by Dahlia Adler
I love you.
Johnny
It’s dated nine months ago, making it one of the newest letters in the box; they stopped coming entirely about three months later. I read it over and over again until my eyes blur, place it carefully back in the envelope, and then cry myself to sleep.
I wake up a few hours later, still on my floor, curled around the box. There’s just enough light peeking through my window for me to guide myself back to the tippy-top shelf and put it back. Once it’s been safely replaced, I turn and look longingly at my bed; all I want to do is drag my butt under the covers and sleep for eternity. Unfortunately, I have an all-day shift that starts in an hour and I need to stir up every ounce of energy I have to deal with both the hung-over and church-going crowds. The overlap is the absolute worst.
I resort to my never-fail trick for getting myself motivated to move. All right, Reagan—five reasons to go to work today. One, because a full day’s shift plus tips at Joe’s pays for at least one textbook. I uncurl from the fetal position and stretch my limbs with a yawn. Two, even I’m not cruel enough to leave Freckles alone with the crazed waffle-seeking hordes. Three, free coffee, which I desperately need right now. The thought of a tall, steaming cup of caffeine is enough to make me rock onto my feet and stand up. Four—I peel my disgusting, stinky clothes from my body and toss them onto the floor—I reek of grease and need to shower more than I need to breathe right now.
I can hear my dad snoring through the walls, so I go ahead and dash into the bathroom to turn on the shower without bothering to cover up. Instinctively, I go for the light switch. Twice. Five—Joe’s actually has power. After five minutes of standing with my hand in the trickly shower stream, I add, Six—and hot water.
Finally, I jump in anyway—the stink of French fries is just too much—and scrub off what feels like an entire layer of skin while icy water drips in slow torture down my back. My teeth are chattering so hard it’s compounding my crying-hangover headache, and as soon as I’ve got the shampoo rinsed clean, I jump out of the shower and bundle myself up as tightly as possible in the bathroom’s only threadbare towel.
On the bright side, I’m certainly awake now. On the less-than-bright side, I feel like a cat that’s been through a cycle in the dishwasher. I throw on my jeans, my last remaining clean Joe’s Diner polo, and a sweatshirt, and grab my knapsack before bolting out to my car before my parents can wake up.
I’m early, but Freckles is even earlier, brewing coffee and setting out the morning’s display of fresh bagels. I drop my stuff under the counter and pour myself a massive cup with one hand while trying to make neat rows of pastries with the other.
“You can give yourself an extra minute to make sure you don’t spill scalding liquid all over yourself, Pepe.”
I prefer Rogue. I brush the unwelcome thought from my mind as quickly as it comes. “I’m an excellent multi-tasker, thank you very much.”
“Frighteningly so,” he concedes, leaving the bagels to me while he goes back to the walk-in refrigerator for the huge tubs of cream cheese that reside there. I take a long, hot sip and then put down the cup to finish arranging baked goods in time to turn the “Sorry, we’re closed!” sign around to “Come on in, we’re open!” at 6:00 AM on the dot.
The first wave comes almost immediately, mostly truck drivers getting their caffeine fix before driving out to Dodge or Wichita, and each one makes brief, gruff conversation with “Bill Forrester’s kid” while I pour endless refills of black coffee strong enough to peel paint off the walls.
Eventually, my dad comes in too, and says, “Thanks, Pumpkin,” with a wink when I shake cinnamon into his mug, exactly how he likes it.
Freckles handles the food, shuttling plate after plate of bacon, eggs, and sausage. We are a well-oiled machine for the next hour and a half, barely exchanging any words, and then business slows considerably. It will stay that way for another hour or so until the farmhands taking a break from field work start pouring in. Then there’ll be another short lull before we get the post-church crowd, during which I’ll actually get work done.
Charytan, Kansas: The most predictable city on the planet.
For now, the diner is literally empty except for us, Hector, and Charlie, the dishwasher, and we clean up a bit with our handy-dandy rags and settle down with some fresh coffee and bagels paid for from the tip jar.
