Dad looks tired, like he’d rather be leafing through an interior design magazine or composing a new house-for-sale listing.
The rink smells like old, wet socks—sort of musty and mothball-like. I don’t miss skating at all, I think.
But then I remember skating at the town rink in Lindville one winter, when I was about eight. It was around Christmas, and there were a lot of people skating there, even though it’s an outdoor rink and it was freezing cold. Dad and I hadn’t skated there very often, because we usually skated here, at the arena.
First we were skating on our own, but then we started skating together. Everyone was watching us and looking sort of amazed. Dad and I did jumps at the same time—totally synchronized—and people started applauding. It wasn’t even embarrassing, it was just fun. We improvised this program, on the spot. Dad told me what to do out of the corner of his mouth, and I did it. We totally ate it up. We were absolute hams. We posed for a picture. And after that, we did it occasionally, whenever we wanted to unwind and have fun.
It’s something I can’t even conceive of doing now. The last time I skated in public was such a disaster. It was like I could hear these imaginary commentators saying, “that’ll be another point-four deduction,” every time I fell or stepped out of a landing. When I finally finished my program, I skipped the so-called Kiss and Cry area, walked right past my dad, and went straight to “Kiss and Despair.”
Come to think of it, I’m not sure if I’ve ever actually left.
Always Tweedledee
“Monica?” a woman asks. “Please, can you help me?” She is lying on her back, unable to get up by herself.
“Me, too,” another woman pleads. “Uh! I just can’t—oof!” She struggles to roll over.
It’s like being in a room full of turtles. Not that I’ve ever been around a turtle—never mind a roomful—but I’m guessing the Lamaze Lounge resembles a tank right about now.
Monica rushes over with a perky smile and gently helps them turn over so that they can climb up on their hands and knees. Childbirth class is so glamorous. We just learned that one of the birth coach’s jobs is to remind the mother to pee before she goes into hard labor. “Repeat after me,” Monica said. “Don’t forget to urinate!”
Childbirth is one of the few adult things that I can wait for. Gladly.
“I guess your massage is being cut short today,” Monica says to the two women. “Unless you want to be each other’s partners until your significant others return?”
The women look at each other, consider it for two seconds, and then shake their heads.
“Now, this is why I’m glad you’re here with me, Peggy,” my mother says as I gently rub her back. I’m tracing little circles, as instructed.
“Why?” I ask.
“Don’t you see what’s going on? Their husbands went out to get a drink of water and they’ve been gone for at least fifteen minutes,” she says. “And I’ll bet you anything they’re off in a bar somewhere having a beer.” She sounds very bitter, instead of peaceful, the way she’s supposed to feel during the massage session.
“Wait a second.” My eyes widen. “Is that what Dad did? Is that why you asked me to help you this time?”
“No, of course not,” she says.
“Oh.” I sigh. That would have been interesting.
“No. But when you were being born in Boston, and I was in labor for sixteen hours, your father went off and had a glass or two of California merlot,” Mom continues. “When he came back he had purple wine stains in the corners of his mouth. He tried to tell me it was grape juice from the cafeteria.”
“Dad? Really?” I laugh.
“Your father is not like other men,” she says with a smile. “However, he is still a man.”
I pause for a minute, reflecting on this. “Hey, did you ever scream and yell at him when you were giving birth?” I ask.
“Constantly,” she says. “When I had the twins? I told him to go back to the Ice Jubilee and get back into his Tweedledum costume and stay there.” She laughs. “Which is so silly, because he was never Tweedledum. He was always Tweedledee.”
“He was?” I ask. “I don’t remember that.”
“You were young. Dorothy’s age. It was a traveling show that went bankrupt,” Mom says. “Fortunately for us.” She takes deep breaths in and out, in and out. “But you know what? Sometimes I wish we were still on the road.”
“You do?” I ask.
“Sure. I mean, Lindville’s nice and all, but it’s not exactly unpredictable. You pretty much know what’s going to happen every day.”
“True,” I agree. How very, very, very true.
