Blue Plate Special

by Michelle D. Kwasney

  “I was surprised not to hear from you last night,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m pressuring him.

  Shane flashes his shy smile—the one where a corner of his delicious mouth turns up, making a cute little dimple in his cheek while the other corner barely moves. “I couldn’t call,” he says. “I decided I need some cash flow to help keep my hottie girlfriend happy. So I got a job.”

  I feel myself blush. I am so not a hottie. “A job? Where?”

  “Pizza King.”

  Shane claims he can’t toast a bagel without burning it, which is why he never eats breakfast. “You?” I joke. “Will that be good for business?”

  He snags a belt loop on my jeans, pulling me to him. “Smarty, I’m a driver…” I turn and he draws me closer. “…and we deliver.”

  Oh. My. God. I seriously want to put my hands on him. I glance around to see if any teachers are watching.

  “We’ve got any topping you want.” He licks his lips, and a bolt of white heat zips through me. “Hamburger, pepperoni, sausage…”

  I reach my foot back and close my locker with my heel. Leaning into his shoulder, I say softly, “But I don’t eat meat, remember?”

  “Soy chips, then…tofu…” Shane’s lips tickle my ear. “Bean curd…”

  I giggle as he backs me against my locker. “Tofu is bean curd,” I whisper.

  The bell for first period rings. The stragglers hurry past, ducking into their classrooms, which is what I should be doing.

  “Shane Miller!” a voice booms. Ms. Delphi, the vice principal, is poised beside us in her I-mean-business stance.

  My spine straightens. I expect Shane to step back. To put space between our bodies. To apologize. But he doesn’t.

  “Mr. Miller?” Ms. Delphi repeats.

  I throw her a look that says: I know we shouldn’t be doing this and we’re late for class, but I can’t move until Shane does. She isn’t focusing on me, though.

  Shane turns slightly to smile at her. A smile that isn’t shy. One that’s almost, well, smug. I’ve never seen it before. “Yes, Ms. Delphi?”

  I squirm a little, but I’m basically pinned—something that might be kind of exciting under other circumstances, but not while the VP is watching.

  Ms. Delphi glances from Shane to me, then back at Shane again. “It appears the young lady would like her mobility back, Mr. Miller.”

  How is it that I’ve gone to school here since ninth grade and Ms. Delphi doesn’t know my name, but Shane’s been here two months, and she knows his?

  “Oh!” Shane fakes a look of surprise. “Would she?”

  My cheeks are burning and my heart beats double time. “Um, yeah.”

  “Pardon me, then.” Shane steps to the side and blood rushes back into my limbs. “How could I be so…so thoughtless not to notice?”

  Ms. Delphi studies me. “Are you all right, Miss—?”

  Shane drapes an arm across my shoulder. “Of course she’s—”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you,” Ms. Delphi interrupts, and Shane glares at her.

  I’m so embarrassed, I could die. “I—I’m fine, but I’m supposed to be taking a quiz. Excuse me.” I clutch my books and hurry down the hall toward class.

  When I arrive, Mr. Hollenbeck has already chalked ten binomials on the board. “Late pass?” he whispers, so as not to disturb the communal scratch of pencil lead.

  An unexcused tardy will cost me. And since I’m only carrying a ninety-two, my lowest grade this term, it’s not like I can afford it. “Sorry,” I whisper back.

  I open my notebook and copy the problems off the board. But I can’t wrap my mind around all those x’s and y’s. Tapping my pencil, I glance over at Jenna Peters, who’s already solving problem number four.

  She shields her paper, shooting me a do-you-mind? look.

  A flood of thoughts force their way into my mind. Thoughts like, Why was Shane so disrespectful to Ms. Delphi? Why didn’t he call last night to say he had a job? I could’ve phoned Olivia if I’d known we weren’t going to talk.

  When I glance up again, Shane’s parked outside the classroom door, holding a detention ticket.

  How many? I mouth.