“How’d it go last night?” he asks, pulling a couple of chairs behind the counter and dropping into one with a sigh of relief. “I heard Eddie bailed on you.”
“Yeah, whatever, no big deal.” The fiery look in Sean Fitzpatrick’s eyes flashes through my brain for a second, but I push it back out just as quickly. I wonder if they knew somehow that I’d be working alone last night and that was why they’d come in to harass me. Sean’s an asshole, no question, and he makes no secret of the fact that he thinks I drove his big brother to certain death. Still, he usually keeps his distance, preferring to glare at me from across the hallway. Last night was unsettling, to say the least, and having Vic see it all go down was the icing on the crap cake.
I can’t even imagine what she’s thinking after last night. I should’ve just told her myself, during one of those early conversations we must have had about boys and fooling around, so distant that my mind has turned its lies into truths. I can’t blame her for feeling like she can’t trust me right now. I barely trust myself to function in this town.
“So where’s your other half?” Freckles asks, breaking into my thoughts.
“Still sleeping, I’m sure.” I glance down at my watch. “It’s only ten. Patience, boy.” I smile slowly. “She’ll be here at some point, don’t you worry.”
His skin reddens considerably beneath those freckles, his fair skin matching the crusty ketchup stain on the empty stool next to him. He mumbles something under his breath that I don’t catch but I’m sure isn’t flattering.
“Relax, I haven’t said a thing to her about your little crush, much as it pains me.”
“I don’t—”
“Oh, save it.” I roll my eyes as I take a big bite of my cinnamon-raisin bagel. The coffee I wash it down with scalds my throat just slightly in the way that I love. “Don’t worry, she has no idea. She thinks I’m the one you want.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Really?”
“Ouch!”
“You know what I mean.” He swipes at a smear of cream cheese on his upper lip and misses.
“I’ll have you know, some guys think I am wonderfully desirable.” Without warning, I can feel Dave’s hand, flipping up my white curl, see his eyes slowly making their way down my body. I stiffen, trying to combat the chills running down my spine, and refocus on the conversation. “Anyway, you should ask her out.”
“Why?”
“Um, to go on a date? Isn’t that generally the end game?”
He laughs shortly. “Come on. You don’t actually think she’d go on a date with me. Who the hell wants to go on a date with the waiter living with his parents while he goes to community college?”
“It’s not like the rest of the guys in Charytan are any more impressive.” My coffee’s no longer hot, but pleasantly warm as it goes down. “Anyway, you’re not gonna be stuck here forever, Freckles. Not unless you wanna be.”
“Ya think?” He rips off another piece of bagel and stuffs it into his mouth. “I’m starting to think no one ever really gets out of here.”
“Bite your tongue.”
“Just look at the Sunday crowds,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken, sweeping a hand around the empty diner. “The construction workers? Every single one of those guys—including your dad—is a Charytan lifer, even though it means driving hours every day to find work. The farmhands who’ll pour in soon? Ditto. Even Joe is like four-hundredth generation. Face it—this place is quicksand.”
I stuff my bagel into my mouth to stop myself from responding, because I know that if I do, I’ll rip poor, unsuspecting Freckles a new one. He doesn’t mean to piss
me off, and I know it, but this is probably my least favorite line of conversation.
A part of me is afraid that he’s right, that I’ll never really get out of this place. Every time a shift’s worth of earnings has to pay for a new plumbing part or extra gas that doesn’t fit into my careful budget, that’s more money I need to dig up to make tuition and dorm fees. As if coming from a school with no newspaper, no debate team—almost no extra-curriculars at all except for sports—isn’t bad enough, I can’t allow myself to be at any other disadvantage.
This cannot remain my life.
