“No.”
“A chef de partie?
“No.”
“A saucier?”
“No.”
“A potager?”
“No.”
“A poissonier?”
“No.”
“A entremetier?”
“No.”
“A garde manger?”
“No.”
“Well, what rank have you achieved in a kitchen?”
“Cook,” she says, without hesitating.
His ponytail disappears into the walk-in fridge and does not come out.
Next.
* * *
• • •
“What’s an entremetier, anyway?” I ask. We’re on the curb. I can feel a blister forming on my heel. The eggs from earlier have burnt up and I have a scorching cauldron in my stomach where lunch should be. A food cart passes by, trailing a delicious smog of salt and burger. Cruel! Three meals a day has turned into one and a half. The fog is starting to thin, leaving us exposed.
“I don’t know.”
“But you said you weren’t one?”
“Yeah.”
“Mom! Maybe you were and just don’t know it.”
I thought she’d hear this as I intended it—annoyed—but she looks at me and her face alters for a second, her eyes widening to reveal the blue that’s always there if you look hard enough. And I swear, in that second, she’s remembering something good and wants to tell me about it, but then her eyes dim to gray, her face hardens again, a door closing.
“You keep that faith, kid. Keep that faith.”
* * *
• • •
Ten restaurants. Three auditions. No job.
Downhill should be a relief, but it’s not. The tips of my toes rub against the fronts of my shoes. Now I’ll have blisters on both ends.
How long will this take? What will be right enough?
I’d give anything for peanut butter right now and sticky heat that makes shivering impossible. The sky has cleared, but the wind is still slicing cold.
More than ever I want to know why we had to come to San Francisco for this. We could’ve stayed put in Chicago and looked for something new. There were plenty of restaurants there . . . even in our neighborhood . . . some of them were even getting tablecloths. She could’ve taken as much time as she needed looking for a new job while she kept her old one. I could’ve helped. I could’ve researched candidates at the library.
At a busy intersection, we stop and wait for the light to turn green. I can see rows and rows of houses at the bottom of the hill, and behind them the bay spreading out, blue and sparkly. It doesn’t seem right to be living in a van in a city this rich, this dazzling.
I don’t think Mom imagined how badly this could go for us. I think she only pictured good. I can imagine how bad, though. I read Oliver Twist in fourth grade. I can imagine a lot.
“What about the falafel place? The one we ate at? The cook there liked you,” I say. “You could do that job easy, right?” It’s not fancy, but it’s better than nothing. “Mom?”
“What?” She sounds gravelly.
I pause a second, then grab her shoulder and pull her back to face me. It’s like trying to move a tree stump. “He would hire you. I know he would. And he seems nice.”
She rolls out of my grip. “Absolutely not.” It’s a whisper with a knife cutting through it. “I didn’t come all the way out here for that.”
What did falafel ever do to us? The light turns green and we cross. She’s walking so fast, I nearly lose sight of her halfway down the next block. “Mom!” I call, stopping.
She backtracks and kneels right there on the sidewalk, facing me. Her expression is—I’m not sure—like someone begging, but also demanding. “I need more time, kid.”
Even kneeling, she’s almost as tall as me.
“How much more?”
She just stares. “You said you’d be patient,” she says, finally.
“I lied!”
“Jeanne Ann, you know I’m good for it.”
I do know that. I do know that. No one works harder than Mom. But what if she’s wrong? What if more time isn’t what she needs? What if . . .
I’ve only ever known employed Mom, responsible Mom, can’t-get-ahead-but-won’t-fall-behind Mom. But that’s not who she’s always been. There was a version of her, before me, who made big mistakes. Who was reckless and tore things down.
“A week, tops,” she says.
“Okay,” I say. But I don’t want to. “Okay” is not what I feel.
JUNE 21
Cal
“Hi.” I wave from across the street—big circles.
Hi, she mouths, raising her hand and resting it back in her lap.
I feel little sparks in my fingertips.
I’m at the bottom of my driveway, dragging garbage cans back up to the house before dinner.
