Mom rattled off her standard repertoire of questions and I answered, choosing from my short list of potential monosyllabic responses. But Mom’s questioning ended prematurely, and she didn’t prod for details like she usually did. It was as if she weren’t listening, as if she had something else on her mind. The love is fading, I remember thinking from across the table, an idea that instantaneously dissolved my anger and took my breath away. I grabbed the large, laminated menu and held it to my face so that Mom wouldn’t see my flushed cheeks and teary eyes. No matter how “unspecial” and routine these dinners were, and no matter how angry I was at her for her leaving us, there was always a moment when all the hostility melted into a sadness so cavernous that there was nothing to do but cry.
“Your usual hamburger?” she asked.
I peeked over the lip of the menu to find Mom leaning on her elbows toward me with her wide smile and arched eyebrows. From this close, I could smell her strong, musky perfume.
“Sure,” I said, eyes focused on the crumbs on the table.
“How’s your dad?”
“Ask him yourself, Mom.” I kept my eyes on the crumbs. “It’s not like you don’t see him. You’re in the store practically every day.”
“I’m leaving Gus’s Gas,” she said nonchalantly. “In June.”
“It was a temporary job anyway, until Gus found a real employee.” I pushed a pile of crumbs from one side of my place mat to the other.
“I am a real employee, honey.”
“He gave you the job as a favor, I mean. After the . . . you know.” I took a giant sip of ice water as if to wash down the unspoken.
“Gus needed someone at the register and timing was right.” Mom’s voice trailed off as her focus shifted to the room at large. “It’s busy for a Tuesday night.”
“What are you going to do?” I hated myself for asking.
“That brings me to my next bit of news.” She carefully unfolded her napkin and arranged the silverware wrapped inside on the paper mat.
“Charlotte, honey, I don’t know how to tell you this.” She pushed into her elbows to lean in closer and breathed in deeply.
“Then don’t tell me, Mom.” I crossed my arms and squeezed my fists tightly behind my elbows as my anger reached its boiling point. In preschool, Mom had taught me to count to ten whenever I became “overwhelmed,” and so I began counting. One, two, three, four . . . .
She stretched her arm across to my elbow and pulled me in. “I love you, sweetie. And what I have to tell you doesn’t change that.”
Jesus. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. I counted faster.
“Charlotte, I’m seeing someone, and it’s serious.”
Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-seven.
Herod’s. I mean, I’d always hated this place. With its cracked, salmon-colored linoleum floor, fluorescent lighting, and the crusty, old waitresses wearing cheap, polyester bow ties and white shirts, even an open-minded, Gray’s Papaya–eating Amy Reasoner wouldn’t step foot inside a joint like this one. But the reason I hate Herod’s most of all is that it’s an after-school hangout. As if on cue for the Charlotte shit show, the Lincoln debate team flooded through the doors and squeezed into the booth behind Mom. Assistant Principal Koch, I noticed, was browsing the menu two booths away. I squeaked to the edge of the vinyl cushion to leave for the sake of saving any semblance of a reputation, but Mom tightened her grip around my elbow.
“Do you think this is easy for me?”
“I don’t care whether this is easy for you or not.” My cheeks were hot, my brow sweaty. I could feel a trickle run to my temple “The makeup and the clothes. It’s all for this guy.” I scrunched up my face at the pink fringe around her neck with such intense disapproval that my eyes hurt.
“No, Charlotte. It’s all for me. I’m enjoying my femininity and my curves.”
“The same curves you’ve spent a lifetime trying to rub away,” I scoffed. “Interesting timing, is all.” I searched desperately for my crumb-buddies on the table, but Mom’s outstretched arms had inadvertently brushed them away.
Daisy, our server, bounced to our table with her snaggletoothed smile, crooked bow tie, and rare knack for bad timing, the latter of which allowed me, crumbless and searching, a focal diversion.
