I don’t even look at the menu. “Do you want to do the usual?” I ask Liz. We always get an order of beef lo mein and egg rolls to share.
“Sure.” She stares at her cell phone.
“So what’s going on?” Her day couldn’t possibly be worse than mine.
“I’ve left Harry two messages and he hasn’t called me back yet.”
“That’s it?” This is so not like Liz. She must’ve fallen for him hard. “When did you last talk to him?”
“Last night. Right before dinner.”
The waiter comes over and takes our order. He places a bowl of crispy noodles on the table, so I dig in. Liz doesn’t budge.
“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since you last spoke,” I say. “Maybe he’s busy.”
“But he said he had the day off. Besides, he was supposed to call me back last night.”
“Maybe he got busy later.” I grab a handful of noodles. “I’m sure there’s nothing to spaz about.”
Liz pulls one noodle from the haystack and bites it slowly. “Yeah, but he sounded weird when we spoke, like he wasn’t busy but didn’t want to talk to me either.”
I reach over and shake her. “Liz, listen to yourself. You’re not making any sense. Remember, you’re the girl that doesn’t take crap from anyone.”
She laughs. “Yeah, you’re right. I must sound pretty pathetic.”
The waiter brings our waters and egg rolls. “Your food will be out in a few minutes. Anything else I can get you?”
“A new boyfriend,” Liz says dryly.
The waiter opens his mouth but doesn’t speak. I’m sure this is not the response he was expecting.
“Don’t listen to her.” I wave off her comment with my hand. He doesn’t, and runs away.
“So now I’m crazy and a loser.” Liz shakes her head.
“Oh no, you can’t be worse off than me.”
“Why? What happened?” Liz douses her egg roll with duck sauce.
“Ugh, I don’t even know where to begin, but basically I was having a nice conversation with Graham at the gallery when my dad showed up late. I was pissed at him because he sold my favorite painting behind my back. I sort of blew up in front of Graham. I got so mad that I left the two of them there. Alone.”
A little ooo escapes from Liz’s mouth.
“I told you it was bad. He must think I’m a big fat baby.”
The guy at the table next to us is feeding his girlfriend soup. He even blows it cool before it reaches her lips. And he’s cute, too. God, some people have all the luck.
“Did you say anything really obnoxious?” Liz asks.
“It’s all one big blur, but Graham was right there when I came down on my dad. And I think he has a girlfriend and I made fun of her name.”
Liz’s eyes bug out. “Your dad has a girlfriend? Wow, that’s great. I mean, for him.” She takes a bite of her egg roll.
In the five years Liz and I have been friends, she’s never seen my dad with a woman. Sure, he’s gone on a few dates, but nothing worth mentioning. So I guess, technically, she’s right—this is good news. For him.
“Yeah, I saw her one time at the gallery. Her name’s Helga.”
“What is she, a four-hundred-pound mud wrestler?” Liz laughs.
“Actually, I hate to admit it, but she’s not bad looking. Petite with short blond hair. Pretty buff. About my dad’s age.”
“Really? Nice to meet you, I’m Helga,” Liz says in a breathless voice.
“What a coincidence, because I’m Helga too.” I hold out my hand and make kissy sounds.
Then we both crack up, big time. Tiny bits of egg roll fly out of Liz’s mouth and I spray the table with crispy noodle residue.
I wipe my face with a napkin. “I bet Helga has better table manners than us.”
Liz’s cell vibrates on the table. “Maybe that’s her calling right now.” She looks at the phone and a big smile spreads across her face. “It’s Harry,” she whispers, like he can hear her.
“Well, answer it.”
She pushes the phone aside. “No, he can wait. I’m busy.”
The waiter slides the lo mein onto the table and gives us new plates.
“Are you sure you don’t want to call him back? I don’t mind.” I spear the tower of lo mein with my chopsticks and manage to get some noodles onto my plate.
“No, I want to hear about Graham, how it was before your dad interrupted you guys.”
