by Julie Dill
I’m good to go. I squeeze and click. I’m fueling this baby up to the max. Full. Tank. Yes, I’m purchasing a full tank of gas on this glorious late afternoon. I could drive to Dallas on a full tank. I could drive to the lake. Or Branson, Missouri, probably. A full tank could take me a lot of places, yes. Liberating, this full tank of gas thing. I push away the thought of driving the country to find my mother. Those thoughts that consumed me as a child are now just sporadic and senseless.
Paying with a $100 bill and getting back some change only sweetens the deal, and when I get back in the car and turn on the ignition, the gas needle pops over to the F. Wow. It’s full, alright. My tank is in post-pump shock.
I roll down the windows as I pull away from the gas station, then pull out Nate’s business card for the thousandth time today. NATE BRADLEY, in bold font. CASINO FLOOR OPERATION EXECUTIVE, in even bolder font. You can look at this business card and tell he’s hot for God’s sake. I smell the card—that men’s cologne hotness smell—and stick it back in the safest part of my purse, the zipper side pocket. I pull it back out three minutes later.
I drive with one hand, hit mute, and dial with the other.
I just want to hear what his message sounds like. He’ll never know it’s me. He’s probably sleeping before his night shift. There’s no way on earth that he’ll ever figure out it’s me. There’s no way.
Driving faster, heart racing, I listen.
I double check the mute button. It’s muted.
Rinnnng. Rinnnng. Rinnnng.
I’m right. Thank God.
“You’ve reached the voice mailbox of 405-6 . . .” It’s the automated one. I hang up quickly. Gosh, that was stupid. A weird number that will be on his phone now, and I didn’t even get to hear his voice.
Ten minutes later, I’m driving around with no particular destination, wind in my hair, when my phone rings. I go to answer, knowing it’s Dad, then find out it’s not when I see the number. I look at the road, my phone, the road, and my phone again before it registers that Nate is calling my phone back. What the HELL have I done now?
I don’t answer, of course. I stick it under my purse so it rings less loudly.
I drive mindlessly. I look up to see a CVS not remembering when I turned this direction.
It stops ringing. I pull out my phone.
A MESSAGE.
Play messages. Play messages faster.
HOLY mother of ALL MESSAGES! A message from Nate Bradley on my phone! How could this be?!
“Hey, Chandra, this is Nate. I saw that you called, but didn’t leave a message . . . just making sure you’re okay. Give me a holler.”
HE KNOWS IT WAS ME OH MY GOD I’M SO EMBARRASSED HOW DID HE KNOW IT WAS ME and GIVE HIM A HOLLER?!!! I toss the phone into the passenger seat and roll up my windows.
My hands get a little shaky as I drive around and fantasize about what it would be like to go out on a date with Nate. I bet he’s romantic. No, I know he’s romantic. Like a scene in a movie, I picture us at a table for two in a fancy restaurant. Candlelight and good music. Both dressed for the occasion. My hair is pulled up, in a stylish-messy kind of way; he’s extra cute with starch and those dimples of his. I get lost in this daydream, and it consumes my thoughts for a good while . . . I’m sure he’s the type to bring his date fresh flowers. I bet he opens doors like a gentleman and even pulls out chairs, too. Where does he live? A house? A condo downtown? Apartment? And what does he drive? A sports car? Truck? I wonder about his family, his past relationships, and where he comes from. I think about what it would be like to date Nate Bradley.
Chapter 15
An entire week goes by before I decide to show my face in the poker room again, although it’s consumed my every thought. At cheer practice I can’t even get through one routine without thinking about poker strategies. A mall trip, fees, and bills, and I find myself once again in need of some blowin’ and goin’ money. There are other casinos, yes, but I’m not willing to give up this walk-in-without-being-questioned status I have here at the Cherokee.
Should I see Nate, I have a plan. Something that took me countless hours to finalize.
