She still says nothing, turning her attention to stirring the sizzling meat.
“I want to see his new place,” I explain to the back of her head. “I told him I’d fix dinner.”
She turns around and looks at me, but I can’t read her expression. It’s almost like she’s curious. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Just you and him?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
Now I’m thinking, Okay, maybe she’s fine with this. “Do you mind if I take some spaghetti and stuff?”
She just shrugs and turns down the burner, putting a lid on the meat. “Do what you like, Magdela.”
Then she walks out of the kitchen, and I’m still not sure whether she’s angry or hurt. Why does she have to be like this? I get a bag from beneath the sink and quickly fill it with the things I think I’ll need: pasta and Ragu from the pantry and then a few things from the fridge for a salad. I am just putting some Parmesan cheese in my bag when Mom comes back into the kitchen.
“Don’t take that,” she says, eyeing the green container in my hand.
“Huh?”
“The Parmesan cheese,” she says in an aggravated tone.
“Why?”
“Because.” Her voice is just a little louder now and a bit higher.
“But it’s for the spaghetti,” I say.
“Leave it here,” she commands me.
“But it—”
“Leave the cheese here!” she shouts.
I open the fridge, shove the container onto the shelf, and then slam the door so hard it rattles.
“Magdela!”
“What, Mom?” I’m glaring at her now. I don’t know why she has to act like this, like she’s four years old and determined to throw a temper tantrum if she doesn’t get her Parmesan cheese, for Pete’s sake!
“Nothing!” Then she turns and walks out.
Okay, I’m tempted to get the cheese now, but I decide that’s immature. Why sink to her childish level? But as I start my car, I can’t help but think my mom is losing it. She is seriously losing it! I stop at a store and buy some Parmesan, even though I’m a little surprised at how much it costs. I figured it would be a couple of bucks. Still, it was probably Dad’s money that paid for it in the first place. Mom doesn’t have to be so selfish!
I try to chill as I drive across town. So my mom’s disturbed. What’s new? I follow my dad’s directions until I come to what looks like a recently built section of town houses. Even the landscaping looks pretty new, and nicely done too. I park in the guest area that he told me about and go up the stairs marked units 35 and 36. I knock on the door with number 35 on it.
“It’s open,” he calls from within, and I open the door and go inside.
“Hey, this is nice, Dad,” I say as I look around the open living area.
“Check out that view,” he says.
I set my grocery bag on the black granite island and go across the room to look out the glass doors, which lead to a terrace that overlooks a small man-made lake rimmed with trees and walking trails. “Not bad,” I tell him.
Then he gives me a brief tour, starting with the master bedroom. A large bed is all set up, complete with some plush-looking bedding in trendy tones of black and tan and silver—nothing like my mom would ever pick out, since she likes flowers and pastels. “You got a bed,” I say.
“That futon wasn’t going to cut it,” he tells me. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah, very cool.”
“After sleeping on Chuck’s couch for a couple of weeks, I figured it would be cheaper to buy a good bed than see the chiropractor every week.”
I smile. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Then he shows me the second bedroom, which is pretty sparse, other than the futon and his desk.
“Two bedrooms,” I say with interest.
“Yeah, I’m using this as my home office for now.”
“Here’s the other bath,” he says as he opens another door.
“Nice,” I tell him as I look at the spacious bathroom. “But what’s up with these sinister-looking black towels? I noticed you had them in the master bath too.”
“I thought it might be a safe choice for a guy who’s never done laundry before. But the saleslady told me to prewash them, so I threw them in with some other things. The towels came out just fine, but all my white socks and underwear are this depressing shade of prison gray now.”
I laugh. “Okay, Dad, the first rule of laundry is to wash lights with lights and darks with darks. Got that?”
He nods. “I do now.”
“Well, I like your place,” I say as we go back to the living room. “I mean, it looks like a guy place, but it has potential.”
“I need to get a few more things,” he says as I go into the kitchen and start unloading my bag.
