The Taming of the Drew

by Gurley, Jan

  There were 759 people who might read that. But only a handful who knew what it might mean.

  ***

  Forty-five minutes later, there were less than 15 minutes left in my shift, and the sun had set. In the dark, the guys at the picnic table at the edge of the lot had gotten louder. I heard a bottle break and someone shout, “Where’s that girl with the stupid hat? I didn’t get her number. You promised me you’d get her number.”

  Gremio congealed out of the hotdog steam. He stood at my left elbow and peered across the lot. “I could take them,” he said, his voice flat with calm. “The whole lot of them.”

  If my eyes rolled any further back in my head, they’d get stuck.

  “Is one of them your dealer? Is that why they’re here?”

  I put one hand on my hip and tapped the serrated tips of my tongs against the counter at his waist. Gremio took a step back. “Just asking,” he said, “before I call the police.”

  He looked way off to the right, feigning innocence, “You should be grateful I’m warning you, about the police, in case, you — you know — need to go use the toilet and…flush anything down.”

  “Okay now that is just gross.” He took another half-skipping step backwards. I point my serrated tips at him, “Let me tell you, buddy, if you weren’t my boss--”

  I stopped, horrified. Buddy?

  Did I just call him buddy? Was I becoming a mini-Gremio? My God, if I wasn’t careful, before long I’d be saying, “if you think that, then you’ve got another think coming.” Was there any greater shame?

  The sound of squealing wheels punctured my throbbing embarrassment. I turned to the lot to see a convertible Porsche circle right up to the stand. The driver’s door popped open and Nate gave a half-start, fell back in, grabbed the rims of the door-opening, and hauled himself out.

  He straightened his shirt and went around to open the passenger door.

  Bianca had no trouble swiveling her legs around to get one foot underneath her, and Nate was left waiting with his hand out.

  “I can buy you anything you want,” I heard him say, “and you want this crap?”

  Bianca gave me a look, then turned to Nate and said, “But none of it’s really your money, is it?”

  “Of course it’s my money.”

  “I thought your mother gave it to you. In fact I saw her do it — just now.”

  While Nate spluttered, Bianca swished forward, leaned on the counter toward me and said, “Kate, what’s good tonight?”

  It felt like a gust of steam from the boil-pans suddenly warmed my face.

  It was one thing to know that a goddess like Bianca existed. It was another to be forced to stand next to her while you wore a polyester mustard sack-shirt, saturated and drooping from the weight of eight continuous hours of pork-flesh steamed grease. Here she was being nice to me, when all I wanted to do was crawl away.

  Before I could think of anything to say (that’s such a great fashion accessory, don’t you think — the hanging-open-mouth look — it’s one of the few things that can actually make an end-of-shift Dino-Dog uniform look worse), a Toyota Camry pulled into the lot and out stepped Curtis.

  “Nate,” he shouted across the top of the Camry, “what are you doing here?”

  Nate said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Bianca called me. Couldn’t you even afford to take her somewhere decent?” Curtis said. “This is just embarrassing.”

  Nate’s face flushed, and he sputtered, “How dare you…”

  The Dog’s voice, scary-calm again, said from the darkness at the edge of the stand, “I’d like to know what the hell all of you are doing here.”

  Gremio puffed out his chest and threw an arm over my shoulder. He sputtered, “We work here.”

  There was a long, awkward silence, while everyone looked at me and Gremio in our Dino-Dog uniforms, standing behind the steaming cauldron of the Dino-Dog grill, under the 13-foot illuminated Dino-Dog flashing sign — a huge brontosaurus shape, all long curving hotdog except for the thicker body, which was the bun wrapping the middle. Even limbless flubber creatures from another planet would realize Gremio and I worked here.

  Gremio jabbed a finger at the darkness, “And don’t you forget it, buddy-boy.”

  The Dog stepped into the light and Gremio shriveled to half-size. For a second, Drew raised both eyebrows at me and I half-expected him to mouth the words “buddy-boy?” in my direction. But instead he frowned and opened his cell. “Great, just great. Another night ruined. I can’t turn my back on you for a second. Guess mom’s going to have to come take us both home,” he said as he glowered at Bianca. “And don’t expect me to stand up for you. Not after this stunt.”