“Especially when it comes to the weather,” Mom says. “It’s sunny, it’s hot, it’s dry, it’s windy. It doesn’t rain enough. We don’t get good storms. You know? I miss predicting storms. That intense, hyped-up feeling at the studio and around-the-clock coverage and telling people stuff that really matters.” She glances over at the woman who critiqued her errant forecast. “Nothing exciting ever happens, so you stop thinking it’s going to. And then something does happen, and you miss it. Completely.”
I gaze at my mother with newfound respect. “I know what you mean.” I can’t believe she has thoughts like this. I thought I was the only one.
“I bet you’ll be really glad when you graduate and go off to college,” Mom says. “Then I can visit you. It’ll be so much fun!”
While she’s babbling about all the fun things we can do together, I get this picture of me leaving in a little over a year, standing by the minivan with all my duffel bags and some cardboard boxes with books, and a desk lamp and a clock and my posters. Torvill, Dean, Dorothy, and the new baby are all standing on the doorstep, happily waving good-bye to me as I head off to college. And in the picture, I am completely miserable and everyone else is smiling, and then they realize I’m not smiling and they rush over to hug me.
Maybe I don’t want to leave my family and get out of here. But how can I stay here? I’m not staying here. I’m not.
As I sit there massaging my mother’s back, I switch gears and start thinking about my plan to sprint out of Edison High next spring—my pre-college road trip. How am I ever going to pull it off? How am I ever going to get out of my endless list of responsibilities? How will I pay back my parents, get enough credits to graduate, buy a car, and find someone—preferably Steve, but I can’t picture him graduating early and I also can’t picture my parents allowing me to go on a three-month road trip with a boy—to go with me?
“Peggy?” My mother shifts on her floor mat. “You’re rubbing really, really hard.”
“Sorry!” I say. “I’ll stop.” I decide to stop trying to figure out my future, because it’s obviously painful for both of us, and start thinking about something a little more amusing. Like Charlotte’s idea to streak down the street during the rodeo parade. I picture Steve streaking naked.
Maybe not streaking completely naked, maybe wearing a little something. Like cowboy boots.
With spurs, of course. Definitely spurs.
The Crispest Crisp
At 6:55 a.m. the customers are all complaining to Denny, because gas prices have suddenly spiked fourteen cents. People are talking about politics and getting slightly irate. No one’s paying at the pump because they want to come in and personally complain. Denny just keeps repeating, “It’s not my fault.”
I try to lighten the mood by offering free coffee samples. People glare at me. Then I mention how I fell down that morning trying to get away from the Doberman, and how the dog looked so pleased with himself when I wiped out and landed on my butt.
Denny starts laughing. So does the woman buying cigarettes, a soda, and chocolate cupcakes. I’m glad I can provide some comic relief. It’s like some sort of strange cathartic release; gas prices are through the roof, but laugh at the clumsy girl and you’ll feel better! We do what we can here at Gas ’n Git.
The truck driver with the minty-fresh breath comes in an
d is nice to me, and I almost ask him if he’ll give me a ride so that I can get out of here. I don’t really care where he’s going. He could drop me at the next truck stop, and that would be all right.
“You have a nice day now,” he says as he stuffs a dollar into the tip tank, and picks up a few wintergreen mints for the road. “Don’t let this heat get to you. It’ll pass.”
I reach up to touch my forehead, which has sweaty bangs sticking to it. I hadn’t realized how much the heat was affecting me, or at least my hair. “Thanks,” I say, and I smile at him. “You, too.”
I’m always saying “You, too” at the wrong moments, when the thing I’m responding to (like “have a nice day now”) is already forgotten. I just told the nicest customer in the world that he would pass, too. But at least I made Denny happy because I said “U2.”
After he leaves, I start wondering what’s happened to World’s Worst Coffee Breath, who is now five minutes past schedule. I can’t believe I’m worrying about him.
“Hey, Kristi Yamaguchi. In all seriousness,” Denny says when suddenly the store is empty of miffed customers.
“In all seriousness, don’t call me Kristi,” I say. “That’s my mom’s name. Spelled differently, but still.”