When I open the doors to the ringing of slot machines, I think, Aaaagh, it’s good to be home. Although the air is smoky, I take a big breath and hold it for a while. I go to the restroom to check myself in the mirror and make sure the cutest outfit I’ve ever owned is still intact. A short skirt and shiny tank, and my trendy cowboy boots—the sum equivalent of three electric bills. There’s no dire need, but I apply one more coat of lipstick onto my already perfectly lined lips.
I notice something new, has it always been there? A restaurant tucked away in the corner of the casino, Legends Sports Bar and Grill. I nose around and walk to the hostess stand. The place is empty except for a couple watching a hockey game. I figure if I fill my stomach now I’ll be able to stay on the poker table longer. And I smell onion rings.
A chick in a referee shirt and extremely short shorts—if there are any even under there—takes me to a red pleather booth and hands me a menu. I’m a little nervous, stepping out of my poker room bubble, but I intend to pull this off like a regular. I slide in and look around at the million flat screens that will keep me company.
“Your waitress will be right with you.” The hostess turns around then blows a whistle that’s hanging from her neck. I flinch, and this is the obvious signal that there’s a new customer that’s just been seated. I prop up my menu and look at my greasy selections. Dad would love this place, and I think of him when I see bacon cheeseburger on the menu. It has all the trimmings, much different from the dollar menu he’s used to.
In an effort to save funds for the poker table, I decide on just a side of onion rings and Diet Coke. About eight bucks plus tip, leaving me fifty-seven dollars to play on. That should do.
I don’t think my waitress got the whistle message, because it takes at least five minutes for her to show up. She moseys to my table, obviously not realizing that I have some money to win over at the poker table and I don’t have all day. When she walks up, I’m immediately jealous. Does Nate know this girl? She’s beautiful. Her layered black hair falls perfectly from her ponytail, and her eyes are big and brown. Perfect skin too. She’s thin in a fit way. “Can I get you something to drink?” She asks.
Nate loves her. I know he does.
“I’ll take a Diet Coke and some onion rings.” I pop my knuckles.
“Kay.” She turns and moseys to the kitchen.
I turn to watch a basketball game, but I can’t even tell you who’s playing.
Then, it happens.
Nate walks in.
He’s with two of his coworkers, I assume since they’re all in suits, and they don’t even wait for the hostess. They just walk to a table in the middle, no menus, and no formalities.
I scoot deeper in my booth. I feel as if my blood has drained from my body . . . that happy/weak/nervous/this-isn’t-real feeling. I watch without looking, through the corner of my eye, and see Nate clasp his hands above his head and lean onto the back legs of his chair. How’d he get cuter than the last time I saw him? Is he a football or baseball kind of guy? A million questions pop around in my head. The guys are laughing, and he points to a screen and shakes his head. Just guys talking sports. Just guys, being cute, talking sports.
The beautiful waitress appears from the kitchen with four drinks on her tray, and she heads to their table first. Are you kidding me? They didn’t even get the whistle blown, much less place an order, and they already have drinks on their table.
Nate has tea. He comes down for a drink, then returns to his leaning-back position. I watch to see if his eyes follow the waitress, and they don’t. She starts heading my way, my lone Diet Coke on the tray. I’m a loner. GEESH! I’m a loner!
I start sending telepathic messages to Nate. Double-time. Please don’t look this way. Ple
ase don’t look this way. Please don’t look this way. Please don’t look this way . . .
The waitress gives me my drink. And, that’s when he sees me.
He takes a double take to make sure it’s me then stands up to finish his conversation. He walks toward me as he turns for one final laugh with the guys, then grabs for his tea and heads my way. He knows I’m here. I know he’s here. He knows I know he’s here, but I act like I don’t know anyway. I dig in my purse.
“Hey Chandra, long time no see.” He slides into my booth, opposite of me.
I look up and fake my shock.
“Oh, hey.”
He looks good. Work suit with conservative plaid tie, and starched, pale yellow shirt.