  Her back to Drew, Bianca smiled serenely at me.

  Thanks for the tweet, she mouthed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kate's Party

  Chapter 6

  I didn’t expect any of the Greenbacks to join me in the tree-circle Monday morning before school. But when I opened my eyes, they were all there, looking sleepy and boneless.

  It struck me that no one else in all of Legacy ever sat like this together — contented, okay with no one saying a word.

  Finally Alex, with a new, day-glow neon, sticking out in all directions anime-style haircut, said, “It is addictive, isn’t it?”

  The sun was well up and at its desk now, busy and indifferent. We stood and brushed off and Phoebe said, “Kate, you heard about the football team, right?”

  I didn’t lose all my great feeling, but I could feel it disappearing fast, like it was being sucked down the vacuum hose of real-life.

  Something must have shown on my face because Gonzo and Tio exchanged a look. “Now don’t panic,” Tio said, “The Dog wasn’t there.”

  I waited for someone to tell me. I expected Helena to step up and do it, but surprisingly it was Robin who said, “Drunk driving. Two carloads got pulled over — trying to drag race on a back road. Luckily no one was hurt. The parents of some guy named Steve are now in huge trouble. The police found a credit card receipt with the pile of booze in the trunk and a convenience store parking lot video, showing how Steve’s mom bought the alcohol and handed it to them.”

  “My mom would never buy me a drink,” said Tio. “Not in a million years. She’ll probably breathalyze me at my retirement party.”

  Phoebe said, “My mom’s too tired to know what I’m up to. But one thing’s for certain — if the police caught me drunk driving, I’d never go to jail, because there’d be nothing left to take to jail, not after my mom got through with me. She’d find enough energy somewhere to kill me. And then they probably wouldn’t convict her, because she’d convince them I deserved it.”

  Gonzo said, “I heard Dean Padua showed up. People are saying he made sure the whole team got let go. Now everyone in town is angry about how it was handled and they’re talking about how some of these football guys have been let off before and how someone ought to open up the juvenile records of the guys who are over 17, even if those records don't include convictions.”

  Helena said, “Right now, because he wasn’t there, the Dog’s not part of it. But Saturday was way too close, Kate.”

  In the glum silence, we could see people far off, heading into the school. It would be so nice to only worry about my homework. Or possibly my outfit. Those days seemed a lifetime ago.

  “We have to come up with a plan,” I said. “You guys have to help me think of something. I tried just playing things by ear last week, and it didn’t work so well.”

  Gonzo said, “I got a photo-shoot scheduled with the Dean, but it’s not for a while.” Everyone groaned. We’d forgotten about the camera. “That’s good news, right?”

  Phoebe said, “Does that mean there’s some bad news, too?”

  Gonzo looked uncomfortable. “Well. Yeah. The big camera’s still missing, so I’m using a cheap one. And Celia got herself assigned to help me.”

  Silence.

  “It’s
a teeny digital camera. How can she help you?” Alex asked. “Hold your hand? Wipe your forehead?”

  Gonzo flushed. We could see his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “Celia’s going to be a…a…” he swallowed again.

  “A what?” said Robin.

  “A stylist,” blurted Gonzo.

  We looked at each other. I said, “For the Dean? This is Dean Verona, we’re talking about. Right? The one with the smudgy bifocals and the cat hair on her sleeves?”

  “Don’t ask me. I didn’t want this.”

  Helena crossed her arms and eyed him coolly, “Couldn’t you object?”

  By now Gonzo’s flush had deepened to a dusky shade of burgundy. “I…I…I…” His Adam’s apple bobbed like a yo-yo.

  Viola said, “Don’t blame Gonzo. He can’t help it. Celia emits this jamming frequency. I noticed it in the hall after journalism.” Viola looked at Gonzo, who was gargling an incoherent protest, “But I guess she doesn’t even have to be close for it to work. Maybe that’s why Celia complains about guys not talking.”

  Great. Now I was completely irritated, like today’s dawn-with-the-trees had never happened. I stood up and slammed my India-print woven book-bag onto my shoulder. “Let’s get to class,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Phoebe, “otherwise I might heave. That Celia makes me gag.”