“Oh my God.” I put my chopsticks down. “It was magical. I felt totally relaxed with him, like I’ve known him all my life. We talked about deep stuff, my mom, his family, and he looked hot, even in purple.”
“He wore purple?”
“Just his T-shirt, but on the purpleness scale, it was Barney purple.”
“Barney?”
“You know, Barney. He’s your friend, he comes from your imagination … ”
Liz crosses her eyes. “You’re weird.”
“Me? Weird? Don’t tell me you don’t remember that show.”
“There are some things I try to block out.” Liz digs into her noodles. “So maybe purple is the new color for the season. I mean, a few years ago who would’ve thought guys would be wearing pink.”
“Yeah, maybe. Purple is the color of royalty.” I shrug. “So, do you think I should dye my hair maroon to get him to notice me?”
“No more hair dye, Princess Cassia.” Liz shakes her hand. “Put some makeup on and you’ll be all set.”
“That’s if he’ll still talk to me.”
“Call him tonight and ask him out to dinner tomorrow.”
“I dunno. What if he says no?”
“Then I’ll cast an evil spell on him and make his dick stay purple forever.”
I nearly choke on my food. “Liz, you’re so gross sometimes. But I love you anyway.”
“Thanks, I try.” Her phone goes off again and this time I make sure that she answers it.
meat pie ufo
It dawns on me, when I crutch into the condo at seven thirty after eating with Liz, that Dad said we’d have dinner together tonight. I never answered him, but still, you’d think he’d be here, slaving away in the kitchen. I’m stuffed, so it’s a good thing he’s not here. Plus, I’m pissed at him.
Only when I get out of the shower at eight thirty do I realize he is home. I put on a pair of crimson pajamas, actually the top from one set and the bottom from another, and plunk down in front of the TV.
“Ah, ma jolie.” Dad’s standing in front of me, holding a spatula and wearing the apron I bought him last Christmas. Kiss the Cook. Nice try.
I don’t feel pretty, so I don’t answer him. Instead, my eyes are locked in a dead heat with Will Jackson from the new show Splitsville until he turns to kiss his girlfriend.
Dad finally gets the picture and heads back to the kitchen. “Dinner will be ready in five, ma cherie.”
I look at the clock on the DVD player: 8:50. Does he think I’ve waited this long to eat?
As the credits are rolling on Splitsville, Dad calls me to the kitchen. The table in there only has two seats, so I guess there’s no chance someone else is going to save me.
Even though I’m still pretty full from China Moon, the food does smell good, so I shuffle over to the kitchen without my crutches.
I pick at my ravioli and watch Dad slurp down his.
Finally he looks up from his plate. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“It’s a little late.” I point to the microwave clock. “I ate with Liz at five.”
“Yeah, I tried to get out of the gallery early today, but it got very busy.”
“Sure.” I make an impression in the ravioli’s skin with the tines of my fork.
Dad gets up to refill his plate. “So, did you see all the construction going on at the new high-rise? Those apartments are going to be svelte.”
“Svelte?” He’s definitely trying too hard to make everything seem normal when really we’re less than two weeks away from M
om’s fortieth birthday. Which, I just realized, happens to be on the same day as our most important basketball game—the game that decides whether we make the finals or not.
“Yes, it means … ”
I clank my fork down onto the plate. “I know what svelte means, but nobody uses that stupid word anymore. It’s embarrassing.”
“You can take a man out of France, but not France out of the man.” Dad laughs so hard I think he’s going to pop a vein in his neck.
I cover my face with my hands and shake my head. Urggh. What does Graham see in him?
Dad holds up a ravioli with his fork. “Ravioli is an amazing thing. If you let it boil a second too long, it will burst, and a second too short, it’s not edible. And it’s no good the second day.”
I push my fork deeper into the ravioli’s skin. I pierce through to the other side. “Your daughter’s no good the second day either,” I blurt out.
Dad’s patting his chin with a cloth napkin, and then it just falls to the ground. “Listen, Cassia. Is this about the painting in the closet?”
“No, it’s about the skeletons in the closet.”