“Okay, then. Miss Farrell. If you want, I can give you a ride to work some mornings,” Denny offers.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. I can just picture my dad’s expression as Denny roars into the driveway on his motorcycle at 5 a.m.
Then I notice Mike Kyle, of all people, walking into the store. He’s wearing a baseball cap backward and his brown hair is sticking out from underneath. His T-shirt says, LIVING ON THE EDGE. He wears cutoff khaki shorts and red flip-flops.
“Hey,” he says to me. “I didn’t know you worked this early.” He hands a credit card to Denny. “It’s my dad’s, he’s outside,” he explains. “Pump four.”
“Okay,” Denny says. “You know, we have pay at the pump.”
“I know,” Mike says.
He looks at me, as if I’m supposed to talk next. So I do.
“So. Did you just finish your paper route?” I ask.
“Nah, I finished it at five-thirty. Now my dad’s driving me around to look for a new car.”
“Cool. But why this early?” I ask.
“He says we have to scope the lots before the salespeople show up,” Mike says. “So we can plan what we’re going to offer.” He rolls his eyes.
“But you’re getting a car,” I say, trying not to seethe outright with jealousy. Seething is very unattractive. Why I want to be attractive to Mike, I don’t know. Maybe he’ll mention to Steve that he saw me, and I wouldn’t want to come off as a jealous seether. “Car shopping’s a good thing,” I say. I peer outside at Mike’s father. The car at pump four is a teal minivan. Mr. Kyle must not be living on the edge, the way his son is.
“For him. He’s getting a Corvette. He’s trading in the Camaro and the van,” Mike says as he signs the receipt. “Then he’s getting me some cheap old beater.”
I shrug. “It’s a car. Right?”
“I guess,” Mike admits with a shrug. He smiles at me. “Don’t look a horse in the mouth when you get a gift and all that, right?”
“I definitely wouldn’t look inside any horses’ mouths,” I say. “Really questionable dental hygiene.”
Mike laughs, just as a familiar silver Lexus screeches to a stop in the No Parking zone. Speaking of dental hygiene.
“Now there’s a nice ride,” Mike says. “Well, gotta go, see you!”
After he walks out, Denny turns to me, just as World’s Worst Coffee Breath is walking in. “You’re not actually . . . friends with that guy. Are you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Why?”
“Let’s just say . . . he’s not the crispest crisp in the chip bucket.” Denny swipes a credit card through the cash register reader.
“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re mixing your really bad British metaphors,” I tell him.
“Just aspiring to be like your friend Mr. Western Wear,” Denny says under his breath.
“Good morning!” World’s Worst Coffee Breath greets me as he strides happily up to the counter.
“Hi. The usual?” I smile at him. I quickly pour him a giant Tanker-size cup from the new tank of High Octane Blend. “Did you know we have mint-flavored coffee?” I ask as I ring up his purchase. “Actually, I think it might be mint-chocolate. I’m not totally sure, but I could make some up for you.”
“Oh, no, thanks,” he says. “I hate flavored coffees. They just get in the way.”
“You know, sir,” Denny says, coming over to us. “We’re having a special today. Buy one coffee, get a pack of spearmint gum for, uh, fifty cents.” He holds up a handful of gum.
“That’s a special?” Coffee Breath asks.
“Usually gum is sixty-five, so it’s a deal,” Denny says. “Definitely a deal.”
“Hmm. Maybe next time. The special runs for how long?” Coffee Breath asks.
“Indefinitely,” Denny says. “Indefinitely a deal is what I should have said, actually.”
Coffee Breath laughs, and I turn to Denny and smile before making two lattes for the next customer.
After I finish that, and after Coffee Breath leaves, Denny and I both rush over to the door, racing each other. We fling it open and stand outside taking huge gulps of fresh air, before we realize this is a big mistake. You don’t gulp air here in Lindville. You sip it.
Steve, What’s So Funny?
A few days later, I go to meet Charlotte at her Shady Prairies job. She and Ray and I are going to the Lot in search of Steve. Ray doesn’t know about the searching-for-Steve part.