  “But that’s not the way it works,” Viola said, “Celia has to be nice — really nice — otherwise her jamming frequency doesn’t work. Hey! Wait, wait, everyone! I’ve got an idea! I know how to keep Drew out of trouble!”

  The whole Celia discussion had me snappish, “We’re going to be late, spit it out Viola.”

  Viola looked at me with anxious eyes, like she didn’t understand what she’d done wrong. I felt a twinge of guilt. “Go ahead, tell me what you think I should do.”

  “Be like Celia.”

  “What?” I had a mental image of Celia — the way she probably acted in journalism lab — tilting chest-forward from the hips in a micro-mini and heels so that her cleavage lowered to eye-level as she asked a seated guy to hand her a (blink-blink) camera.

  Viola was on a roll, “Admit it, Kate, you know getting angry at Drew won’t work. You have to do like Mrs. Broadstreet taught us last fall in psych. You remember operant conditioning?"

  Of course I remembered operant conditioning. Mrs. Broadstreet, the psych teacher, was a legend at Academy. We’d already covered most of the basics this year — including operant conditioning and other psychoanalytic theories including Freud (gag me with a spoon), Jung and lots of others. Everyone wanted to take her course, despite the fact that we were all shaking in our boots the first day. She could nail you for a moment’s inattention without batting an eye, and she could beat a lesson so thoroughly into your head you'd be able to pass quizzes well into your nineties.

  Viola beamed.

  “You have to Pavlov the Dog.”

  There was a gasp around the group. I felt a cluster-bomb of blushes explode all over my face.

  I said, in as flat a voice as I could manage, “You think I should reward the Dog for good behavior?”

  Viola nodded. There was a bigger group gasp.

  My voice rose in disbelief, “With sexual favors?”

  Viola’s eyebrows were flung upwards on her face. “WHAT?” she said. “I never said that.”

  There was a longer, horrible silence. My blush only burned hotter, like it was phosphorescent. “But you said be like Celia!”

  “Not just you, Kate. I meant all of us should do it.”

  Stunned silence. Alex and Robin raised an eyebrow at each other. Phoebe said, through gritted teeth, “Viola, you better not mean what I think you said.”

  Viola looked around the group, and then wailed, “I only meant we should be nice to him! Especially when he’s being nice too!”

  Viola looked like she was going to cry. I said, “I think you’re right, Viola — we’ve got to try to be nicer. Isn’t that what Tio and Gonzo are doing — the guy-bonding thing? But it can’t be me. The Dog hates me, Vi.”

  I thought someone would chime in to agree, but everyone’s gaze avoided mine.

  Then the bell rang, far across the field, and we took off running, late for school.

  ***

  In the circle at lunchtime, no one knew where to sit. People put bags on the stump, then stood around, not making eye contact, shifting hands from hips, to folded, to hanging at sides, back to hips, like no one knew what to do with their arms.

  The Dog wasn’t any more comfortable than the rest of us. After icily ignoring me for first, third, fourth periods and brunch (where he stood as everyone sat, staring down the hall, arms crossed), now he kept looking at me and inhaling like he was going to say something, then stopping, frowning and turning away.

  Like he kept thinking he wanted to tell me I had spinach in my teeth, or snot hanging from my nose — but then decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

  It didn’t help that the Greenbacks hadn’t talked about lunch assignments this week. I couldn’t remember who was supposed to bring it, and I didn’t want to ask in front of the Dog, since he didn’t have a clue why we were doing this weird lunch rotation, and I didn’t want to discuss fund-raising in front of him.

  The awkwardness was getting worse and worse when Gonzo gave his forehead a slap, “Duh,” he said, “I am such an idiot.” He went to the stump and starting digging in his backpack.

  A pink color rose up his neck toward his nose as he bent and lifted foil-packets. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Gonzo always gets like this when he’s unwrapping his creations. It’s like they’re his babies at their first piano recital and he’s proud — but defensive and embarrassed — and worried people won’t appreciate them enough.

  “I made a symbol for each of you out of pate frisee and baked it into the top of the crust, so we could tell whose is whose.” He said this too false-casual, like of course anyone would bake pictures into school lunches. “Yours, Viola, has the flute shape on the top, Tio’s got a book,” Gonzo gave Tio a sideways look, “a folio, really.”

