by Sheri Duff
CHAPTER EIGHT
After school I head to straight to work. The bells on the door jingle when I enter. Gaby had wanted the song “Kickstart My Heart” to play every time a customer entered the shop, but she figured that might scare the older clientele. She likes to play the song super loud when we’ve locked up for the night. I like to listen to it when I’m driving seventy-five down the highway or when I’m pissed.
The store smells spicy yet sweet. Gaby is blowing on a lit incense stick. “I don’t need you tonight. Go on home. Or spend time with your dad,” Gaby says. “Isn’t he back from the honeymoon?” She’s standing at the counter with her hair in a French twist secured with a long black chopstick, and she’s wearing a vintage red kimono with white cherry blossoms on it and a black Obi belt. I’m surprised that she hasn’t dyed her hair black.
I walk to the other side of the counter to take a peek at her shoes, which are light blue flip flops. “Nice,” I say.
“What? I didn’t have anything that matched,” Gaby says. “Get out of here.” She shoos me off.
“My mom called you, didn’t she?” I ask.
Gaby doesn’t answer. She keeps blowing on the incense.
“I liked it better when you took my side of things when it came to boys.” I turn and go back to my car.
“I still do. Your dad is not a boy. He’s waiting for you at the Mexican restaurant. Love you, Princess,” she says.
“Love you too.” I say. I hop in my car and drive.
I could claim that I don’t know what Mexican restaurant to go to, but I know better. When I walk into La Familia Ramirez, a girl from my school, Gracie Ramirez, is standing at the front. “Hey, Massie. Your dad is in the back. I’ll show you.” I follow like an obedient little puppy. “Señor Morales is with them. He’s my abuelo’s friend. They’ve known each other forever. He’s a funny guy.”
I nod. I don’t know what to say to this. Gracie is one of the nicest girls in school, and if she likes him that means everyone should like him. The new family, including Alicia’s father, is sitting in the large booth in the corner. My choices are to sit next to my dad or sit next to the old guy. I choose the old guy. Gracie is rarely wrong.
Mr. Morales scoots over a little to give me room. “Hijita, how are you?”
“Fine,” I say. I still don’t know what the title means but I don’t ask.
The smell of chili and onions penetrates from the kitchen. My stomach rumbles. I look at my dad and Alicia. I don’t have a choice. I should have sat next to my dad—then I could have paid more attention to Mr. Morales. My dad’s and Alicia’s skins shine bronze. I’m so jealous. Not of their trip, but their skin. My dad has skin that soaks up the sun perfectly. That gene didn’t transfer to me. I received the W gene from my mother—White! White that doesn’t tan, the white that not only burns but bubbles if I stay out in the sun.
I decide to take a different approach to the evening, even though Natalie told me not to let my guard down. “How was Hawaii?”
“Nice,” My father answers.
Okay, now what do I do? I can’t be expected to run the conversation.
Alicia shakes her head like she’s reading my mind. “The beaches were beautiful. The vegetation on Moloka’i was amazing. Tell her about it, Joel.” She shakes his arm a little. “What was that flower called?”
My eyes drift through the restaurant. The walls are painted different colors: bold orange, bright yellow, lime green, and deep purple. Pictures of bull riders, Guadalupe, and Mexican beer are scattered in no order. My eyes stop at the back door. Escape route one would lead me lead to the parking lot, which leads to the sidewalk, which leads to Main Street, which leads to the coffee shop, Pollywog’s.
“Joel, the one you sketched on the trip, it looked like a miniature palm tree and was called big mania rock or something?”
“Brighamia rockii,” Dad says.
I jerk my head toward my father, “You drew something?”
“You should see it, Massie. Your dad can really draw,” she tells me like I’m stupid or something. I already know.
Forget coming up with plans to escape out the back door, I want to bolt out the front door. What about our pact? He always let me see his artwork first. My mom accepted this. My mom valued our promise. She would act jealous, but she knew how to step back and give me and my dad time alone. My mom liked her time alone with me, too. Not that I want time alone with my new stepmommy, I’d rather shovel shit for a living.
Gracie returns to the table, saving my father. “Ready to order?”
“Yes.” My non-confrontational father fumbles as he opens his menu. “I’d like the special with extra sour cream.”
“Hot or mild chili?” Gracie asks.
“Hot,” he answers. Then he looks at me like he’s sorry, but he doesn’t say anything. I don’t know what I expect him to say. I know my place and I’m going to have to take it, but it doesn’t mean that I have to be the third wheel, either.
Alicia orders a bowl of green chili and one chicken taco.
Gracie turns to Mr. Morales, who looks at me. “Ladies first.”
“I’ll have one cheese enchilada.”
“That’s all?” Mr. Morales asks.
I nod. My dad doesn’t even notice my appetite. Whatever. I don’t want to sit here for hours discussing their vacation and the big mama, lava, or whatever rock or flower it is. I’d rather discuss fungus in toes, which is the nastiest thing on earth, if you ask me.
Mr. Morales orders enough food for the entire table, and Alicia isn’t pleased. He defends his choice by saying, “Did you hear what this girl ordered?” He nudges me. “She can’t just have an enchilada.”
Alicia rolls her eyes.
“Okay. Gracie, take the chicken enchilada I ordered off and bring my meal and skinny girl’s meal together.” Mr. Morales nudges me. “And then bring us extra plates. We’ll share.” He closes his menu and hands it to Gracie. Alicia shakes her head.
“How’s school?” My father asks.
“Fine,” I say. If he can answer with one-word answers, so can I.
After that, the only communication at the table is Alicia and her father talking about his upcoming doctor appointment. He doesn’t want to go and she’s making him.
When our food arrives, Mr. Morales scoops a healthy portion onto my plate. He’s ordered things I usually don’t. I usually get smothered burritos and cheese enchiladas but now I’m eating diced beef with onions and peppers in a soft corn shell with fresh lime squeezed on the top, which is amazing.
My father’s face is turning red and he’s sweating because he ordered the hot chili instead of the mild. I should have warned him, but really he should have paid closer attention. That’s what he always taught me. “Pass the chips,” my father asks.
Alicia hands him the chips and notices his face. “Honey, are you okay?”
He nods and takes a big gulp of his beer.
“He ordered the hot. He doesn’t do hot.” I say.
My father finishes his meal with the help of a pitcher of water and two refills of plain tortilla chips.
Gracie returns to the table with the bill in hand, “Any dessert before I leave the check?”
I wipe my face with my napkin. “Not for me. Thanks for dinner. I gotta bolt. Bye.” But before I go, I turn back to Mr. Morales. “Thanks for sharing…but you’re going to need to do extra laps at the Fieldhouse for this meal.”
”It was worth it.” He winks.
I smile at him, and then turn away from the table.
“Love you, Massie,” my father says. I feel his hand touch mine.
“Love you too.” I don’t look back.