  Five, he mouths back, grinning. It’s so obvious he doesn’t care he’s in trouble. I wish I had a fraction of his gumption, his confidence.

  As Mr. Hollenbeck stands to collect the quizzes I notice Jenna’s finished all ten problems, and I haven’t solved even one. When he reaches for mine, he stops and leans in, so close I can smell his coffee breath. “Would you like to schedule a makeup, Ariel?”

  I’ve always read people well—even when I was a baby, according to Mom. The one time I met my biological father, I threw a fit and cried myself blue. Now I’m reading Mr. Hollenbeck, and his face is filled with major concern. But I can’t embarrass myself by sucking up in front of Shane. Especially after his bad-boy act with Ms. Delphi. I mean, how would that look—he shows off for me, and I turn around and act all vanilla?

  I throw a quick glance at Shane and bite my lip to keep from buckling. “No, thanks,” I say, loud enough for him to hear, then I redirect my gaze to the floor. I don’t lift my head until Mr. Hollenbeck has moved on, collecting the rest of the quizzes.

  Madeline

  It’s after midnight. Mom’s snoring on the couch while I play a Beatles album in my room. Not much wakes her when she’s loaded. When Elmira flooded during Hurricane Agnes five years ago, emergency workers pounded on our door, evacuating us. They had to physically carry Mom downstairs and into their van. She woke in the shelter the next morning and whispered to me, “How’d I get here?” It’s no wonder she never could pinpoint who my father was.

  Yawning, I click on my box fan and stretch out across my bedspread. But when my eyes start to drift closed, Marcia Brady is there with her perfect hair, pointing a finger at me and laughing. The cavern in my middle rages, threatening to implode and swallow me whole. Feed me! the Beast demands. FEED ME!

  I have to quiet it, of course. I head to the kitchen, polish off three peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches, a tall stack of Oreos, a jumbo glass of milk with several spoons of Quik stirred in, and a freezer-burned Fudgesicle.

  The Beast coos, contented.

  When I return to my room, everything inside me feels pleasantly numb. And calm. The Beatles album has ended. The record player arm bobs back and forth, a soothing sound. I crawl into bed, curl into a large, round ball, and draw my arms around my middle. Hugging my stomach is almost like hugging another person. A person who’s happy with me.

  This time, when I close my eyes, Marcia Brady is gone.

  * * *

  When I start for school in the morning, it’s barely light out and the air is cool. I like fall. I don’t sweat as much, or feel self-conscious wearing long sleeves. I cross the street to avoid a group of girls clustered together, waiting for the school bus.

  My last school-bus ride was in third grade. Kids mooed as I started down the aisle wearing an ugly plaid dress. I was inches from an empty seat when a foot shot out, tripping me. Fat Girl flies. Fat Girl lands with a splat. I could hear the stitches on my dress pop, exposing my slip underneath. A boy with Coke-bottle glasses grabbed my lunchbox, flinging what I’d packed in separate directions: two fluffernutter sandwiches, a package of Raspberry Zingers, a bag of Fritos, a Mallo Bar. The bus driver hit the brakes and whirled around. Finally, I thought, someone’s going to make the kids stop being mean to me. You still have faith in adults when you’re that age. But it doesn’t take long to smarten up.

  “Hey, you!” she yelled. “The girl in the aisle! No getting out of your seat till I come to a complete stop. Those are the rules. What’s your name?”

  Eyes on the floor, I mumbled, “Madeline.”

  “I can’t hear you!” she snapped. “Speak up!”

  “Fatty Maddie!” the boy who’d trashed my lunch hollered.

  Everyone howled as I hurried toward an open seat, and the driver jammed the bus into gear. At school
I went straight to the nurse, who used several safety pins to hold my dress together. I begged her to let me go home to change, but we lived over two miles from school, so she told me to call Mom for a ride. The phone rang seventeen times before I gave up. Like I said, my mother can sleep through anything.

