Blue Plate Special

by Michelle D. Kwasney

  to catch up with us—

  siren screeching,

  red lights slashing gashes

  in the black fabric of the night.

  shit, jeremy,

  what the hell does he want?

  jeremy flips on his signal,

  pulls to the side of the road.

  his head drops against

  the steering wheel

  and the horn blows.

  when he sits upright,

  the sound stops.

  the silence is deafening.

  jeremy feels for my hand,

  closing it inside his own.

  he stares ahead,

  at the exit we should have taken.

  remember, dez, i love you.

  i’ll always love you. and ariel too.

  don’t let her forget that, okay?

  she’s my little girl now. all mine.

  she’ll never have to look at

  that fucking bastard again.

  and neither will you.

  he’ll never have

  another chance to hurt you.

  i choke on my sobs.

  j—jeremy, w—what the hell

  are you t—talking about?

  the cop raps on the window

  and jeremy opens his door.

  he hands me the car keys,

  forces a smile, and says,

  drive carefully.

  then he steps out

  slowly,

  lifting

  his

  arms

  in

  the

  air.

  Ariel

  It’s raining when we leave for home—large, plump drops that look like they’ll turn into snow any second—so Mom drives even slower than usual.

  Not that I mind. I’m really unsettled about the whole going-home thing. My life feels like a room that’s been redone, with new items brought in and old ones removed, and I need time to learn where everything is kept now.

  I open the Snapple I bought at the mini-mart where Mom filled Marge’s gas tank.

  “So…” Mom says, not taking her eyes off the road.

  Mentally, I prepare myself. Sentences beginning with “So…” usually turn out to be questions, ones often related to Shane.

  “Shane hasn’t called in a while,” she goes on. “Is everything okay with you two?”

  A slow pain burns in my chest. I stare straight ahead and sip my Snapple. “I’ve had my phone off,” I tell her. “I haven’t been in the mood for conversation.”

  My instincts warn me to glance around. To make sure Shane’s not crouched in the backseat, listening. Or driving one of the vehicles speeding past us, reading my lips.

  God. When did I become so paranoid?

  “Anything you feel like talking about it?” Mom asks.

  “Not really. But thanks.”

  Mom nods and lets it go.

  Except I’m wishing she wouldn’t this time. I’m wishing she’d ask the typical Mom questions you don’t want your mother to ask, but you secretly need her to ask.

  I sigh, staring vacantly into space. My eyes come to rest on the wristband fastened like a giant O around Mom’s key ring. My dad’s name, Jeremy, is stamped on the old brown leather, except the spacing is off and the m is up too high. Once I asked Mom why she kept the band with her keys, and she said, “Because your dad wanted something of his to be with me wherever I went.” Which I thought was really romantic.

  Noticing Mom’s key ring makes me think of the spare to our house that I forgot to find a new hiding place for. Panicking, I think: What if Shane’s let himself in? What if he’s sitting on the futon when we get home, drinking Aunt Lee’s Dr. Pepper, watching our widescreen TV? Or reading my e-mail, or sprawled out on my bed, plotting his next practical joke?

  At that moment, I face the inevitable: that I will have to level with Mom. Like, soon. As in, before we get home. Because finding a new hiding place for the key won’t do at this point. Too much time has passed. Shane could have made himself a copy by now. Mom’ll want to call a locksmith right away.

  I’m attempting to decide my best strategy for transitioning into the dreaded topic when Mom flips her turn signal on.

  I glance at the clock on the dash. We’ve only been on the highway forty-five minutes. The trip from Poughkeepsie to Elmira is a pretty straight shot. We stay on Route 17 until we reach the Liberty exit, which is still over an hour away.

  Then the obvious occurs to me. “Gotta go, gotta go?” I ask, imitating the bladder control commercial.

  Mom shakes her head no and veers onto the exit ramp for Johnson City. Clearly, she’s not in a laughing mood.

  “Where are you taking us?” I ask.