Jeanne Ann’s in a lawn chair, twenty feet away, facing my house, cradling a book.
She waved back.
She points her royal chin at a spot just over my shoulder.
I turn. The bearded man who lives in the camper behind Jeanne Ann’s is pushing a grocery cart full of green bottles straight for me.
He’s dressed all in black today, beard and hair combed, face shaded by a black baseball cap.
“Thanks for the flowers,” he booms as he passes, then swings a sudden right into the Paglios’ driveway.
My legs go soft. I want to run, but I’m already in the safest place—home.
Last night he Morsed: “E.N.O.U.G.H. W.I.T.H. T.H.E. F.L.O.W.E.R. I.N.T.I.M.I.D.A.T.I.O.N.” and “M.A.Y.B.E. W.E. D.O. N.E.E.D. T.O. T.A.L.K.,” but now he’s thanking me?
I didn’t even know he knew I’d delivered the flowers.
What would we talk about?
Now he’s walking up Mrs. Paglio’s driveway. He’s smiling. Maybe he plans to confront her but be nice about it. Maybe he’s bypassing me and going straight to the flower source. I try to make out what’s in the cart. It looks like bottled barf.
The Paglios must have people over. Their horseshoe driveway is clogged with cars, each one displaying a blue PROUD MEMBER OF THE MARINA BEAUTIFICATION COMMITTEE sticker. If it’s a committee meeting, they’re not going to like this visitor at all.
He reaches the Paglios’ side gate, pulls down his cap, and pushes through to the backyard. “Smoothie delivery!” he announces. “Did someone order smoothies?”
I let go of the garbage lid and spin back toward Jeanne Ann. But she’s not in the lawn chair anymore. She’s in the grass, running after a Bumblebee armed with a double-action Super Soaker.
I can’t help it—I smile.
Jeanne Ann
“What’s his deal?” I say, squeezing water out of my shirt. We’re standing next to the Carrot. The bundle of sticks—okay, fine, Cal—is facing the water, and I’m facing the houses across the street. Mom missed the whole thing. She’s out buying more peanut butter and pineapple with our remaining funds.
“Yeah, he’s so fast,” Cal says, gasping, hands on his knees. Cal did not catch Bad Chuck—possibly because Cal was having too much fun getting wet, possibly because he looks like a warped windmill when he runs, possibly because the camp counselors tackled Bad Chuck first.
“I don’t mean the kid,” I say, staring at the backyard Sandy entered.
Cal turns to see what I see. “Oh, yeah. What’s he doing over there?”
“He’s gonna get himself arrested.” No wonder no one wants us here. My hairy neighbor is making house calls.
“The Paglios. Yeah. They’re gonna freak out. They’re not fans of—you know—the v—”
“I think he steals their flowers too,” I say, and nod to the flower pot on the curb. Some kind of pink poofy thing that’s sa
gging from neglect. The lady across the street has flower pots just like it lining her driveway. “Who steals flowers and then doesn’t water them? Who steals flowers and then puts them on display right across from where he stole them?”
Cal coughs. He’s moved closer to the Carrot and is sorta tilted awkwardly over the hood and windshield, like a bent hanger. “Huh. Um. Yeah, that’s a weird thing to do. Oh. Hey, your book!” He’s just noticed Jane Eyre, bloated with Super Soaker water, clutched in my arms. His face, usually a little loose and goofy, pulls into a surprised snarl. I didn’t know he had it in him. “That gap-toothed—”
“It’s still readable,” I interrupt, though I’m not entirely sure. Mrs. Jablonsky would be chewing her knuckles if she saw this—water is a librarian’s worst nightmare. “I mean, Jane Eyre is more durable than other leading ladies . . . She survived Mr. Rochester.”
Cal looks confused. Not a Jane Eyre reader, clearly.