  By the time I arrive at the high school, the streetlights have flickered off. I move through the day in the usual way. Show up for classes, turn in homework, eat my free lunch, draw stares. Still, I dread the three o’clock dismissal bell. School isn’t my idea of a good time, but it beats the hell out of what’s waiting for me at home. Usually I prolong leaving by hanging out in a wooden lean-to dubbed the Smoking Lounge because it’s the only place on school grounds kids are allowed to light up. Not that I smoke, but there’s a bench inside and a view of the athletic field so I can watch whoever has practice.

  Today, it’s the varsity cheerleaders. As I park myself on the bench the coach organizes a pyramid. Jeannette Landeau kneels, then Sharon Ranson and Debbie Carter, and so on, until it’s time to start the second row. Muralee Blawjen waits. She’s the head cheerleader, so she’s usually on the very top. Except this time, as she climbs to her spot her foot slips, and the row-two girls tumble, collapsing on top of row one. Sharon Ranson goes into hysterics when one of her contacts falls out. But as everyone crouches, helping her look for her lens, they’re laughing the entire time. Even though it’s 100 percent Muralee’s fault the pyramid crumbled and Sharon lost her contact, no one’s mad at her. Everyone loves Muralee—even me, who has a thousand reasons to despise her. There’s no way she could ever screw up.

  When practice is over, the coach blows her whistle. The cheerleaders hurry toward the school, and I walk to McDonald’s for a snack.

  As I’m finishing off a hot cherry pie and a chocolate milk shake, Muralee, Jeannette, and Sharon bound through the side door and start toward the counter—my cue to leave.

  But as I collect my stuff, a boy in a McDonald’s uniform sits down across from me. He has blond flyaway hair and John Denver glasses, and there’s a ketchup stain on his collar. When he pokes a straw through the lid on his soda, it scrapes the slit and makes a farting noise. “Mind if I sit here on my break?”

  I glance around, making sure he’s talking to me. There’s no one else even close.

  “Okay,” I mumble, but I’m not sure a sound comes out, so I nod too.

  He sips his soda. “I’m Tad. What’s your name?”

  I clear my throat, hoping my voice will work. “Madeline.”

  “Pretty name.”

  I feel myself blush.

  He—Tad—reaches in his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He taps one free and lights it. I notice that his nails need cutting. And they have breading or French fry paste or something packed underneath them. He tips the pack toward me. “Want one?”

  “Um, no. But, thanks.”

  Tad turns his head to exhale so he won’t blow smoke in my face. “You go to school?”

  I can’t believe this is happening. That someone is talking to me. I pinch myself under the table, relieved when I feel pain. “Yeah. Eastside High. You?”

  “Not anymore. I quit when I turned sixteen.”

  I nod like I understand, thinking: What would I do if I wasn’t in school all day? The thought depresses me.

  Tad studies me. Intently.

  “What?” I say, blushing again.

  He taps his cigarette in a small, tin ashtray. “What what?”

  I whisper, “How come you’re sitting with me?”

  He looks around. There are plenty of empty booths. “Want me to leave?”

  “No. It’s just that I, um, I wondered, you know…why.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve seen you here before. You seem like a nice person.”

  “Nice?” I repeat.

  He flashes a crooked grin. There’s a gap between his two front teeth. “Yeah. Someone who won’t bust my balls.”

  I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling. “Oh.”

  The cheerleaders pass by, carrying trays. I notice Muralee has fries and a soda. The ends of her auburn hair are damp, and I can smell her fruity shampoo. She sits two booths over, and Jeannette and Sharon drop down across from her. Sharon glances my way. “Wow,” she says, loud enough for everyone in the smoking section to hear, “that guy’s into serious pork.” Jeannette laughs, but Muralee doesn’t. Her eyes connect with mine, and I get this feeling she’s sorry Sharon made fun of me.

  “You know those girls?” Tad asks.

  “No way. They’re cheerleaders.”

  He stamps out his cigarette. “So?”

  “So? They’re pretty and popular and”—it’s hard to say the word—“skinny.”

