Lifted

by Wendy Toliver

  “Ah, yes. Nothing screams ‘excitement’ like the local Piggly Wiggly,” I said, shaking my head.

  We all hopped out and walked to the store, the AC flipping up our hair as we passed through the automatic doors. I took a little paper cup of animal crackers from the sample lady to ward off the after-school munchies and followed Mary Jane and Whitney to the back of the store.

  “. . . and then you tape the note onto the bag of Swedish Fish . . .” Mary Jane babbled on about her idea for me to ask Gabe to Sadie’s. Since her sister, Jo Anna, had a successful outcome with the same “totally a-dor-a-ble” invitation three years ago, it would surely work wonders for me. Or so she insisted.

  We passed an old lady with a head full of pink curlers and an Igor hump. Whitney paused to say, “Hello, Mrs. Reid. How’s Pedro?”

  The lady clicked her tongue and inspected a carton of eggs before adding them to the stockpile of Yoplait and All-Bran in her shopping cart. “For such a tiny animal, he has big ears and a bigger attitude. Oh, I noticed your papa passin’ the crackers and grape juice last Sunday mornin’. He sure turned out to be a fine deacon. That’s what I tell all the ol’ girls in my knitting group, yes I do. Oh, and tell your mama hello for us. I hear she’s the president of the garden club nowadays. She sure is nice for a colored woman.”

  I searched Whitney’s face, but to my astonishment, she appeared unfazed by the old lady’s racist remark. She smiled broadly and whispered to me, “And Mrs. Reid sure is nice for an old lady who pretends she didn’t run over her own Chihuahua. Pedro’s been dead for, like, four years.” Then, very loud, she said, “See you at church, Mrs. Reid.”

  “Give her a break, Whitney. She’s older than Methuselah,” Mary Jane said. “Bless her heart.”

  “Well, if I’m like that when I’m old, y’all better take me out to pasture and shoot me,” Whitney said.

  “You got it.” Mary Jane winked at me. “What are friends for?”

  “Forcing each other to ask guys they barely even know to lame-ass school functions, apparently,” I said.

  “But of course,” Whitney said. “Oh my gosh.” She yanked open the cooler. “Mary Jane, remember when we used to drink these every day after school? I haven’t had a Yoo-hoo in forever.”

  Mary Jane inspected the label on the bottle of chocolate milk. “Maybe we could drink one for old time’s sake, but there’s no way I’m putting a Twinkie in my mouth. I might be nostalgic, but I’ve got a new pair of BCBG trousers to fit into.”

  I almost crashed into Mary Jane when she halted midway down the snack aisle. “Don’t forget the Swedish Fish, Poppy. You’re going to need those when you ask you-know-who to the dance.” She swayed her Yoo-hoo in the direction of the candy.

  “Just take it, hon,” Whitney whispered, unsnapping my purse. She smiled and then turned around to pick up a box of microwave popcorn. “How about something salty to go with the Yoo-hoos, y’all?”

  Mrs. Reid crept along behind us, muttering something about toothpaste. I waited. A few minutes later, she stopped to examine the chips across the aisle from me. Mary Jane and Whitney, chattering animatedly, strolled behind me and toward the front of the store.

  It’s just a bag of candy. No one will ever miss it. Just this one last time, and then I’ll never shoplift again.

  Seizing the opportunity to, well, seize while the lady and my friends created a diversion, I grabbed two bags of fish off the peg and dropped one into my open purse. Pretending to read something on the other bag of candy, I squeezed my purse closed with my elbow, then rehung the bag as if I’d changed my mind. My heart pounded so loudly, I actually heard it. As I made a beeline for the cash registers—keep walking, act casual—it felt like my purse had mysteriously filled with rocks.

  “Let’s see . . . ,” an attractive, middle-aged lady in a Piggly Wiggly apron said, examining the conveyer belt. “Three drinks and a box of popcorn. Anything else?”

  I bit my lower lip, hoping the sweaty feeling was just in my mind, and sweat wasn’t actually drenching my forehead. I looked over at Mary Jane and tried to mirror her vibe: patience, innocence, confidence.

  Mary Jane flung her honey-blond hair to the side and brought out her dazzling smile. “Nope, that’s it for now.”