I pull open my door, climb in, roll down the window. It’s warm enough. I will sit here and dry by evaporation. There’s a new twenty-dollar bill under the windshield wiper. I reach around and grab it, flicking a glance at Cal, who’s thankfully looking away. I don’t know who’s leaving this money and I don’t want to know and I don’t want anyone asking. I shove it into my pocket and am about to say “See ya” when a lady with a bandana tied around her head walks up to Sandy’s camper, unlocks the side door, and lets herself in. She’s carrying two heavy-looking plastic buckets.
“Who’s that?” I whisper.
“Dunno,” Cal says. His eyes have gotten bigger, if that’s possible. “But I think I’ve seen her before.”
“What’s in the buckets?”
He shrugs. “Dunno.”
We watch her slide shut the door and disappear inside. We stare, waiting for her to reappear.
“You should keep an eye on him,” I say, breaking the silence. I appreciate the food Sandy gives us—to supplement the peanut butter—but where does it come from?
“Me?” Cal stands a little taller. He’s wearing a new brown ensemble today with bright yellow socks, dotted with lightning bolts that match his bow tie. “Sure. Okay.” He brushes his bangs to the side; they fall right back into his eyes. “Do you . . . you don’t think he’s dangerous?”
I shrug for an answer. It seems silly. Sandy, dangerous? He still hasn’t come back from his trip across the street, though. Maybe the lady in the bandana is his pickpocket partner? Maybe the people across the street are future victims he’s casing?
Cal looks lost as I crank the window closed between us, like he doesn’t know the way home. I am tempted to ask if he’s okay, but then, there it is again—bacon—as though a hot pan of fried . . . “Pig,” I say, stopping mid-crank. The window is only halfway up. I inhale a big breath.
“What?”
“Can you smell that?”
Cal raises his nose. “I dunno. What? Maybe.”
I exit the van and sniff my way west, toward the water. Cal follows. I stop in front of a large wood shed marked PRIVATE: MARINA BEAUTIFICATION COMMITTEE GARDEN SUPPLY ANNEX, which shares a wall with a larger brick building marked SAN FRANCISCO CITY AND COUNTY FIELD MAINTENANCE OUTBUILDING B. The restrooms we use are on the far side of this building. The bacon scent is strongest near the shed.
“You can’t maybe smell bacon,” I say. The wind shifts and I lose the scent, which is a relief. It’s like an invasion when it comes. I get so I can’t think.
“We’re vegetarian,” Cal says, like he’s really sorry this time. He sinks deeper into his pockets.
“Right.” I glance across the street again. All that house and no bacon cheeseburgers. Jeez, that’s sad.
We watch a group of shirtless guys jog by, muscles bouncing, sweat flying. They look ridiculous. Cal kicks a rock in their direction after they pass, then pinches the fleshy part of his arm, near the elbow. He tries to flex his biceps while squatting and gritting his teeth.
“Keep your shirt on, please,” I say, swatting him on the arm where his muscle should be.
JUNE 21
Cal
She’s not mad at me.
She touched my arm.
I flexed my nonexistent muscle in front of Jeanne Ann and she touched my arm and laughed. Nice-laughed. Not mean-laughed.
I didn’t even think—I just did it. And it was okay.
I hold on to this memory as I finish replacing the batteries in the flashlight—my hands are all sweaty—and point it toward the window.
I take a deep breath. I tap out:
“I. M.E.A.N. Y.O.U. N.O. H.A.R.M.”
This takes me ten minutes to Morse, not because it’s hard, but because I’m not sure it’s a wise idea.
We learned about appeasement in sixth-grade world history with Mr. Ruiz; it’s the military strategy of giving your enemies what they want so they’ll leave you alone. It almost never works.
The bearded guy in the red van receives and replies: “Y.O.U. A.R.E. S.O. F.U.N.N.Y.”
JUNE 22
Jeanne Ann
I wake up to whispers. It’s early morning. Gray dark, with pops of light from the broken streetlamp above us. I rub my ear. It’s sore, throbbing, and kinda itchy. I think I slept on it wrong. Everything feels a little sore, sleeping on this deflated mattress.
“Hang in there.”
“Got to.”