  “You’re pretty,” Tad says. But before I can bask in the moment, he glances at his watch and adds, “Oops, sorry. Break’s over.”

  I try to hide my disappointment. When Tad stands, I notice he’s tall. Not skinny but not fat, either.

  “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “I always take my break at the same time.”

  I’m not sure if he’s asking me to meet him or not. If I tell him I’ll be here and he’s only being polite, I’ll look like a jerk. “Uh, I…” I fumble, trying to decide what to say.

  Tad lifts his hands like he’s caught in a TV holdup. “Hey, no one’s forcing you.”

  As he turns to leave I manage to free up my words. “See you tomorrow!” I call.

  Two booths over, Sharon huffs and rolls her eyes.

  But for the first time ever, I don’t give a rat’s ass.

  Desiree

  we’re here, larry calls. you awake?

  i’m in the backseat,

  curled into a ball.

  i don’t answer.

  i had a nice time tonight, dez.

  i can’t wait to see you again.

  things’ll be tricky with your ma and all,

  but if we’re careful, she’ll never find out.

  i uncurl,

  open the car door,

  move slowly toward the porch.

  it feels like i’m watching someone else

  put one foot in front of the other.

  i’m not sure where i’ve gone,

  but i’m not here.

  the apartment is dark,

  so i let myself in with my key.

  i tiptoe up the stairs

  and pause outside

  mam’s room.

  i wish she’d wake up

  and notice something is wrong,

  that she’d pull me

  into her thick arms,

  tuck my head beneath her

  flabby chins, and say,

  there, there, it’ll be okay,

  like all the tv moms do.

  breath held,

  i inch open the door to my room.

  sure enough, mam’s trashed it.

  drawers are tipped upside down.

  clothes cover the floor.

  jeremy’s notes are

  strewn everywhere.

  it’s a strange comfort,

  seeing the room match

  how i feel inside.

  in the bathroom

  i strip for a shower.

  my shirt reeks of puke,

  and my panties are bloody.

  i bury them in the bottom of the trash,

  duck beneath the pelting spray,

  adjust the water so hot that

  welts rise up on my skin.

  i scrub my sticky thighs

  with the pumice soap

  mam uses on her feet.

  my skin turns red

  as cherry pop-tart filling,

  but i can’t wash larry off.

  his weight still crushes my chest,

  and his smell won’t leave my hair—

  even after i’ve shampooed

  once, twice, three times.

  when the water runs cold,

  i sink to the shower floor,

  shivering.

  * * *r />
  the next morning,

  the body that claims to be mine

  zones out in front of x-men,

  eating cocoa puffs straight from the box.

  someone knocks at the door,

  and mam hurries to answer it.

  two sets of footsteps

  climb the stairs.

  i run to the bathroom,

  close the lid on the toilet,

  and sit, rocking,

  waiting to find out who’s there,

  even though i already know.

  where’s dez hiding? larry asks.

  mam snorts. who the hell knows?

  the teakettle whistles.

  the lid swirls off the

  jar of instant coffee.

  spoons clink against

  the sides of mam’s ugly mugs.

  shaking,

  i hurry into the hall,

  steal two of mam’s smokes,

  grab my denim jacket off a hook.

  i’m halfway through the door when

  larry says, whoa, somebody’s pants are on fire!

  and mam just laughs and laughs.

  * * *

  jeremy’s dad works

  at the jiffy lube on saturdays

  while his mom does grocery shopping

  and picks up her heebie-jeebie meds,

  so jeremy’s the only one home.

  i file past the annuals

  that line the front walk,

  color-coded to match the house,

  and signal with my usual knock.

  jeremy answers,

  wearing levi’s with no shirt,

  his hair wet from a shower.

  normally, i’d smile and say,

  you look sweet enough to eat.

  but today i’m silent.

  upstairs

  jeremy loads

  a steppenwolf cd

  in his boom box

  and “born to be wild”

  rattles the speakers.