  “Well, y’all have a nice day, you hear?” the lady said as she handed Mary Jane a receipt.

  We walked out of the store together, the afternoon sunshine embracing us. The candy in my purse no longer weighed me down. I felt like I could jump really high, like someone had pumped helium into my body.

  Once in her VW, Mary Jane lifted her shirt and revealed a small bag of fortune cookies wedged behind her waistband.

  “What are those for?” Whitney asked.

  “I’m inviting Andrew to Sadie’s tonight. You’re gonna die when you hear how I’m asking him.” She went on to divulge her ingenious plan, something about putting a message in the fortune cookie . . . but I couldn’t concentrate.

  Thinking about asking a guy to the Sadie Hawkins dance was one thing. Asking him was quite another. I opened my purse and stared at the little multicolored fish. On the one hand, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to go. Or maybe I did want to go, but I was afraid Gabe would say no. Or maybe I did want to go, but not with Gabe. Shit. Why did it have to be so freakin’ complicated?

  “What’s wrong, hon?” Mary Jane asked. At first, I thought her concern was directed at me, but when I looked up, she had her hand on Whitney’s shoulder. “Do you have cramps?”

  “No.”

  “I know you, and something’s definitely bugging you,” Mary Jane persisted.

  Whitney sighed. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Did you want to do the fortune cookie thing with Greg? I’m sure Jo Anna has another idea I can use for Andrew.”

  Whitney scratched her shoulder and gazed out the window as Mary Jane sped across the intersection. “The woman in there, the checker . . .”

  “No way. That’s her?” Mary Jane asked, clearly nonplussed.

  “I’m pretty sure. Her nametag said ‘Lydia,’ and there can’t be many women by that name in such a small town.” She faced me and sat up straight. “Can you keep a secret, Poppy?”

  I nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  “My daddy is having an affair.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so of course I said something idiotic. “But your dad . . . he’s a deacon, right?”

  “Yeah,” Whitney said, her shoulders slumped and her voice weak. “And what’s worse, Mama realizes he’s cheating on her. It’s like she doesn’t want anyone else to know, so she pretends not to notice. But I see her sniffing his shirt collars and the sad look in her eyes when he calls to say he won’t be home for dinner. I know she knows. It’s like a bad soap opera . . . so pitiful.”

  “But all of that could be circumstantial,” I say, hating to see Whitney so upset. “Right?”

  Her dark eyes glistened as she looked over at Mary Jane. Her beautiful best friend nodded in support. “One time, a couple of years ago, Daddy’s cell phone vibrated during the twins’ Tumbling Toddlers program. He excused himself. I had to use the bathroom, so I followed him out. He didn’t see me. I heard everything. Her name is Lydia. They were meeting up the following night. Of course, Daddy called the next evening to say something came up at work and he wouldn’t be home for dinner.” Tears dripped down Whitney’s cheeks. “It was horrible.” Mary Jane reached into the console and handed her a Kleenex. “Thanks.” She dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose. “So, anyway, that’s my big secret. And everywhere I go, people tell me how wonderful and Godly he is, and I have to smile and agree with them when in reality, he’s a big freakin’ poseur.”

  “Oh, Whitney, I’m so sorry,” I said. I felt so bad for her and for her mother. Hopefully her mom was hell-bent on finishing her college degree so she could kick his cheating ass to the curb.

  A few minutes later, Whitney said, “Sometimes I envy you, Poppy.”

  “Me? Why?”

  �
�Well, sometimes I wonder if it would be easier not to have a dad and not be required to do church stuff day in and day out. It’s such a pain.” She reached up to her neck and touched her gold cross charm.

  Mary Jane turned to her friend. “Geez, Whitney. That was totally insensitive. She can’t help that she doesn’t have a father.”

  “Naw, it’s okay,” I said. “I do have a father . . . somewhere. It wasn’t an immaculate conception or anything as exciting as that.” I laughed. “Just two teenagers too horny for their own good, I guess.”

  “So where is he?” asked Mary Jane.

  “I don’t know. When Mom got pregnant, she decided to raise me all by herself. I guess he was cool with that, because he’s never tried to contact me. At least, not that I know of.”

  Whitney turned around and frowned. “Does that make you sad?”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “Do you think you two will ever meet?” asked Whitney.