VICTORIA
Monday mornings suck. And they suck double when you have to drag yourself out of bed extra early, but today, I’m on a mission. I hitch a ride to school with my dad on his way to teach his 7:00 a.m. class to whatever literature lovers are crazy enough to sit through a lecture that early (I’ve already told Reagan—if she takes any classes before noon she’d better tiptoe to them) and my butt finds its way into a seat in the college guidance office the minute it opens.
“Miss Reyes.” Mrs. MacKinnon, the wrinkly counselor who probably went to college during World War I, looks at me over her half glasses. It should be weird that she knows my name considering we’ve met exactly once and there are a hundred kids in the class, but when you’re the only Latina in a sea of Whitey McWhitersons you get used to people knowing who you are without your having to tell them. “Did we have an appointment?”
“We didn’t”—I force as much apology into my voice as humanly possible considering her death stare—“but I was hoping that if I got here early, you might be able to squeeze me in.”
She obviously doesn’t want to, and when her eyes shift to the empty mug on her desk, I realize one crucial mistake. “After you have your coffee, of course,” I add quickly.
Her shoulders relax a little, but she moves over to the coffee machine without another word to me. I assume that means I’m in. It’s another few minutes before the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the room, making my stomach rumble, and she pours herself a mug and then shuffles back to the seat across from me. “So,” she says after she’s taken her first sip. “You’re thinking of going to college.”
“Well…yeah. Of course.”
“Of course?”
“I mean, isn’t basically everyone? At some point, anyway.” Obviously there are always people like my brother, who wanna travel or do do-goodery things before finishing, but it’s where everyone ultimately ends up. Isn’t it?
A weird smile distorts her mouth, and in her narrowed eyes I can plainly see “not people like you,” but then it all disappears behind her mug as she takes a long drink. “Well then. Do you have a list of places you’re considering? There are some wonderful minority scholarships available.”
My lips stretch tightly over my teeth. She’s just trying to be helpful, I remind myself. “That’s great, thanks. And actually, making a list is what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve started to visit schools and I realized that I don’t really know which ones have the program I’m looking for.”
“And what’s that?”
“Fashion design.” I sit up a little straighter in my chair so she can get the full effect of my outfit today, which consists of an asymmetrical sashed knit skirt I made out of two of my dad’s old sweaters and a T-shirt onto which I’ve copied that Picasso dog sketch with what are impressively tight stitches, if I may say so myself. “I went to Southeastern this past weekend and they didn’t have it in the catalogue, so…”
Her bushy eyebrows furrow. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. I can’t imagine Fashion Design is a popular course of study. It’s more of a…” She waves a hand around in the air while she contemplates which offensive answer she’s going to pull out of her butt. “A hobby, I suppose.”
I grit my teeth and say nothing; I’m not sure what I could say that wouldn’t land me in the principal’s office. But considering there’s an entire amazing school dedicated to fashion design in New York City, you’d think she’d realize how ridiculous she sounds, acting like it doesn’t exist as a major.
Then again, with the exception of Miss Lucy, what are the odds anyone from Charytan High has ever attended FIT, or even heard of it?
“Have you considered studying Spanish?” she suggests. “Perhaps you could become a…translator.”
In my mind I can hear Javi telling me to take deep breaths when I encounter ignorance this stupid, so I take three, slowly, until I feel calmer. “That’s not really what I had in mind.”
“Well, if you’re interested in a more…practical major, you might find that something in business or accounting is right for you.” She spins in her chair and gathers a few things, which she hands over as if she’s giving me the keys to Sephora after hours. They turn out to be course catalogs from different schools, which I guess is as helpful as she’s likely to get.
I take them and thank her, then leave as quickly as humanly possible. According to the cheap-pocketwatch-wrapped-around-a-scarf on my wrist, I’ve still got a few minutes before class, so I head into the library, hoping for an available computer so I can read my newest e-mail from Javi on a bigger screen.
Bula, little sis!
Glad to hear that you and Reagan are having a great time at college! Or at least that you are—yikes on the whole throwing-up thing. Good thing I know that my underage sister would never be dumb enough to drink at a college party where there were a whole bunch of horny frat guys around, right? RIGHT?! Getting to the more important part, though, I’m gonna need some pictures of these hot sorority girls you mentioned, stat.