“I went ahead and brought you ladies your usuals,” she said proudly. “Charlotte, hon, you’re as red as a lobster.” Daisy tapped my shoulder as I grabbed the hockey-puck burger from my plate and gnawed off a bite. I forced a smile and nodded a thank-you before Daisy skipped off.
“I want to finish my college degree. I dropped out my junior year when your father and I got married.”
The mere idea that Mom and I could be in college at the same time sent my sweat glands into overdrive. The only thing to do was to run. The sun had set, and from my booth I could see the whole of Rose Avenue lit by storefront windows. I needed to be back at Miller’s with Dad.
“We think it’s time that you met, Charlotte.”
My palms were pink and wet. We. I could feel sweat trickling down my sides from my underarms. I might just melt into a pool of my own perspiration.
“I won’t do it, Mom.”
She searched my eyes for a twinkle of understanding, but I chose to contemplate the hockey puck on my plate.
“He lost his wife in a car accident almost ten years ago.” She let go of my elbow and dropped back against the booth. “His daughter is your age.”
I could feel Mom’s stare and kept my eyes on the burger.
“Why does it have to be like this with you? Why the silence?” She took a swig of her iced tea. “Anyway, he’s got back-to-back business trips for the next six weeks, so you have time to make up your mind about dinner. It won’t be before April.”
Only one question pushed into consciousness, one that knotted my stomach.
“Does Dad know?”
“He’s known for some time,” she answered without hesitation. “I wanted to tell you earlier, Charlotte, but Dave wasn’t ready to tell his daughter until now. We had to coordinate.”
“Simultaneous nightmares. How thoughtful,” I said, as his name rattled through my brain. Dave.
Mom took in the growing crowd of Lincolnites and breathed in deeply. “She goes to Lincoln too.” She leaned in toward me, and I pressed into the back of my booth.
“You might know her,” she said. “Her name is Margo Price.”
Everything after Margo’s name was a blur.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I wondered whether Margo had had the talk that night too. I wondered how she’d taken the news and if, after a decade of my virtual nonexistence, I would suddenly morph into something else in her eyes. It was that unknown “something else” that kept me worried and awake.
The next day at school, the name Pudge was born.
* * *
I dig through the mess on the top shelf of my locker like I’ve lost something and watch Margo from the corner of my eye as she approaches. I can only rummage for so long before it becomes obvious that I’m pretending. I open the mini-agenda that I’ve hung from the coat hook and can’t miss the only words scribbled inside for tomorrow, Wednesday: “Definitely-Not-Dinner” with triple exclamation points.
Margo continues her slow saunter toward me, and so I continue my game of being occupied. Before long, her vanilla-infused aura enters my breathing space, and I brace myself.
“Hey, Charlotte.” She tears a bite off one of her stolen granola bars and chews, the corners of her lips upturned into a mini-smile. Provocation is her game, but I can’t help thinking that for the price of some granola, I’ve got my name back.
Her vanilla musk fades, and I can feel my heartbeat slow. But then she turns around.
“Dinner’s at my house tomorrow night, FYI.”
Her words do not invite. Her pursed lips and the
arch in her left brow over her black-eyed glare tell me this is a dare.
The first bell rings and I head down Hall A, where everything appears status quo: the goth girls hunched, whispering at their lockers; Scott Levine, cross-legged on the floor and tapping on his cell phone; the senior couple kissing each other goodbye as if it’s for forever and not just first period. I wind into my classroom, where everything there, too, seems brain-numbingly normal. But something has shifted inside me. I, who have made a point of keeping out of people’s way and minding my own business, have an enemy of epic proportion. The devil, maybe even the devil incarnate, is Margo Price, and she’s got me in her sights.
3. PEG
Tuesday
Three days of standardized testing have brought me to this moment. And try as I might to act normal, to act like I don’t realize that today’s the day we get the results, it’s pointless. Becky Bartholomew, whose assigned seat is behind me and who constantly analyzes everything I do, is already tapping me on the shoulder with what is sure to be a real humdinger of an observation about my cuticles or my bobbing knee or something else. While I fidget and twist in my seat in an effort to stop her bony, pale finger with chipped gray nail polish from tapping, Mr. Ditman whisks into homeroom brushing snow from his coat. He unzips and wriggles his arms out of the fluffy down before acknowledging us, his first-period class, which leaves me perplexed and worried.