“So you just call me then don’t come around for a while?” He says in a flirty kind of way.
I laugh and look away.
“Oh yeah, sorry about that.” I’m prepared. “I had called to see if there was a waiting list in the poker room because I was limited on time one day. I only had time for a few hands and thought you would know if there was an open table or not. Sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you.” I finally look at him.
“Oh, well you got me all excited. I thought you were just calling me to talk to me or something. Like ask me out or something.”
Thank God for the interruption when the waitress walks up, although I feel like I’m twelve years old when she sets down the onion rings. I should have ordered something more mature. Salmon. Bruschetta. Prime Rib. Gosh, anything but onion rings. The waitress asks if I need anything else, and I shake my head no so I don’t have to speak. She walks off, and we’re alone once again.
Nate grabs an onion ring off the mountain, and says, “What were we talking about again?” He answers for me. “Oh yeah, you called me because you wanted to ask me out on a date.” He’s chompin’ away, and he feels right at home. He smiles as he opens the ketchup and pours some on the side of the plate.
“Ummm, no.”
He dunks his half-eaten onion ring into the ketchup, something that would typically gross me out—double dipping—but it doesn’t bother me.
“What? You don’t want to go out with me?” He grabs his heart and pretends he’s crushed. But he knows better.
I start eating.
“Well, I didn’t say that either.” I feel fuzzy.
He takes a drink.
“Oh, so you are asking me out? Sure, I’d love to.” Dimples. I see nothing but dimples.
Chapter 16
Okay. So it’s not a good night in the poker room, and after three hours I go home with an extra fourteen dollars in my purse. My concentration was a little off to say the least (duh, Nate). Well, that and the extra possessive woman who thought I was trying to steal her truck driver husband (think Dog the Bounty Hunter and wife) didn’t help. Did she really think I was interested in him?
I walk out to my car still wondering how the hell I’m going to pull off a date with Nate. He’s just too cute to pass up. Chandra, your name is Chandra. I tell myself until I’m convinced.
I continue my daydreaming on the drive home about how this date will actually go down. Will he try to kiss me? What will I order? Will he ask me where I work? I’ve got a lot of planning to do. Or, Chandra has a lot of planning to do, rather. I take one hand off the wheel to rub my palm on my temple to discourage the headache that’s building intensity. I turn off the radio.
I’m stupid.
I’m stupid for thinking I can pull this off.
How did I let myself get sidetracked? I’m so damn stupid. I bet he wears a starched shirt. Good grief, I love him in starch.
I have no one to tell about Nate, and I imagine what Cassidy would have to say about it if she knew where he worked. Probably something like, “He’s cute? Just go up and say ‘Heeeyy. How ‘bout you and I start workin’ on a full house?’” or “I bet you’re an expert on seven-card STUD, huh?” I laugh to myself, but I feel like crying because I miss her.
I walk in the door to find Dad flipping through the channels. He’s scruffy. Sweat pants, flannel, stubbles on his face.
“There’s my girl,” he turns off the TV. “Are you hungry?”
Being that a single onion ring is the only solid my stomach’s received for about eight hours, I reply, “Starving.”
“Oh, I figured you and Cass were out on the town having a nice lunch or something.”
“Huh-uh.”
“So what have you been up to all day?”
I hesitate.
“Oh, just some cheer stuff up at school. I had to go to the library, too.” I imagine my nose growing like Pinocchio’s.
“Do we owe any money on your uniform? I should have some overtime on the next check, at least an extra forty bucks or so.”
Dad is clueless at the cost of things these days. Especially cheer things.
“Don’t worry about it, Dad, I think we’re doing a fundraiser sometime soon.” I feel my nose grow longer. Dad would die if he knew those things are about 250 bucks a pop.
“Mac and cheese?” I change the subject.
After dinner I decide to call Cassidy, and thirty minutes later we’re on our way to the movies. Since things are a little tense between us, I decide to tell her a teeny, tiny bit about what’s going on.