  Mom doesn’t answer me. She passes through several lights, then turns down a long, narrow street lined with grungy duplex apartments. She stops in front of a mustard-colored unit that’s seriously in need of a paint job. An old olive green sofa sits on the front porch. A rusty pickup truck is parked in the driveway.

  “That’s where we used to live,” she says. “My mother and I.”

  A confederate flag hangs in the front window. I’m about to say, You’re kidding, right? But something tells me she’s not.

  Mom points to a door off the porch. “The stairs were just inside. Our apartment was on the second floor.” She smiles. “It was on the other side of that very door that I felt you move for the first time. Actually, you kind of fluttered. That’s the night I knew you were a girl.”

  Mom’s smile fades. She grimaces, like a kid whose hair has been pulled.

  “Mom, what?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Come on, tell me.”

  Mom blinks back tears. “Do you remember that night, Ariel? It was right after the Harvest Dance. Jeremy walked me to the door, then he left. When I was inside, in the foyer—well, something bad happened. And I’ve always wondered if you recall anything about it, but I’ve been so afraid to ask you because—”

  “Mom, stop!” I laugh uncomfortably. “How could I remember something the night of your dance? I wasn’t even born yet.”

  “Yes,” she says, sounding relieved. “Yes, of course, you’re right.” Then she shifts Marge into drive.

  Except she doesn’t retrace her tracks, back onto Route 17.

  “Where now?” I ask.

  “To the cemetery,” she says, gripping the steering wheel. “I need to see Larry Murdock’s grave. I need to know where he’s buried.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, we pass a deserted-looking school called Cherry Hill Academy. Just past that, Mom takes a left into Cherry Hill Cemetery. God, I can’t imagine going to a high school that shares a name with a graveyard.

  We pass through a gated entrance and park beside a building marked Office. Inside the office, a man sits at a desk. His dark eyes are sunken, and he reminds me of Uncle Fester on The Addams Family. Mom tells him who we’re looking for.

  “The Larry Murdock?” he asks. “The fella killed by that high-school boy?”

  Mom nods.

  The man rifles through a stack of papers. “Kid’s still in prison, I hear. ’Cept he wouldn’t be a kid anymore. He’d have to be—oh, close to thirty, I’d say.”

  “Thirty-two,” Mom corrects him.

  “That so?” The man wheels his chair across the room, stopping in front of a computer. His monitor is one of those old-fashioned, putty-colored things, the size of a microwave oven. He pokes several keys and a paper appears in the printer tray. Handing it to Mom, he says, “Section C-12. Straight up the hill. Take your third left. This map’ll help you find your way.”

  Mom thanks him and we turn to leave.

  “Say,” the man calls, “are you by any chance related to that Murdock fella? ’Cause you”—he narrows his Uncle Fester eyes at me—“you look a little like them pictures of him they ran in the newspaper.”

  Mom ignores him, hurrying us both through the door.

  * * *

  M
om navigates the narrow lanes, and I watch the map.

  “Just ahead,” I say, and she parks beside an old rusty water pump.

  Our shoes crunch across the grass, still green beneath a layer of frost. I shiver from a sudden chill. Except it’s an okay chill, more like a tickle of energy than something cold or foreboding.

  Here and there, flags poke out of the soil. For Veterans Day, I’m assuming. The idea seems really odd—decorating graves for the dead when only the living can see them.

  As we weave in and out through the markers, Mom reads names off the stones. “Arnold…Koslowski…Sherman…Bellavance…Hillman…”

  It’s hard to believe that every one of these graves represents someone who used to be alive, above the earth like Mom and me, and now they’re below it, decomposing. I decide when I die I’ll be cremated. That way no one will walk on me, muttering my name, while they search for someone else.

  In the distance, I hear water bubbling. At the top of a hill just ahead, I find the source. “Mom, look. A fountain.” I start toward the large marble structure, which is almost as tall as I am. Water cascades down the sides, spilling into a basin below. Just beyond it is a giant, white concrete angel, spreading her massive wings, which are dotted with spray.