“You’re picking at your cuticles again, Peg.” Becky’s whiny Droopy-dog voice has made me aware of a sneer reflex. She speaks and I sneer. It’s uncontrollable, and I wonder if everyone has it. With her wardrobe of drab grayish-cream clothes and her straggly knots of brown hair, you’d think she’d have enough maintenance issues to keep to herself. And it’s not like she comments on quirky, obvious things that I already know about myself. My crooked nose, for example. Or the cowlick at the base of my neck. Or my nonprescription red glasses with a vintage Wonder Woman crest that I slip on every so often in class.
Instead, Becky notices things about me that I don’t. Like the fact that I flip my long, black hair behind my shoulders right before Mr. Ditman hands out a test. That I hum while organizing my desk before class. According to Becky, I don’t smile enough. “You’re smile- deficient, Peg,” she says. I could ask her how she measures that exactly or tell her she doesn’t know a thing about my life. But instead I say nothing. Not because Becky doesn’t deserve it but because she’s worn me down. Whoever made up the whole “Sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt me” shtick never had to endure sitting in front of Becky Bartholomew every morning for a whole year.
Mr. Ditman is looking awfully serious this morning and I am starting to get worried. I’m sure Becky already recognizes this via some body linguistics I don’t know about.
“Stop bobbing your knees, Peg,” she whispers. “It’s driving me crazy.”
Hate to break it to you, Becky, but you’re already dingbats, I think. But of course, I don’t say that. “I can’t help it, Becky,” I say. And I can’t. It’s like my knee has decided to take it upon itself to tell the world that I’m anxious. Ditman is definitely not thrilled, and I’d bet a comb through Becky’s hair that it’s because of the test results. It could be the blizzard-like conditions in April and the fact that school’s not canceled, but something tells me it’s the test.
Mr. Ditman heaves his leather satchel onto the desk and it drops like a lead weight on top of his blotter. I watch him pull an abnormally thick stack of legal-size paper onto his desk and roll off the rubber band. I squint and can just barely make out the little bubbles we’d spent three days in the auditorium filling in. But now there is a little white paper stapled to the front page of each test packet. Ditman’s sorting through the tests, and every time he flips to the next one, he scans the class with his signature poker face for the student in question. Josh, Rob, Molly. He doesn’t sniff or scratch his nose. Zefi, Anna. It’s like he’s frozen from the neck up. Jenny. Me. But when he looks at me, he coughs. When you’re playing poker, a cough can mean lots of things. And although I’m not sure that this metaphor translates to the classroom, my knee starts bobbing, knocking against the top of my desk.
“Mr. Ditman’s got a sinus infection,” Becky whispers.
“Maybe,” I say.
The bell rings, and as soon as it does, Mr. Ditman stretches up from his seat.
“Recognize these?” He comes round his desk and wraps his long fingers around the top and bottom of the floppy stack. “Interesting results,” he says, dropping tests on students’ desks as he loops through the aisles.
“Interesting” is plaid pants with a paisley top. It’s Grandma’s overpeppered and watery peanut soup. It’s a snowstorm in April. Test results should not be “interesting.”
“This test links your strongest qualities to job potential. But remember, it’s no blueprint for your life.” He licks his index finger and shuffles to the next test. “No blueprint, just a junior-year requirement.” He licks his index again.
I can feel Becky’s crazy stare burning through my back like a laser. I wriggle my shoulders in an effort to shake off the sting.
“You’ve got a nervous shiver,” she says.
In the far corner of the room, Olivia, aka Oblivia, flashes her test like a banner over her head. “Lawyer!” She squeaks proudly, as if what she’s holding is irrefutable proof that she’s not as thought-challenged as she seems.
