbage Breath?” I said. “For good reason?”

  Candace frowned. “He’s really sweet,” she said. “And I can work on fixing his breath.”

  “‘Work on’?” My tone was meaner than I wanted it to be, but I was kind of shocked. “Is he your boyfriend or something?”

  Candace blushed. “I think so. Maybe . . .”

  “Are you sure you really like him, though?” I asked. I could hear the way my words sounded, but I wasn’t sure I cared. Was I supposed to be happy for her? “I thought you were into Reggie.”

  “Reggie is a jerk,” she said with finality. She wasn’t wrong. But I was still dumbfounded. George Tomczak?

  “Come on, he’s waiting.” I followed Candace as she traipsed downstairs toward George, who was already being greeted by her brothers like they were old friends.

  “Hi, Susan, how are you today?” George couldn’t even say hello like a normal person.

  “So-so,” I said, subtly touching my nose as if to block his bad breath from entering my nostrils. He was chewing minty gum, but he’d definitely eaten onions recently, too.

  While the lasagna finished baking, Candace suggested we hang out in the TV room. One Day at a Time was on. “What I wouldn’t give for Valerie Bertinelli to show up in my bedroom some night,” Frank Jr. said to George and Marty.

  “Only way that’ll happen is in your dreams,” Marty said. “And even then, she’d probably have somewhere better to be.”

  “She’s really funny in this show,” George said, cutting off Frank and Marty before they went any further in their Valerie fantasies. George smiled at Candace and me as if we should be grateful for this intervention, but it wasn’t like we hadn’t heard Frank and Marty talk that way before. I’d once had the unfortunate experience of hearing Frank describe to Marty what he thought feeling up Carol Burnett would be like. Instead of being thankful for George stepping in, I was more ticked off by the fact that they had zero problems talking about women with me and Candace in the room. If I’d detailed my specific Bobby thoughts out loud, none of them would think that was okay.

  Frank said something about the game on Friday, which Powell Park had lost by only three points, and George started talking about their defense. Candace grinned at me, looking victorious, as if the conversation was proof that George was all the great things she claimed. I turned my attention to the TV.

  “Susan, how’s soccer going?” George asked me, interrupting my favorite Hamburger Helper commercial. (I loved the talking glove.)

  “Pretty good,” I said. And then I added, more to Candace than to him, “We got goals at the park, and everyone on the team really gets along.”

  “That’s neat,” George said. “Some of the guys on the football team say the only reason anyone signed up is because everyone has a crush on Mr. McMann, but I—”

  “No,” I said, straightening up on the couch. “Bobby’s a really good coach. We respect him.”

  George looked as embarrassed as if I’d walked in on him peeing. “Oh, I know you do. The guys say that, but they’re wrong. Mr. McMann seems like a great coach.”

  The fact that George thought I was going to appreciate his support of my team only made me more irritated with him. The show came back on and I gave him the cold shoulder. Maybe it would freeze his stupid, smelly
mouth.

  “I’m starving,” Frank said, to no one in particular.

  “I’m really excited to try your mom’s lasagna,” George said to Candace as he slung his arm around her.

  Poking him affectionately in the ribs, she said, “I hope there’s enough, if you eat three plates again.”

  I rolled my eyes and vowed to eat more than George.

  Mrs. Trillo came in with a bowl of chips and some cold cuts. “George, it’s so nice to see you,” she said, beaming at him. He still had his meaty hand on Candace’s arm like she was a big fish he’d caught. “Now, I know you have a good appetite, but don’t fill up too quick. I made an extra-big lasagna.”

  “Can’t wait, Mrs. Trillo,” George said, with a charming smile. I hated people who expertly sucked up to parents.

  “Hey, does anyone want a pop?” Candace said.

  “That would be great,” George said. Her brothers nodded.

  Candace stood up. “Susan, can you help?”