Speaking of people having a lil fun this week, guess who decided to take a vacation and is currently e-mailing you from an Internet café in Sydney? Decided I needed a breather and was inspired by you and Reagan planning your own little trip. (Though mine’s a hell of a lot cooler, obviously.) I came with Chase and Sam and we’re having an awesome time, though the kangaroos seem less than amused by us and one almost kicked Chase’s ass the other day.
We’re only here another couple of days and then we head back to Fiji, but another one of the volunteers here is headed to the States soon, so keep an eye out for a real, old-timey letter. And you better keep writing even though you’re soooo busy now, because you know I need to live vicariously through your whole college experience! You should probably delete this after reading it because I’ll deny to the death that I ever said it, but I’m really proud of you, hermana. I know college is weird and scary on top of all the fun stuff and it’s awesome that you’re doing it.
Now enough sappiness—time to get plastered while I still can!
Love,
Big Bro
Just seeing his words on the screen makes me tear up. He’s attached a photo, which I nearly open until I see “NSFS” in the file name, which means he’s definitely plastered in it and probably double-fisting beers. I’m sure he’s on some gorgeous beach, though; he always is. For all that I think Javi’s crazy for going, I envy him too, and the experiences he’s getting, the beautiful places—and clothes—he’s seeing.
A lot of people were shocked when Javi decided to join the Peace Corps, thinking he was nothing but a party boy who went through girls at our high school like candy, but there’s so much about him that nobody knows. Thinking about it makes me miss him so much at times my heart literally aches.
I decide that’s about all I can take of my emotional roller coaster of a morning and close out of Javi’s e-mail, but when I do, I notice another familiar name in my inbox and immediately click on the message.
Hey Tori!! Sorry I didn’t get to see you again before you left! It was sooo nice to meet you and I hope you come back to Southeastern—and to Lambda!! If you have any questions about the house or anything, lemme know!! Xoxo Sasha
My stomach gets all flippy when I read it, like I’ve just been asked to the prom. Next to me, the pile of catalogs from Mrs. MacKinnon beckons. I riffle through them until I find the one from Southeastern and go ba
ck to the “F”s. The page looks just as I remember it—Environmental Studies followed by French—but with Javi’s words still fresh in my brain, Sasha’s e-mail still on the screen in front of me, and Mrs. MacKinnon’s nasty expression looming behind my eyelids, suddenly that looks less like a gaping hole and more like a sign.
I flip around, and sure enough, they’ve got an Accounting major. And an Economics major. And a Literature major, which would basically make my dad’s life. Okay, so maybe I can’t make my dreams come true there, but what about everyone else’s?
My mind is still a raging blur of contradicting thoughts by the time Rae drops me off at home on her way to her shift at Joe’s. All I want is to go up to my room, blast some music, and think about nothing, but the most delicious smell in the world has me drooling the instant I open the front door, and all thoughts of doing anything other than stuffing myself into a kitchen chair disappear.
The first thing I see when I enter the kitchen is my mom standing over the big pot she uses any time she’s cooking something that gets drowned in oil. Judging by both pot and fragrance, she’s attempting churros for the four-millionth time, in an effort to perfect the recipe and impress my abuelita.
I wait until she looks up from the island in the center of the kitchen and notices me, and then sign, “Smells good. What’s wrong with them?”
She makes a face at me, then puts down the bird’s nest ladle. “Shape. They’re blobs. And the shape was so perfect last time!”
“You also burned them last time,” I remind her, then give her a kiss on the cheek. It’s always something, to the point where we’re both convinced my abuelita put a curse on the pot. I love my father’s mother, but I wouldn’t put it past her, honestly. The plate of glistening blobs sits on a paper towel next to her on the counter, and I pop one in my mouth, instantly regretting it when I burn every surface of my mouth.