“‘Doctor,’” says Anna, our homeroom brainiac, and incidentally the only other Asian in the class apart from my half-Asian self. “I’m guessing neurosurgeon,” she brags.
Zit-faced Jeb stands up and declares “clown!” and I’m not surprised. He does a jig, the kind a clown might do, the kind he would have done with or without the results. He’s a natural, I think. And with that thought comes the possibility that these results might hold some truth.
The class is buzzing with words like “marine biologist” and “medical researcher,” “farmer” and “engineer.” Apparently our class is going to save the world.
“Remember, Peg.” Mr. Ditman’s voice surprises me from behind. “A lot falls through the cracks with standardized tests.” He whispers so that the others around me don’t hear. Not even Becky.
“I know, Mr. Ditman.” And I did know. Would Oblivia turn out to be a lawyer? Highly unlikely. Would Anna become a neurosurgeon? Possible, but I saw her more as the president-of-the-United-States type. Would Jeb be a clown? I watch him half-fall out of his seat. Probably, but it could have been a lucky guess. Possibilities flood out the noise around me as I search for the results on my test.
Doctor? Senator? Novelist?
A flash of Maya comes out of nowhere, and loneliness as electric as lightning tears through my insides. She’s running across our front yard to meet me when I get off the school bus, her three-year-old legs are chubby, her socked feet barely clearing the high grass to reach me. A younger, happier Mom watches from the front stoop. I don’t know if what I picture actually happened or if some part of me has decided that this is the way I should remember her.
Philosopher? CEO? Doctor?
Maya had the kind of brain that would put even Anna’s to shame. “She’s our little professor,” Dad used to say all proud. And who wouldn’t be proud to have your daughter turn out just like you? Both my parents are Harvard graduates and professors of literature. They’re writing a world literature anthology together. That smart. When you look at super intelligent people like them, there is a glimmer in their eye of total control and comprehension. It’s rationalism at its best. My parents have that glimmer, and so did Maya. She would be in the fourth grade now. Thoughts of how things could be if she were alive now—movie nights, boy talks, secrets as we camp out back—blur my vision. If Becky doesn’t notice the tear I’ve just wiped from my test paper or my sudden light sniffling, then she is not as observant as I thought.
My eyes run f
rom my name in pencil at the top of the page, past some filled-in bubbles, and inside the red circle. “Knitting machine fixer,” it says. I reread, stunned and hoping I’ve made a mistake. “Knitting machine fixer.” I check for my name again and am horrified to find it. Peg Jiao Wú, right here in the top right-hand corner. But I don’t know what a knitting machine is! And isn’t the correct word repairperson? “Fixer” sounds so lemonade-standish, so unprofessional, so . . . un-Asian. I fold the corner of the page over the red circle so that Becky can’t read it.
“So what’re you going to be?” Becky asks. It’s like she can read my mind.
I try to blurt out any normal job, but my mind draws a blank. “It’s—”
“I’m going to be editor in chief,” she says, raising her eyebrows and waiting for me to raise mine too—which I do—although I’m not as impressed as she is. High-fashion mags are definitely out, but that leaves a lot of other contenders, such as the techie magazine Dad subscribes to and never reads.
“What’s yours, Peg?”
My mind is still empty. Black-hole empty. Only two careers run like ticker tape through my brain: editor in chief and knitting machine fixer. But I feel something breaking through my cerebral nothingness. A job. A good one too. I wait for it to surface . . . .
Fashion model. There it is. As if the test results weren’t bad enough, my brain has now joined in the make-fun-of-Peg game. I mean, I’ve grown up hearing that I can be anything I want to be as long as I’m ready to work for it. But if English grammar has taught me anything at all, it’s that there are exceptions to every rule. No matter, I decide. Imagining my short-legged, breastless self strutting down a runway, however ridiculous, outshines the one of me wearing a tool belt, hunched next to some obsolete wooden machine.
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