“I assume you have pots and pans and stuff,” I say, looking around the very tidy-looking kitchen.
He proudly shows me some of his recent purchases. “These pans are supposed to be foolproof,” he says and hands me a heavy saucepan. “Is this big enough for the pasta?”
“I guess it’ll have to be.”
I start puttering around the kitchen, and to my relief, Dad goes and busies himself doing something else. I’m not ready to have him watch me cook. Soon I hear music.
“Is that the jukebox?” I ask as I pour some salt into the pan of water.
“No, it’s just a CD.”
“What is it?” I call.
“Jazz. John Coltrane.”
“Oh.” I think about this as I rinse the lettuce in the sink. I didn’t even know that my dad liked jazz.
Before long, something that resembles dinner is ready. Dad has set the island with dishes I have never seen before. A very modern design, or maybe Asian, but they are squarish and about the same color as a tomato. He’s also lit a candle, and I’m thinking how this all seems so very un-Dad-like. I’ve never seen him take any interest in things like dishes and candles and towels, and I guess I’m wondering what’s up. We sit on metal barstools on either side of the island and begin to eat. I can’t help but notice he doesn’t ask a blessing like he used to when he was at home. But I don’t mention it. It’s just one more thing that’s changed. But why?
We’re just about done eating dinner when curiosity gets the best of me. “Okay, Dad,” I say, setting down my fork, “what’s with all this?”
He looks surprised. “What?”
“Fancy dishes, cool pans, black towels, very modern bedding. It’s just so weird—so unlike you.”
“Unlike me?” He frowns. “How do you know that?”
I shrug. “Well, it’s unlike anything you and Mom picked out for our house.”
“Your mom picked out most of the things for our house, Maggie. Well, other than my leather chair, which I insisted on purchasing, and some of the other things I picked up the other day when—” He looks at his plate.
“When Mom threw her hissy fit?”
He nods.
“So you’re saying you don’t like the things at our house?” I persist. “That your taste is different than Mom’s?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Magpie.” He stands and begins clearing the dishes, setting them carefully in the sink. “I guess I don’t really know who I am or what I like anymore. But maybe it’s about time I started to figure it out.”
“Kind of like the goatee and haircut?”
He nods as he rinses a plate. “Yeah.”
“The goatee is filling in pretty good,” I say.
He smiles. “Yeah, I kind of like it.”
“How come you didn’t grow one before?”
“Your mom.” He puts a plate in the stainless steel dishwasher. “She hates any kind of facial hair.”
“Oh.” I reach for the sponge and start wiping down the black granite. I can almost see my reflection on the shiny surface.
“I got some ice cream for dessert,” he says as he puts the last fork into the dishwasher. “Rocky
Road.”
“All right!” I say as I go to the cupboard for bowls. They too are square and modern-looking, but they’re starting to grow on me, and I’m beginning to think they are very stylish and chic.
“I never knew my dad was such a cool guy,” I say as we sit back down at the counter.
He laughs. “Well, people change, Magpie.”
I hold my spoon up as if I’m toasting him. “Here’s to change, Dad.”
He holds his up too. “To change.”
nine
I FEEL SOMEWHAT RELIEVED TO GO TO WORK ON WEDNESDAY AND Thursday, but when Friday comes around and I hear some of my friends at school—specifically Claire, Sara, and Gwen— talking about the Harvest Dance and what they’re wearing and how they’re doing their hair, well, it’s just not that easy to go to work.
As I drive to the restaurant, I tell myself to get over it. But just as I’m parking in back, I realize Casa del Sol is exactly the kind of place where kids go to eat dinner before a dance like this, and I realize it’s entirely possible I could actually be seating friends and acquaintances from school tonight. And for some reason, I find this totally mortifying.
As I put my coat and purse into my locker, I find myself feeling more and more freaked over this possibility. Why didn’t I call in sick? I lean my head against the locker and groan.