  “I really don’t know. It’s always been just Mom and me, so . . .”

  “What about her parents, your grandparents?” Mary Jane asked. “Don’t they help out?”

  “Yeah, they did. A little. They died when I was six, though.” One snowy day, Grandma drove Grandpa home from the eye doctor and they got in a wreck. According to the reports, he died instantly. She died the following day at the hospital. They had a joint funeral at a little Catholic church by their home in the Denver suburbs, their caskets closed so we could remember them as the attractive, happy couple in the framed eleven-by-fourteen photograph propped up on the stairs amongst all the lilies and roses.

  That’s where I’d first heard that my grandma had been an alcoholic—at their funeral. Some ladies were talking about it by the coatracks, and when they spotted me behind a smoky-smelling trench coat, they gave me pitying looks. I always knew something was different about Grandma, like sometimes she acted downright silly and other times she just sat around all weepy-eyed.

  “Way to go, Whitney,” Mary Jane said. “You’ve upset her.”

  “Oh, no. I’m okay. I’m over it, all of it.”

  “Well, you’re very brave,” said Mary Jane, and I wondered if she was right.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I schlepped myself through the whole next day trying not to think about my after-school mission, but the clock worked against me. The dismissal bell sounded, and that time, I didn’t feel like humming “Amazing Grace” along with it. Except for the kids with after-school club meetings or sports practices, everyone fled school grounds. I hung out in the library for an hour, trying to study for a physics exam, but my mind kept inventing scenarios for the daunting yet ridiculous task ahead of me.

  The hall was a ghost town when I finally emerged from the library. As I approached Gabe’s locker, my cell phone beeped. What did he say? Mary Jane’s text message read. I swear—she was even more excited than I was.

  Haven’t asked him yet, I typed back. Patience, girl!

  While asking guys to Sadie Hawkins in cutesy ways was obviously the norm here at Calvary High, I felt utterly ridiculous. And nervous as hell.

  I had no clue what to expect. I’d never asked someone or been asked by someone to a school dance.

  Of course, Mary Jane and Whitney offered to be my wingwomen. But I figured there’d be less pressure flying solo. Better to make a fool of myself in front of as few witnesses as possible. That was why I resolved to ask him now, while my friends were at Peery for their big GOV Club assembly. When they’d invited me along, I gracefully declined. Sitting in a gym with three counties’ worth of virgins sounded even more traumatic than asking Gabe to the Sadie Hawkins dance.

  Now I wasn’t so sure.

  As the minutes whisked around the face of the hallway clock, my grip on the bag of Swedish Fish tightened. The Swedish Fish that I stole. I suddenly felt sweaty, like when we were checking out at the grocery store yesterday afternoon.

  “What did you do?”

  I jumped at the sound of his voice. “David! You scared the crap out of me,” I said through clenched teeth. “And what do you mean? I didn’t do anything.”

  “You look guilty. It’s something I’m really good at. Detecting guilt. I am the son of a preacher, after all. It’s in the genes.”

  I concentrated on keeping my expression neutral. I so didn’t want to get into a conversation with David Hillcrest, not now. Lacrosse practice would let out any minute, and I needed to psych myself up for the big moment.

  “We Baptists are definitely taking a toll on you,” he said, rambling on.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, against my better judgment.

  “You said ‘crap.’ You’ve gone PG-13 on me. Oh . . .” He snapped his fingers. “I just figured it out. Why you look so guilty. You feel bad about not showing up for last night’s paintball game.” Shit. He was right; I’d totally spaced on it. “But don’t worry about that. You see, you were the only person who showed even a glimmer of interest. So I guess I’ll just have to sit back and formulate another plan.”

  “Maybe people just aren’t ready for such an innovative idea,” I said, trying not to smile. “And I thought you said you’d join the GOV Club. Shouldn’t you be at the big meeting at Peery?”

  “Well, I saw you standing over here without your entourage and reckoned you needed a ride. Hey”—he pointed at the bag of Swedish Fish in my hand—“I love those. Aren’t you gonna share?”

  “No.” Looking back, I wondered why I’d been so panicked about stealing them. None of the employees at Hamilton’s or the Piggly Wiggly had second-guessed any of us.