Dad’s jaw drops. I can’t believe I said that. I can hear Liz cheering me on in the background: You go, girl! But I can hear Lucien in the other corner: Your dad loves you more than you’ll ever know. But I’m tired of this charade. It’s bad enough growing up without a mom, but it’s even worse with only a few memories to hold on to.
Dad struggles for words. “Ahh, Cassia, I … I … I … ”
Then the doorbell buzzes. Whoever it is got past security downstairs.
Dad eyes the door, then me. “Just answer it,” I say, and get up from the table. I pick up his ravioli-stained napkin on the way out and throw it in the trash. Who has time to bleach it clean, anyway?
–––––
I turn on my stereo to drown out our mystery guest. Even if it’s the cable guy, I don’t want to see him. I think of calling Graham, and every reason not to. He hates me. He’s watching reruns of Cops. He’s having quiet time with his mom after his little brother goes to bed. There’s a purple sale at Macy’s … I stop after that one and dial his number. At this point my day couldn’t possibly suck any more than it already has.
“Psychic hotline,” the person on the other end answers.
“Huh?” I plunk down at my desk. “Oh, sorry, wrong number.”
I’m about to hang up but the voice stops me. “Cassia? It’s me. Graham.” He laughs. Guess I threw my sense of humor away with the cloth napkin.
“Oh, right,” I say, flustered. “I wanted to apologize for today. Sorry I blew up at my dad in front of you.”
“Don’t worry, I have parents too.” I hear a soft knocking on my bedroom door. What happened to the mystery guest? I pretend not to hear. Then Dad whispers, “It was just Mr. Alvarez from 1201.”
Phew. Hell-ga doesn’t have an in with the doorman.
“Right.” I swallow hard. “I only have one parent.”
“I didn’t mean … ”
“It’s okay. I know you were just trying to make me feel better.” I hear Dad clomping back down the hall.
“It was stupid of me to show you the painting in the closet.”
I straighten out the collection of ceramic dogs on my bureau. I arrange them in order from smallest to biggest. “I’m glad you did. My dad and I have gotten by for so long mentioning my mom as little as possible. I’m sick of it. I want to know everything about her.”
“Well, your dad seemed pretty shaken up. Don’t be mad, but I told him you were upset about the unfinished painting in the closet. He kept on saying he thinks about finishing it all the time.”
How can I be mad at Graham? He was only trying to help.
“I’m not mad.” I pick up a pencil from my desk and start doodling hearts up and down the margins of my notebook.
He takes a deep breath. “Good, because I didn’t know what else to say. Lucien came by after you left and they were talking about a time when all four of you went to the beach. Your dad took a whole roll of film of you and your mom. Your mom got so annoyed with the camera that you guys threw wet sand at him and chased him all over the beach.”
I laugh. “We packed the wet balls of sand tight and called them meat pies.” I scribble a meat pie on the page and a smaller one next to it. They look more like UFOs.
“You’re making me hungry,” Graham says.
“I can do that to people,” I laugh.
“I knew there was something different about you.”
“For real?”
“Yeah, sure. So many girls I’ve known turn out to be superficial. All they care about is looks. You’re much deeper than that. Nice.”
I’ll ignore the “so many girls” part and focus on me. He said I’m deep and nice. “Thanks, I think.”
“Trust me, it’s a compliment.”
My heart beats fast. It’s now or never. “Hey, do you want to grab a bite to eat tomorrow?”
“Where?” he asks.
“Well, I haven’t thought about it, but … ” China Moon, third table from the back where the light is dim, but we can still stare into each other’s eyes. The perfect table for a kiss, far enough away from the kitchen and right in front of the statue of a Chinese dragon. Somehow I think this may bring good fortune. “Let’s say China Moon, tomorrow at seven.”
“Oh, man, I totally forgot, I can’t go … ”
But before he can finish, I cut him off. “Maybe another time.” I kick the side of my desk. Ouch, not a good idea when you’re barefoot and your other foot is already damaged goods. I should’ve listened to my inner voice. I’m not his type. I only met him because of my dad, so why would he be interested in me?