  “Sure,” I said. Maybe George’s girthy arm on her neck was too much and she had come to her senses.

  I followed her to the basement, where the Trillos had a small second fridge for drinks and the cuts of meat Mrs. Trillo bought on sale and kept frozen until she needed them.

  “Did you want something, too?” she asked me.

  “No thanks,” I said. Then, whispering even though there was no way George could hear, I added, “So did you have to get away from his breath?”

  Candace poked her head out of the fridge and said, “What’s your problem with George?”

  She held out a bottle of 7Up for me, which I waved off. It looked delicious, with the condensation beading on the bottle, but I didn’t want to be distracted. “I don’t have a problem—I just don’t get it,” I said. “Remember when you read Love Story and said you wanted a guy like that? You really think that’s George?”

  “That was just a book, and also the girl dies at the end,” she said.

  “I’d rather die than kiss George.”

  “Good thing you don’t have to,” Candace huffed. She looked toward the stairs, like she was anxious to get back to him. “All I’m saying is, the only boys you ever talk about are guys like Paul Newman and Mr. McMann. You pick people who aren’t even real choices. Prince Charming isn’t real.”

  “I hated Cinderella,” I said, toeing a dust bunny from under the laundry machine with my shoe. “And Snow White.”

  “I just mean no one is ever going to meet your unrealistic expectations.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. I wasn’t angry, but I didn’t like the way she was looking at me, like she felt sorry for me.

  “Just give George a chance,” she said, eyes pleading.

  I wanted to ask her, Why? He’d probably ditch her like every other guy. Instead, I said, “It’s not like I called him Garbage Breath to his face.”

  Candace gave me the same look I gave Randy when he tried to lie about his bedtime. “George is waiting,” she said. “And the movie is starting soon.”

  She went up the stairs, leaving me at the bottom. Why was it always so easy for her to leave when there was a guy around? I stood there for a few minutes, until the fridge kicked on and I remembered how creeped out basements made me.

  I had no choice but to go upstairs. But instead of going back into the TV room, where I could now hear Mr. Trillo and George talking football, I went into the kitchen.

  “Oh, Susan, just the set of pretty hands I need,” Mrs. Trillo said. “Can you put the salt and pepper out on the table? And slice a little more cucumber for the salad?”

  I did what she asked and then, when she finally looked up from garnishing the lasagna—its top layer of cheese molten in the center and browned at the edges, where the corner noodles would be just the right amount of crispy—I gave her a hug and said, “Can you tell everyone I’m not feeling so great? I think I need to go home.”

  Mrs. Trillo cocked her head to one side, and I was sure she could see through my lame excuse. “Are you sure, sweetie? Do you want me to wrap you a plate to take?”

  I shook my head, even though my mouth was watering. “No, thank you, I really don’t feel well.” Carrying a foil-wrapped plate out the door and walking the mile home with it seemed more pathetic than listening to my stomach grumble. Besides, then I’d have to explain to my mom why I wasn’t eating it at Candace’s.

  I snuck out the front door and started walking as quickly as possible. I could smell the hot fries at McDonald’s and my stomach rumbled doubly, but I had no money.

  Twenty minutes later, I slipped into my house to find my mom still at the table, the crusts of a peanut butter sandwich on a plate next to her. She looked up. “You’re back early. Isn’t The Sting on?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, but I remembered I have an English test tomorrow and I have to finish the book.” That was comical, as I was so far behind reading the Faulkner novel Ms. Halliday had assigned that I would have to ditch school for a week to read it all.

  I thought Candace might call me to ask why I’d left, but she didn’t. I fell asleep with my stomach empty and no idea what William Faulkner was talking about.

  Eleven

  When I got to school on Monday, I worried about what Candace had thought of me bailing the night before, and I was trying to decide whether to play up how “sick” I’d felt. But if Candace had been angry, she didn’t show it. When she stopped by my locker before first period, there was a hickey the size of a half dollar on her neck. She’d put enough cover-up on the mottled purple circle to make it clear she was trying to hide it while not actually hiding it.