  I sit on a low flat stone and brush leaves away from the inscription. I feel sad when I realize the angel’s for a really young girl named Sophie DeSalvo. She was only two when she died.

  When I stand again, I notice a rose-colored headstone—two rows over from Sophie’s. “Mom,” I say softly, “I found it.”

  Mom follows me. “My God,” she says, staring at the stone.

  There are two names, separated by a column of ivy, meticulously etched down the center. The left-hand side reads:

  LAWRENCE JAMES MURDOCK

  APRIL 3, 1958–AUGUST 15, 1994

  The second name, the name beside his, is my grandmother’s, Madeline Fitch Murdock, except only the birth date is filled in. As I study it, I think to myself: Next month, she’ll turn fifty. If she survives.

  Suddenly I get this feeling. And like Mom said she knew—long before I was born—that I’d be a girl, I know my grandmother will live. Maybe not until she’s ninety but long enough for me to get to know her.

  Mom loops her arm through mine. “Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different if my mother hadn’t met Larry Murdock. I wouldn’t have gone through what I did, and your dad wouldn’t be serving time.” She turns, touching my cheek. “But I wouldn’t have you, either. And you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  I hug her and we turn to leave, weaving around the same stones we passed.

  Hillman. Bellavance. Sherman. Koslowski. Arnold.

  Off to my right, I notice a freshly dug hole, obviously waiting for an occupant. There’s a bench beside the gaping black rectangle.

  “Hey, Mom?” I call.

  Several steps ahead, she turns. “Yes?”

  “I, um, I just need a minute alone. I’ll meet you at the car, okay?”

  “Are you all right?” she asks me.

  “Yeah,” I answer, “I’m fine.” Which is the truth. I feel strangely solid here.

  Mom waves, ambling back toward Marge.

  I sit on the bench, reach in my jacket for my cell, and power it on. 17 MISSED CALLS.

  I have to talk to Shane before I leave this place. I don’t know why. It’s just a hunch. A very strong hunch. But before I can enter a command, “Only U” by Ashanti plays.

  I stare at the name on the screen. Shane. Who else.

  My mouth is dry. I search my pocket for a mint or a piece of gum. Anything. But I come up empty. I push Answer and hold the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Ariel! Where the hell have you been?”

  My heart pounds in my throat. I feel the same way I did in my grandmother’s room when my finger was stuck in the Chinese handcuffs. Cornered. Trapped.

  I hold the phone away from my ear. Calmly, I say, “Don’t yell.”

  “I’ve been worried out of my fucking mind about—”

  “Don’t yell! ” I repeat. Louder.

  I connect with a sudden strength, and I have no clue where it’s coming from. Maybe from Sophie DeSalvo’s angel. Or from my grandmother. Or—how bizarre to even think this—from Larry Murdock, offering me courage as a redeeming gesture.

  “Look,” Shane says, quietly now, “it’s been driving me crazy, not being able to get a hold of you, babe, I—”

  “My grandmother’s going home today,” I interrupt.

  “Huh?”

  “I said, ‘My grandmother’s going home today.’ Since you forgot to ask how she’s doing, I thought you’d want me to tell you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

  “She’s starting chemo Thursday.” I take a deep breath and let it out. “I think she’s going to be okay. No one’s said that officially. But something tells me she will be.”

  “Hey, that’s great. Congrats. So, um, when can I see you?”

  “Shane, have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  “Sure. Family crap. Whatever. But I—”

  Impulsively, I snap the phone closed. I’ve never done anything like that before. Not to Shane or anyone.

  Seconds later, “Only U” plays.

  And at that precise moment, I get it. The Big IT, as Liv would say. I know why Shane picked that song for our ringtones. Because everything in Shane’s world is only me, and everything in my world is supposed to be all about him. Completely. There’s no room for anyone else in this claustrophobic universe he envisions for us. Not Liv. Not my mom. Not my grandmother. No one.