“You are shitting me. Is that how you got your new boots?”
“Well, kinda. I guess.” I second-guess myself for telling her. “Cass you can’t tell ANYONE. I mean technically it’s against the law, you know that, right?”
“I can’t believe this. My best friend is a compulsive gambler. What the hell!” She’s dramatic.
I laugh it off.
“I’m not! I’ve been TWICE. It’s no big deal. Really. I’m not going back. But there’s a really cute guy there.” I tingle just mentioning him.
“Are you kidding me?!” She turns down the radio.
“His name’s Nate. He works there.” I decide to spill it all. “We’re actually meeting up for a date next weekend.”
“Are you freak-ing kidding me?” She gets all silent, processing . . . processing . . . processing.
No one has to tell me I’m stupid. I know this already.
Let the Cassidy interrogation begin.
“How old is he? Where did he go to high school? Has he ever been married? For shit’s sake, does he have kids? Does he live by himself?” As expected, the questions go on . . . and on . . . and on.
I love Cass. Of course. Almost by default, like you have to love a sister because she’s your sister. But sometimes I want her to go away because no matter how close we are, she will NEVER understand how I feel or what it’s like to be me.
I answer her questions, like a good sister, and assure her that I’ll be careful.
As we watch the movie, I wish it were Nate sitting beside me instead of Cass. And again, I’m a million miles away.
Chapter 17
Playing hooky from school is justified when you have work to do.
Dad will receive an automated call reporting my absence, so I cover my tracks before they’re even made. I open his bedroom door then knock to wake him up.
“Dad?”
He rolls over and replies in a very slow and sleepy voice.
“What’s up, Chels?”
“Dad, I’m not going to school today. I have a research project I’m working on so I’ll be at the library all day. The school automated thing will be calling. Didn’t want it to scare you.”
He barely opens his eyes and readjusts his old blanket.
“The library? Look at my smart girl.” Dad makes no mention that I shouldn’t be missing school.
I walk into the library and sit at an open computer in the back row but get a little sidetracked before I begin. Mothers bring their toddlers in for story time, and I start daydreaming and wondering if my mom ever brou
ght me to hear a story. Little girls with short pigtails and ribbons, little boys with combed-over hair. All kids deserve to sit on their mother’s lap and hear tales like The Little Engine That Could and Brown Bear, Brown Bear. It’s a precious time for all involved, and for ten minutes I sit and observe moms tying shoes, mom and toddler selfies, and moms handing crackers to their little ones.
I swivel side to side in my chair then decide it’s time to get proactive. I begin my search for jobs in the area, something I do often. I hit all the main sites, and make notes for three jobs that look like potentials. A retail job that pays commission sounds most promising, but there’s something very uncomfortable about lying to people about how good they look in stuff they can’t afford. High-pressure sales. Ugh. I can’t seem to get too excited about a minimum wage, paid-by-the-hour job either. The pot I won the other night would be the equivalent of about seventy hours of work. It took five minutes.
I get sidetracked on a recreational gaming site, and I play poker, for fun, until almost ten in the morning. Then I realize that I could actually be learning something about the game itself.
I search: How To Win at Poker. How To Read Your Opponents. The Millionaire Poker Player. Poker Skills. A million sites with a billion articles and videos come up in my search, and I can’t believe I’ve never thought of this before. I go to the front desk and ask for some headphones.
I walk through the library and check each aisle, making sure there’s no one here, by chance, that I know. I go back to my computer and feel like I’m back here about to embark in criminal behavior.
I’m mesmerized. I spend the next five hours learning tricks about the game of poker—things I’ve never even thought about or even considered.
I can’t believe this information is out there. The experts are incredible. Why is the whole universe not on to this? Why are people working miserable jobs when they could be sitting on a poker table making a living? How could something so available seem so untapped? I feel like a secret member of a club after I educate myself all day. I’m empowered, and my heart rate goes up just thinking about my next opportunity on the poker table.