  We were all busy jostling around, wanting to reach our own calzone, waiting for a taste of the latest Gonzo masterpiece. Tio stepped forward, picked his calzone up and took an alligator-sized bite. Tio groaned, so loudly it would have been obscene, except noises like that were pretty normal in our group on the weeks when Gonzo brought food.

  Gonzo paused in the unpacking. “That’s the goat cheese,” he said to Tio, “I thought you’d like it with roasted red peppers.” Smiling, Gonzo bent down and I heard him muttering, “Phoebe, I put a fist on yours — you don’t mind, do you?”

  I heard a snort behind me and realized that the Dog stood outside the group, watching us. He was shaking his head in disbelief — you know that look, the one people get on their faces when you know they’re thinking wait until I tell the guys about this later, they’ll never believe me. That look? That’s exactly the sneer he had.

  I felt a surge of anger, hot as stomach acid in the back of my throat. Then I remembered what Viola had said just a few hours ago, and my resolution to try.

  Get a grip, Kate, I told myself. You need to be nice, remember. I took a deep breath and turned back to Gonzo, who said, “Here’s yours, Kate.” Gonzo gave me a huge smile, his tufts of asparagus hair bobbing with suppressed laughter. He got like this when he made a culinary joke. I had to figure out what he’d done. There was, of course, a redwood on the top of my flaky-crusted calzone. So far, no surprises. I lifted it, amazed that the homemade shell could be so crusty when the half-moon-shaped pastry weighed so much. It wasn’t a bit soggy, despite being full of damp ingredients. I bit a corner and buttery taste fluttered in my mouth. I closed my eyes to concentrate, trying to find the joke hidden among all the fabulous flavors. The crust was to die for. The buttery taste was followed by a warm earthiness, then a tang of evergreen and, without meaning to, I moaned. My eyes popped open to see Gonzo pink with pleasure.

  He sai
d, “I used rosemary, and portobellos.”

  “Oh, Gonzo,” I said, “It’s my own forest calzone. You’re a gem.” He turned even pinker and pretended he didn’t care, lifting more packages out

  I stepped back to let others in and saw the Dog. He was further back, and, if anything more annoyed and offended, like we were weirding him out. The glorious taste curdled in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed and pushed down my anger, hard.

  Smile, I told myself. Or at least don’t frown.

  Then everyone was served, except the Dog. Gonzo’s Adam’s apple did that bobbing thing as he unpacked the Dog’s calzone. Gonzo kept his bright-red face tilted down as he said, off-hand, “It’s a football. I think I got the seams correctly placed. Of course, you’d know that better than me.”

  Gonzo held the calzone flat in his palm and walked around the stump. The Dog stood with his arms crossed, waiting for Gonzo to come to him.

  “It’s…it’s…well, I hope it’s something you like.”

  Slowly, the Dog picked up his calzone and turned it in the light. We all watched, mesmerized, the way you watch a car skid across the road, unable to move, knowing it’s going to be ugly. “You’re one of those guys who plays in the kitchen, huh?” he asked, disapproval curling into the edges of his voice.

  Gonzo went white, from his lips out.

  I stepped forward and snatched the calzone out of Drew’s hand. The Dog frowned at me, like he didn’t believe I’d been quick enough to do that. What the Dog didn’t know was that I was roasting with fury. My skin felt like it was spattering rage, my anger smoking until I’d set off a fire alarm if we were inside.

  “Oh yes,” I said, “Gonzo’s exactly like Jamie Oliver. And Gordon Ramsey. Only neither one of them is half as good as Gonzo.” I bit the Dog’s calzone and an explosion of homemade marinara sauce, the tickle of basil, and a rough meaty punch of sausage filled my mouth. I smiled and I knew it was an evil smile. “This calzone,” my words were muffled because my mouth was so full, “is not nearly good enough for someone like you.” I took another big bite and the smell of it filled the space around us. I saw Drew’s nostrils widen. He licked his lips and stared at my mouth as I gulped and chewed his food. I wiped drool from the corner of my mouth, “sorry,” I said to Drew, “can’t help myself.” I turned to Phoebe.