“You okay?”
I stand up straight to see Ned staring at me, probably wondering if he needs to administer CPR or call for help.
“Yeah,” I say in a glum voice, “I’m just peachy.”
“What’s wrong?”
And because he seems sincerely interested and because he has the nicest blue eyes, I tell him all about my panic attack over this stupid Harvest Dance crud. “Pretty juvenile, huh?” I finally say.
“Why aren’t you going to the Harvest Dance yourself?” he asks. “I’m sure your aunt could’ve covered for you.”
Now I’m embarrassed, but I decide to take it head-on. “I wasn’t asked to the dance.”
He looks truly surprised. “I can’t believe a girl as pretty and nice as you wasn’t asked to the dance. What’s wrong with guys nowadays?”
I have to laugh. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “I think they should all get their heads examined.”
“Most definitely.”
And so working tonight is not nearly as bad as I’d imagined. And every once in a while, like when I was seating Ashley Gordon and Ty Banner at the “best” table next to the fireplace, Ned gave me this sweet little smile and a knowing wink, and I instantly felt better.
Because we’re so busy the time flies, and before I know it my shift comes to an end. But when I go to say good night to my aunt, I find her brother—Tio Eduardo—in her office instead. He is a part owner in the restaurant, but so far I’ve hardly ever seen him around here.
“Where’s Tia Louisa?” I ask.
“Didn’t you hear? She got one of her migraines earlier tonight.”
“No, it was so busy. I must’ve missed that. I hope she’s okay.”
He frowns. “She just got a new prescription. Hopefully it’ll work.”
“Yes, I hope so. Well, good night, then.”
“Wait, Magdela,” he says, pointing to the chair by the desk. “Have a seat.”
Okay, now I’m bracing myself. I’m sure he’s heard the news about my parents, and being that he’s Mom’s older brother, he’s probably ready to take up her side and go pound some sense into my dad.
“I heard you missed some big dance at your school tonight?”
I’m surprised he would know about this. Maybe my mom told him—not that she’s been paying attention to my life lately. “Well, sort of,” I admit. “The Harvest Dance. But it’s not like I was planning to go. How did you know anyway?”
“Ned told me.”
“Ned?” Now I feel mixed emotions. On one hand, I’m relieved my uncle’s not keeping me here to find out about my parents’ marital problems, but on the other hand, I don’t know why Ned had to go and tell Tio Eduardo about the dance.
He holds up his hands. “Now, don’t go getting mad, Magdela.”
“I’m not mad.” Of course, I’m sure my face says something different.
“I just thought we should have a little chat. You’re my youngest niece, and sometimes I don’t think I know you very well. Louisa is very impressed with your work here.”
“Really?” I feel myself perking up now. Louisa is hard to impress, and for her to mention this to someone in the family, well, that’s pretty nice.
“Yes. She thinks you have real potential.”
“Well, I like working here. It’s a lot—”
“Ready?”
I turn to see Ned standing in the doorway now. “Huh?”
“May I take her?”
Tio Eduardo folds his hands together on the desk in a knowing and self-satisfied way and then nods and smiles, almost as if he’s hatched some sort of plan. Then Ned reaches for my hand. “Right this way, miss.” And he leads me back into the restaurant, where only a few tables are filled—with the “lingerers,” as we call them. But Ned leads me over to the “best” table by the fire. And it’s been reset and the candle is lit, and the next thing I know, Susan brings us each a plate (which turns out to be leftovers, but who’s complaining?), and we sit there and enjoy a very nice meal together. I find out that he’s twenty and putting himself through college—just community college for now, but he plans to transfer next fall.
“I should’ve worked harder to get a scholarship when I was in high school,” he says. “The counselor kept telling me it was possible.”
“So why didn’t you?”
He shrugs. “I was too into having a good time, I guess—kind of into partying, if you know what I mean.”
I nod. “Yeah. I’ve sort of tried to avoid that scene.”