  “What’s with your neck? Did George not get enough lasagna?” I asked.

  Candace ignored my joke. “Do you feel better?” I could tell she knew I’d lied but was letting it slide thanks to her good mood.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said.

  “You should have stayed,” she said. “Mom made a carrot cake.”

  Mrs. Trillo’s carrot cake was my favorite. Candace definitely wanted me to feel bad for leaving.

  Practice that afternoon was hard, not to mention frustrating. I was trying the tricks Joe had taught me, but I felt like I was always out of position. At one point, I was making good progress toward the goal when Marie crashed into me to get the ball and sent me sprawling to the ground. To make up for my missed shots and clumsiness, I turned on my speed during our suicides, doing more of them than anyone else before Bobby called time.

  I hobbled over to Tina afterward, since she’d been driving me home after practice most days. She gave me an apologetic look as I bent to scrape a chunk of mud off my kneecap left from when Marie took me out.

  “My mom and stepdad are doing the family dinner thing, and I’m already running late,” she said. I knew what this meant. Every so often, Tina’s mom would invite another family that they knew from church or from her stepdad’s office to dinner. The families almost always had a son around Tina’s age. Every time, it was apparently two excruciating hours of making polite conversation with a perfectly nice guy and then coming up with some excuse not to make any further plans with him.

  “That sucks,” I said. She was still changing her shoes, so I asked, “What does Todd think of these dinners?”

  Tina smiled. “You know, that’s like the first time you’ve ever asked me about Todd.”

  “I’ve asked you about him,” I protested.

  She shook her head. “Maybe if I bring him up, but otherwise, no.”

  I knew she was right. As much as Candace and I talked about boys, it had always been hard to ask Tina about this guy we’d never met, and a relationship that seemed like such a pain to maintain.

  Or maybe that was just what I’d told myself, and I was a selfish friend.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but maybe I’ll get to meet him someday,” I said. He had to be better than George.

  Tina’s smile widened. “You might, Suzie Q,” she said. She got into the car and checked her
face in the rearview mirror, swiping beneath her eye to clear away the mascara she’d sweated off. “I’m sorry about the ride, but I need to clean up. Like, I one hundred percent don’t want to do this but I’d still like to make a good impression.”

  “Good luck,” I told her. “Call me later if you want.”

  I started down Oak Center Drive toward home. I’d gone about a block when a car horn honked not far behind me. I started to raise my middle finger like I always did at catcallers (even if I sometimes secretly tallied how many complete strangers told me I had a nice ass) when I saw that the car that pulled up next to me was a Datsun.

  Bobby’s Datsun.

  I turned halfway toward him, trying to pose in a way that was both casual and devastating. I smoothed my hair and a dried leaf came out in my hand.

  He stopped and got out on his side, looking over the top of the roof at me. “I thought you usually went home with Tina,” he said. “Do you need a ride?”

  Did I want a ride home? From Bobby?

  “That would be great,” I said.

  “What’s your address?” he asked as I hopped into the car.

  I told him and he thought for a second. “You know, one thing, do you mind if I make a quick stop on the way? I’m trying to conserve gas.”

  “Of course,” I said, wishing I had something intelligent to say about whoever was responsible for gas being so expensive this year—maybe something insightful and political would make me seem older. But how could I remember what OPEC stood for when I was in Bobby McMann’s car?

  “Good practice today, huh?” he asked, pulling onto the street. “I think we’ll be ready once we get a game.”

  “Me too,” I said, unable to find a comfortable way to sit in his passenger seat. If I leaned back too much, my thigh would touch his hand on the gearshift. You couldn’t throw your thigh at a person who’d never touched it before, right? “I’ve been practicing a little on weekends, actually.” Okay, so I’d only practiced one extra time, but he didn’t have to know that.