“How about Wednesday? Same time, same place?”
So maybe there is an inkling of hope for us, Cassia and Graham. Cinderella and Prince Charming. Romeo and Juliet. Vanilla and Chocolate.
“Great,” I say quickly, before he takes it back.
I can’t believe he said yes, just like that. I was really beginning to think it was all about my dad, that I should’ve started off the conversation by luring him with promises of a sneak peek of Dad’s early sketches, his college transcripts, and his prize possession (an autographed Picasso lithograph).
I hang up the phone and stare down at the piece of paper. At the meat pie UFOs. My smile seems to stretch for miles. “Mom, you’d really like Graham,” I say aloud, just in case one of those flying saucers can transport the message to her.
mud stains
The best thing about today so far is that at my checkup, the doctor told me I can ditch the crutches. I don’t have the green light to play ball yet, but he thinks in another few days, I’ll be back on the court. That means when I meet Graham tomorrow for dinner, I don’t have to look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame hanging over a set of poles.
I can’t believe we’re really going on a date. Liz said it’s definitely a date, even if I asked him. She said the definition of a date is a girl and guy, who like each other, going out alone. But I said, how do I know the feelings are mutual, and she said he wouldn’t have said yes if he didn’t like me. But I’m not too sure. We’re talking about the same guy who would kill to share a burger with my dad.
This morning, I managed to tip-crutch out of the condo and avoid Dad. I didn’t feel like rehashing where we left off at dinner last night or, even worse, at the gallery.
–––––
I get off the elevator and fumble for my keys when the condo door swings open. “Hey, Dad,” I say before I can stop myself. It’s one in the afternoon. I thought he’d be gone by now.
He looks up a second before slamming into me. “Oh, I didn’t see you. You’re off the crutches. That’s great.”
“Yup.” I wiggle my leg. “Surprised you noticed.”
“Wonderful.” He gives me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll catch up with you later, ma cherie. I’m running late for a lunch appointment.” He holds the door open fo
r me.
“With who?” I don’t budge from the threshold of the door.
His cell starts playing the chicken dance and he quickly flips it open. Who set that ringtone for him?
I’m still standing in the doorway, waiting for an answer. He walks down the hallway and throws me a backwards wave. I don’t even know why I asked. The answer is obvious.
–––––
I veg out on the couch until it’s time to leave for ceramics. Since I’m trying to get my ankle to heal as fast as possible, I’m stuck taking the bus. I’m really looking forward to class today, “to get to know the wheel” as Mr. Parker would say.
With the bus schedule, you can either be early for things or late. I choose early. “Hey, Mr. P, I mean, Eli, mind if I get started on the wheel?” I say as soon as I enter the art room.
He looks up from his computer screen. “Ah, Cassia. Sure, be my guest.”
I peek over his screen. “No Photoshop transformations today?”
He laughs. “Nope. I’m writing a recommendation for an old student of mine. He’s applying for an artist’s grant. Lyle’s a talented guy. He’s going to have a couple pieces on display at La Reverie Gallery next month.” He starts walking with me toward the back. “Some great works on display there. Ever been?”
“Sounds familiar,” I say. Only about half the works belong to my dad. I give him a long hard stare. Mr. Parker couldn’t have bought Lady in Red, could he? I don’t want to talk about my dad, not now especially.
“See, I’m off the crutches.” I smile.
He looks me up and down. “Indeed you are. You’ll be back in top form in no time. Maybe even ready to play some ball next week?”
So they talked? Well, duh. Coach Parker is his wife. “Yeah. I kind of miss being on the court. Coach is good, too.”
“Isn’t she.” He laughs deep. “Ceramics and basketball have a lot in common.”
“They do?” I grab an apron, then sit down at the wheel and stretch my leg out. The pain from walking on it has kicked in, but it’s not nearly as bad as when I first hurt it.
“Sure. You need good control for both activities. Keep your eye on the ball. Keep your eye on the clay … ”
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