“Smart girl.”
“So you’re not into partying anymore?”
He laughs. “Not now that I have to support myself and pay my own tuition. No time for that stuff.”
“Maybe that’s for the best.”
“Yeah, maybe. But I’ll admit, I still miss it sometimes. I guess that’s why I wanted you to have some fun tonight—I mean, since this is your senior year and everything. You know what they say about all work and no play.”
“Yes!” I say with enthusiasm. “I was feeling just like that today, like everyone was out there having fun except for me. Pity party for one, please.”
He laughs and we talk some more. And I guess I’m thinking that maybe I was really lucky Brandon didn’t ask me to the dance tonight, because I probably would’ve asked for the night off, and Tia Louisa probably would’ve given it to me, and then I would’ve missed all this.
A dessert of flan garnished with berries and whipped cream is served by none other than Tio Eduardo. He bows elegantly and then slyly winks at me before he exits to the kitchen.
“Care to dance?” asks Ned after we finish our desserts.
I do, so we go over to the tiny dance area and actually dance for a couple of songs.
All in all, it’s very fun and a little bit romantic. Oh, I suspect that Ned is just feeling sorry for me and trying to be nice, but I can tell he and the others went to a bit of trouble to set this up.
“Thanks,” I tell him when it’s finally time for the evening to end. “Now I will always remember the night of the Harvest Dance during my senior year.” I grin at him.
“Good. And I guess I can be grateful to the Neanderthals who didn’t have the good sense to ask you out.”
Ned walks me to my car, and I almost think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he just makes this little bow and says, “Good night.”
I feel like I’m floating as I drive home. Ned is such a nice guy. I wonder if it’s possible that he really could like me. Then I almost run a red light, and I realize I better concentrate on my driving instead of daydreaming about Ned Schlamowski.
When I get home, I’m still feeling a slig
ht rush. Back in the old days, before Mom started acting so mean, I probably would’ve gone and told her all about it—but not tonight. Tonight I take it to bed with me, just like I used to do when I was little and liked to sneak cookies up to my room.
But I do e-mail Claire. I ask about her evening and tell her all the details of mine, probably making it sound even better than it was, if that’s possible. Then I notice that I have an e-mail from Elisa, wanting an update on the parental situation. So I fill her in as best I can, telling her about Dad’s apartment and how Mom threw a fit over the Parmesan cheese. Then I decide to copy Marc on it to save writing the whole thing again. I tell them that I don’t know what to do and that it doesn’t look as if they’ll be going in for marriage counseling anytime soon, and certainly not in time for Thanksgiving, which is next week. I know that Elisa has other plans, but I’m not sure about Marc. And I guess that’s not really my problem, but it does make me sad. I have a feeling that all of our extended family will know everything by Thanksgiving. I’ll leave that mess for my parents to clean up. A girl can only do so much.
Then I get ready for bed. Before I turn off the light, I stand and study myself in the mirror. I try to imagine how Ned sees me: just a pathetic Latina high school girl who couldn’t even score a date for a dance, or his boss’s niece who he wants to be nice to in order to maintain job security? Or perhaps he sees an interesting young woman he’d like to get to know better. I’ve never gone out with a guy so much older than me. But then again, I’ll be eighteen in a few months, and that doesn’t sound too young for twenty. I pile my hair up, squaring my shoulders and standing straighter—my sophisticated look—and I imagine what it would feel like to be Mrs. Schlamowski—well, if I believed in marriage, that is. I’m not entirely sure that I do. I let my hair drop back down, hanging in loose curls around my shoulders, and then jump into bed.
The weekend passes somewhat uneventfully. It turns out that Ned isn’t even working Saturday night, and I feel a real wave of disappointment. I’d gotten dressed up especially nice and put my hair up—going for that older look—just to impress him. But at least I get paid. Tia Louisa hands me my first check, and I feel like I’ve won the lottery.
Bitter Rose Page 6