  I push Talk. Wait.

  “Ariel? What happened?”

  “I’ve gotta go, Shane. My mom’s waiting in the car for me.”

  “Hang on. Where are you?”

  I remember the tracking device on my cell. Shane’s been treating me like a pet on a leash. “Why don’t you just check your spy phone?” I snap.

  “Hey, Ariel, chill.” Shane laughs. A laugh that I suddenly recognize for what it is. Condescending. “I’m just making conversation.”

  “No, Shane. It’s not called conversation. It’s called control. You always have to know where I am. Who I talk to. Who I spend my time with. When I’m—”

  “That’s ridiculous! I let you go away this weekend, didn’t I?”

  “You let me go away? Excuse me?”

  “You’re stressed, babe. It’s all the family crap that’s—”

  “Stop calling it family crap! We’re talking about people’s lives here! People who are related to me!”

  “Look, call me when you get home, okay? I’ll pick you up and we can—”

  “No!” I blurt out, dangerously close to crying. But I refuse to break down. I swallow hard and talk slowly, carefully, like annunciating each word might help me fend off tears. “I don’t want to go anywhere tonight, Shane. I’m tired. I want to stay home and take a hot bath and call my best friend, Olivia, then crash in front of the TV with a pint of Cherry Garcia.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “That’s it?” Shane yells. “I haven’t seen you since Thursday, and calling your fucking friend with the fucking faggot fathers is more important than me?”

  I glance back at the parking lot, where Mom’s waiting, then down at the dark, open grave. I think of the Chinese handcuffs again. And how I couldn’t escape by pulling away. Resistance did nothing. I had to stop struggling and relax. I got free by giving up the fight.

  Lean in, my grandmother tells me.

  Firmly but gently, I say, “I’m going to hang up now, Shane.” Then I clap the phone closed.

  Lean in, she tells me again.

  I lift my arm. Stretch it out. Across the dark, open grave.

  Lean in, lean in, lean in. She won’t let up until I listen.

  I stop struggling.

  Relax.

  Give up the fight.

  Let go.

  I.

>   Let.

  Go.

  I watch my phone drop in slow motion.

  When it hits bottom, seconds or minutes or hours later, I kick a clump of dirt over the top.

  The battery will probably die out soon. Mom and I will be home by then. My grandmother will be too. Wherever her home is. Someday soon, I’ll find out.

  The phone rings, muffled by the rich, brown earth. As “Only U” plays to the specks of new-falling snow, I turn and walk toward our car.

  When I slide in the front seat, Mom’s studying the strip of arcade photos my grandmother gave me.

  “She really was young once,” Mom says without looking up.

  I roll my eyes. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

  Mom tucks the photos in the side pocket of my backpack. Then she smiles and shifts into gear. “Yeah. Maybe I am.”

  Author’s Note

  If you are a victim of sexual crime, you are not alone and help is available. The National Sexual Assault Hotline, at 1-800-656-HOPE, provides free, confidential help 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Services for adolescents are also available online on the RAINN (Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network) Web site. Visit them at www.rainn.org and click on 24/7 Online Hotline.

  Acknowledgements

  Heartfelt thanks to everyone at Chronicle Books—especially my editor, Julie Romeis—for believing in Blue Plate Special and honoring it as Chronicle’s first young adult novel. Thanks to Peg Davol for repeated readings and helpful critiques as the novel grew and changed; Steve Blenus for behind-the-scenes support with technological snafus so I could focus on the business of writing; my Tuesday Night Group for insightful suggestions for several chapters; and Barbara Burrows, my rock, for being there from square one and offering encouraging words, iced coffee, and sandwiches, and whatever else the moment called for. Sei uno spettacolo!

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2009 by Michelle D. Kwasney.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-4521-0411-9

  Book design by Amy E. Achaibou.

  Chronicle Books LLC