“Right. And what’s that other famous song he had? Something about sunshine.”
“‘Ain’t No Sunshine.’”
“Yes!” She sings the first line and smiles.
The cafeteria ladies work their way toward our table.
“Come with me,” Muralee says.
“Where?” I ask, confused.
“To Ithaca on Saturday.”
My hands shake below the table. “Um, why me?”
“Because you’re the only one who knows. The only one I want to know.” Her emerald green eyes lock with mine. “Please, Madeline. I need you.”
Muralee Blawjen needs me. Me.
What else can I do?
I say yes.
Desiree
when i see mam and larry
leave the apartment,
i hurry inside,
cram jeans, t-shirts,
sweatshirts, sleep clothes,
and loads of socks and underwear
into my navy blue duffel bag.
in the kitchen
i take out the old red shoebox
mam keeps her savings in.
inside is the pink and blue wicker tube
my dad won for her
and a roll of yellowed tickets that say
good for one daily blue plate special.
pushing them aside,
i gather the money,
count the bills.
five hundred and ten bucks.
sweet.
nice going-away present, mom.
when i go to put the lid back on the box
i notice something stuck underneath it—
a thin glossy paper about
the size of a bookmark.
i pull it loose,
glance at a strip
of black-and-white photos and
—shit!—
drop them like they freaking bit me.
the pictures land at my feet.
staring up at me is
me.
i mean, it’s not really me,
because i’m with this boy
i’ve never seen before,
but the she that isn’t me
is my twin—
same long, mousy hair,
parted off center,
same wide eyes,
dense eyebrows,
bony cheeks.
same square smile,
full lips,
dimples.
i bend, retrieve the pictures.
mam? i wonder,
then just as quickly
i answer, no way.
this girl’s too skinny.
too pretty.
too happy.
it must be someone else.
next i study the boy—
his light, flyaway hair,
his wire-rim glasses,
the space between
his two front teeth.
shot one:
the boy and girl lean toward
the lens, looking clueless.
shot two: they are serious,
a phony cheek-biting serious
that makes it obvious they’re
about to bust up.
which they do
in shot number three.
in shot four,
they are kissing.
kissing like people do in movies,
like their survival depends upon it.
this boy is in love with this girl.
seriously,
completely.
i flip the photos over,
hoping something’s
written on the back
that will tell me who they are,
but there is only white space.
so i tuck the photos back in the box,
wedge the money in my pocket,
sling my duffel bag over one shoulder,
and pull the door closed behind me.
* * *
at the 7-eleven
i step into line with
ring dings and a diet coke.
but then i think of the baby
and switch the soda for a milk and
the ring dings for a blueberry muffin.
the muffin’s stale,
but i’m so hungry i eat it anyway.
on a bench
at the transit station,
i watch buses burp black smoke
and drive off.
at eight,
i walk to jeremy’s house
and knock on his bedroom window.
wearing just jockeys, he opens it.
shivering against the cold,
he exhales a cloud
of morning breath.
i need to talk to you, jeremy.
meet me at the geronimo, okay?
he rubs sleep gunk from his eyes.
okay. gimme ten minutes.
* * *
i sit in an open booth
next to the cigarette machine.
i haven’t had a smoke in twelve hours.
i decided to quit for the baby,
just like i decided to stop drinking.
i memorize today’s blue plate special,
posted on the chalkboard over the grill—
roasted chicken, noodles, diced carrots.
i mumble it over and over
so my brain won’t have
room to roam.
a waitress startles me.
what can i get ya, honey?
her face is pale as oatmeal and
she needs her mustache waxed.
a coke, i say, so she won’t
bust me for tying up her table.
i pull a pen from my duffel bag,
print names on a paper napkin.
old-fashioned names.
elizabeth,
sarah,
abigail,
catherine,
sylvia.
except sylvia makes me think of
the poet we studied in english class
—the one who killed herself—
but when i go to cross
her name off the list,
i feel my baby flutter again.
the bell over the door jingles.
jeremy walks in wearing levi’s
and his favorite bills sweatshirt.
he looks so much like a little boy
i think i might cry.
except i can’t.
i need to be a grown-up now.
the waitress drops off my coke,
and jeremy slides in across from me,
hair still damp from a shower,
smelling of irish spring soap.
reaching for a menu, he asks,
what’re ya having?
as if today is like
any other day.
i lean forward. jeremy,
do you love me—
i mean really?
he reaches across the table,
weaves his fingers through mine.
yeah, of course i do. why?
i’m shaking.
look, i’ve gotta go away for a while.
i can’t help it—i start to cry.
jeremy moves to my side of the booth
and loops his arm around my shoulder.
he feels so solid. so warm.
dez, what’s going on?
when i open my mouth to speak,
it’s like turning on a faucet full blast.
my words gush out
in one rapid stream.
i’m pregnant, jeremy, i found out when i went for the pills,
i’m sorry i didn’t tell you sooner, but now my mother knows,
and we had a terrible fight, and i’m not going back home
again, ever.
i don’t add that
larry’s the father.
i’m just not ready.
jeremy stands,
buys a pack of kools,
paces beside our booth, smoking.
when he finishes his second cigarette,
h
e stamps it out in the ashtray
resting on the edge of the table,
except the tray flips and
topples to the floor.
he stares at the ash
scattered near his feet,
mumbling, shit, shit, shit.
should i have an abortion?
i ask him, even though
i really don’t want to.
yes, it’s larry’s baby,
but it’s my baby too.
and it’s not her fault
larry did what he did.
why should she be punished?
but as i wait for jeremy’s answer,
i think to myself,
what if he sees something i missed?
what if he tries to change my mind?
and finally,
what if i let him?
could everything go
back to how it was
before?
look, i’m not ready for this—
jeremy waves a hand over my stomach—
but that doesn’t mean you can…
we can…
oh, shit, desiree,
we can’t just kill it.
it’s ours.
i bite my lip to keep
from blurting out the truth.
what then?
jeremy’s forehead wrinkles.
he doesn’t look like a little boy anymore.
he looks like he’s carrying the whole
freaking world on his shoulders.
he takes a breath,
lets it out.
i’m going with you, that’s what.