The whispers float in through the window on my side of the van, which is cracked to let in air. I scoot toward it, lift my eyes to the glass. I recognize the wide rectangular shoulders in the nearest lawn chair. I look over my shoulder at Mom’s sleeping bag, empty. In the lawn chair facing me: Sandy. They’re both stretched long, ankles crossed. Mom is sipping something. Sandy’s hands rest on his belly. He chuckles. They could be old friends talking low over a campfire. Comfy. Except there’s no campfire and they’re not friends.
“I can’t tell her,” Mom says. A car backfires. I miss half a sentence. “I’m asking too much already,” she adds.
I slip out of my bag in search of my shoes. I don’t like this. Not one bit. Sandy’s probably talking her into something. Bad enough we’re burying bodies for him on Sunday. Maybe he’s killed someone across the street and was visiting the body yesterday . . . I roll my eyes at myself. Ridiculous. I’ve met scarier librarians than Sandy. But still. She shouldn’t be talking to him like . . . this.
“You just got ahead of yourself,” Sandy says. “First rule of business, don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“You’re generous,” Mom says.
“Hmph. Tell my wife.”
I pull on my right shoe. Wife?
A chair scrapes the pavement, feet shuffle. “Keep an eye on things—her—for me?”
I freeze.
I hear Mom’s hand on the door. I don’t know what I want to say yet. I tear off my shoe and slide back into the sleeping bag.
“Hey,” she says, grabbing her purse. “You okay?”
How does she know I’m awake?
“Yes. No.” I turn on my flashlight, get it close up to her face. “When can we move in with Sam, again?”
“Oh.” She opens her purse like she’s looking for something. “I told you. Soon.”
“You’re sure?” It’s all that matters. If real walls are in our future, I can handle anything.
She climbs into the front seat, adjusts the rearview mirror. She never does say she’s sure.
JUNE 22
Cal
“You can’t serve customers from down there, Cal.” Mac is standing over me with needle-nose pliers she’s been using to take apart a toaster. I look up, but it hurts my neck, so I stare at her pink clogs instead.
“There’s a”—I lower my voice—“there’s a person in line I don’t want to see me.” I’m sitting cross-legged behind the Greenery counter, facing the display window. Servers are tripping ov
er me. Coffee grounds are falling in my hair. This is the best hiding place I could come up with on short notice: The bearded guy from the red van—who Morses weird stuff and seems to know all about me—is in line, five people back from the counter. This is his second time here in three days. I’ve tried pretending it’s a coincidence. “I didn’t have time to hide in the bathroom,” I say.
“I don’t think hiding from customers is the gig your mom had in mind for you.” Mac squats for a face-to-face. “She gave me a list. You sitting on the floor is definitely not on it.”
“I’ll just be here another minute. What’s he doing now?”
“Who?”
“The guy. In line.”
“There are ten guys in line.”
“The hairy one. With the suitcase.”
“Cal.”
“Hey—I know that girl.” I point outside, beyond the display window. “That’s Jeanne Ann.” Right there, behind the glass. “Jeanne Ann!” I reach past the pastries and knock on the window. Did she follow my arrows?
“You know a girl?” Mac peers around the croissants to see.
I begin waving. Then harder.
“She sees me.” I try to keep the excitement out of my voice, but it’s hard.
Mac rises and pats my head. “Never mind. As you were, soldier.”
Jeanne Ann
“Do you know that boy?” Mom says. “Hey, you okay? You seem upset.”
“I’m fine.” I don’t feel like sharing. I wish Mom hadn’t followed me. She keeps reaching for my hand and squeezing, like she’s asking for forgiveness for something. I think this is related to what I overheard earlier this morning. I’m not squeezing back.
I woke up five minutes ago to Sandy whistling the Star-Spangled Banner in his “living room.” He had his rolling suitcase and his wide grin, and when he started down the sidewalk on one of his “errands,” I just—I followed him. Now I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of a wall of glass that separates me from pastries that might as well be jewels. Cal’s in there, on the other side of the glass, flapping like a penguin, and Sandy too, rifling through his wallet unaware that he’s got a tail.
Parked Page 8