I wait in the kitchen while Charlotte goes out to serve her last tray. She walks back into the kitchen with a trayful of untouched dishes of tan goop. “Everyone has to have their butterscotch pudding, except for when they all of a sudden decide they don’t like pudding. Then they try to tell you how they’ve never liked butterscotch pudding, which is so ridiculous, because they ate it on Tuesday. But not according to them.”
I shrug. “So what do you do?”
“I stand there and tell them they’re not allowed to go batty on me, I don’t care how old they are.”
“How old are they?” I ask.
“Anywhere from sixty-five to a hundred,” Charlotte says. “I have this one table, my favorite table, of old ladies who are ninety plus. They still dress up for dinner and they have like, drinks first, and then after dessert they go outside and smoke, even though this entire area is supposed to be a No Smoking zone. I love them.”
“They sound fun. But you know what’s weird?” I say. “Why don’t they move to Phoenix or Miami, or somewhere else where everyone retires, somewhere that’s a little more glamorous? You know what I mean?”
“They must like it here,” Charlotte says as she scrapes uneaten butterscotch pudding into the garbage can. Clumps of it cling to the side of the trash bag.
“So is that how long it takes to like Lindville? Sixty-five years?” I joke.
Charlotte and I look at each other and start laughing.
“I don’t think I can wait that long. I mean, I really don’t,” I say.
After Charlotte finishes serving all her tables, we go to find Ray, who’s a dishwasher. He goes to Edison, like me, and is usually hanging out with Steve’s crowd, so Charlotte and I decided the four of us are meant to hang out this summer.
“This is Fleming,” Charlotte introduces me.
“Yeah, I know,” Ray says. “Hey.” He runs a hand through his short black hair, and I check out his arms. They are definitely nice—why hadn’t I ever noticed before? Ray takes off his dirty apron and tosses it into a plastic hamper. “So, we going to the Lot?” Ray puts his arms around Charlotte.
“Where else?” Charlotte says, snuggling up to him.
“I don’t know. I was thinking maybe L.A. New York. Omaha,” I say.
Charlott
e laughs. “Yeah, okay, Fleming. Whatever you say.”
An hour later, I’m at the Lot sitting on the tailgate of Ray’s pickup with Charlotte, Ray, and Mike. Steve and Jacqui are a few cars away, leaning against someone’s old convertible, inseparable once again.
This is so not how it was supposed to be.
There are clouds covering the sky, and whenever there are clouds at night, they trap the air here. It might be gorgeous and sunny and breezy all day, and you’d forget you were in the Penned Cattle Capital of the World. Then it gets cloudy, a few drops of rain spit from the sky, and suddenly the air sinks down over the town like a collapsing hot-air balloon.
But the smelly night is the least of my problems.
Mike has been telling Ray about his new car for about ten minutes. I haven’t really been listening, though I did hear it was a yellow Geo Metro with 180,000 miles on it and a purple Princess sticker that he hasn’t been able to pry off the bumper.
Charlotte and I were doing our French homework until we lost daylight. We tried to tell Mike and Ray that we were conjugating verbs and they started making jokes about conjugal visits and we haven’t really wanted to talk to them since.
But now Mike gives up talking to Ray and turns to me. “So what kind of air freshener do you think I should get?” he asks.
“Air freshener?” I ask.
“For the car. The person who had it before was like a serious smoker,” Mike says. “I’ve got to kill that smell.”
I start to smile, glad that Mike and I at least have something in common. We both hate stink. But then, who doesn’t? “Well, what are your options?”
“I’m trying to decide between new car and strawberry,” Mike says.
“Hmm.” I was thinking more along the lines of tropical breeze. “I’d go for new car,” I say. “For the irony factor.”
Mike looks a little confused. “But I really like strawberry,” he says.
“Well.” I shrug. Strawberry seems kind of feminine, but whatever—I really don’t care. “You could always get both,” I tell him. “But then your car might really stink.”
Unforgettable Summer Page 25