  “What’s the note say?” David asked, grabbing the bag of candy. I tried to get it back, but he held it just out of my reach until I gave up. After clearing his throat, he read: “Of all the fish in the sea, I want you to go to Sadie’s with me.” He laughed. Unsurprisingly.

  My nerves freshly razzed, I snatched the bag and clutched it to my chest. The laughter stopped and he stepped backward. “Hey, I’m sorry, Poppy. It’s just that it’s so . . . Well, I never had you pegged for the cheesy type.”

  “I’m not.”

  His gaze dropped from my eyes to the note and back up again. “Of course you’re not.” I wanted to wipe that smug smirk off his face, but he had a point.

  I tore the note off the candy and sighed. “I was going to hide a dead fish under his mattress and, if he said no, leave it there forever.”

  David slapped me on the back. “Now you’re talkin’, kiddo.” Then he planted his butt in a folding chair conveniently stashed a few feet away in a little alcove where the fire extinguisher hung. “So, who’s the lucky guy? Wouldn’t happen to be Gabe Valdez, would it?”

  “How’d you know?” Mary Jane and Whitney were the only ones who knew, and they swore to keep it in the vault.

  “That’s his locker you’re leaning against.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Speak of the devil . . .” David expelled a long, deflated-sounding whistle as Gabe sauntered into view.

  Oh, no. This was all wrong. Andrew and a couple other dudes weren’t supposed to be with Gabe, and I sure as hell hadn’t planned on David Hillcrest having a front-row seat.

  “Do you mind?” I whispered at David.

  “What do you see in that guy?”

  What was with him? “I’m nervous as it is, David. Please go away.” I hated to beg, but if I didn’t ask Gabe now, Mary Jane and Whitney would be impossible to live with till I did. And Gabe would be standing in front of me any minute now.

  “Here.” I tossed the bag of Swedish Fish at David. “All yours. Now leave. Please.”

  As he rose to his feet, David ripped open the bag and popped a school of gummy fish into his mouth. Relief rippled through my body because I’d finally gotten through to him. I whipped out my cell to text Mary Jane: He’s coming! Stand by 4 more news.

  “I hope he says no,” David muttered, walking backward. He chewed the candy slowly and, with the tip of his tongue, licked his b
ottom lip.

  I blinked, not sure I’d heard right. “What?”

  He shrugged and headed for the door. “I want to see how long it takes for Gabe to figure out something’s fishy under his bed.”

  The closer Gabe got, the more I wanted to run after David and completely abort my mission.

  “Hey, Poppy. What’re you doing here?” Gabe asked.

  The other guys nodded or muttered, “Hey,” then resumed chattering about lacrossey stuff.

  My cell phone beeped. I didn’t have to look. I knew it was Mary Jane, dying for the very latest scoop. Gabe propped his lacrosse stick against the wall and twirled the combo on his locker.

  “Um, Gabe? Can I ask you something?” I said, certain my cheeks were bright red.

  Gabe stepped away from his buddies, giving us at least the illusion of privacy. “Yeah, sure. What’s up? Do you want to know the time?”

  Caught off guard, I just stood there like a dummy.

  He grinned. “Remember? That’s what I asked you at the barbecue Friday night. I was really going to ask if you’d like to come to my lacrosse game on Saturday, but I guess I lost my nerve. And then I realized I really did need to pick up Georgia . . .”

  “Are you going to Sadie’s?” I blurted.

  Gabe’s gaze flitted over to his buddies and then locked with mine. “Well, that depends. Are you asking me?”

  I stared at my boots. They were totally scuffed. I should clean them up someday. Or maybe I should just buy a new pair. I’d worn them almost every day for what, two years? Perhaps I could figure out a way to lift a pair sometime. My thoughts trickled into that new, exciting place reserved for my shoplifting daydreams, until Gabe asked, “Are you asking me to Sadie’s, Poppy?” yanking me back into the embarrassing and downright painful conversation at hand.

  “Yes.”

  He was silent for a few beats, until I looked up. “Sorry, it’s just that a lot of girls go through a whole big production. You kinda caught me by surprise.” I felt my posture deflating. “But I like that you just asked outright. It’s refreshing, you know? It sounds like a good time.”