* * *
i sit on jeremy’s bed,
watching as he stuffs clothes
in an army-green knapsack
then fills the pockets with
things i forgot:
toothbrush,
comb,
deodorant,
blow dryer.
his face is expressionless,
his movements precise.
downstairs,
he leaves a note
on the kitchen table:
mom and dad,
i’m going away for a while.
i’ll call you when i can.
don’t worry. please.
i’ll be fine.
jeremy.
his shoulders fold in,
and i hear him crying.
i tell him, you don’t have to do this,
jeremy. i can go alone.
i’ll be okay. really.
but he leans his note against
a bowl of fresh pears
and starts wordlessly
toward the door.
* * *
i’ve never hitchhiked before,
but there’s not much to it.
you hold your thumb out,
someone stops,
you climb in,
pray the driver isn’t
another son of sam.
two hippies in an old vw van
who play the same grateful dead tape
over and over
drive us clear through to virginia.
in roanoke
forty bucks gets us a motel room.
jeremy and i sleep together
for the first time.
i don’t mean sex,
i mean sleep,
as in side by side
the whole night through.
it’s strange to wake up
and see him there—
a good strange,
though,
not a bad one.
in the morning,
i pluck my eyebrows thin,
cut my hair chin-length,
scrub off the last of my makeup.
then we buy two bottles of miss clairol
at the revco down the road—
grunge black for jeremy,
barbie-doll blond for me.
we buy sunglasses too—
the kind that reflect everything
instead of showing strangers our eyes.
now if we spot our faces
on a milk carton
we can waltz on by
without worrying.
* * *
we’re in florida
by ten the next night,
booking a room at the clover inn.
i have no idea why they call it that—
there isn’t a clover in sight.
there isn’t even a yard,
just concrete
as far as i see,
an endless ocean of gray.
the man who checks us in
gives us a discount on our room
since the toilet makes gurgling noises.
but me and jeremy don’t notice.
we’re sound asleep in no time at all.
in the morning,
it’s 82 degrees even though
it’s almost november.
i leave on the tank top i slept in
and cut the legs off my jeans.
damn, i say, stepping
into the hot, hazy sun,
sure beats the hell out of snow.
next door,
at the clover diner,
there’s a paper shamrock
taped to every window.
while i study the breakfast menu,
wondering where we’ll wind up next,
jeremy points to a help-wanted sign
posted next to the register.
whaddaya say we apply?
save some money
before we take off again?
outside the window,
a truck pulls in,
gravel popping
underneath its tires.
that’s when i notice that
those paper shamrocks
are four-leaf clovers.
feeling their luck rub off on me,
i fake my best southern accent.
y’all got a fine idea there.
Ariel
I whirl around so quickly I feel woozy. “What the—? How—?”
Shane smiles. “Surprised?”
I blink several times, in case my headache is making me hallucinate. But Shane’s still standing there. “H—how did you find me?”
“Same way I knew you walked through the Meadows the other day.” He holds up his phone. “Tracking device. GPS. As long as you’ve got your cell with you, I’ll always know where you are. Cool, right?”
“You mean you drove four hours to see me?”
“Uh huh.”
I run to Shane and mash my face into the shoulder of his jacket, inhaling the leather smell, squeezing for all I’m worth. I’m not happy about the spy-phone business, but I really need him to hold me. To provide a link to something familiar.
Eventually, I let go and step back. Actually, I stumble back. The pain in my head is so fierce that now my balance feels off.
“Hey,” Shane says. “You okay?”
I glance around for his bike. “I need a break. Take me for a ride, okay?”
Shane changes the subject. “Why didn’t you call me, Ariel?”
“I did call. Lots of times. You never answered. Then this other person did.”
“Really? Who?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t ask his name. He was Asian, I think. He said he knows you, and that you don’t have your phone number anymore, he does.”
“That’s odd,” Shane says, “because I tried and tried to call you too. You never picked up.” He shrugs his shoulders, as if to look casual, but the intense expression on his face gives off the opposite vibe.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I left my cell in the car. Then, when I came out to get it, I couldn’t reach you, so I called Olivia. I needed to talk to someone, Shane.”
He folds his arms.
“Shane, please. Don’t be mad. This has been really stressful for me. I—”
My phone bleeps. I freeze.
“What’s that?” Shane asks.
“Probably a text
from Olivia.”
Shane takes the phone from me. He flips it open and reads, “‘Oh my god, Katelyn’s streaks are orange. Guess I’ll bag the backup career in cosmetology. Laughing out loud.’” He glares at me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Olivia highlighted Katelyn’s hair,” I explain.
A sadness fills his eyes. “Ariel, this phone was supposed to be for us. You and me. Our connection. Which you’ve treated like…like…it means nothing to you.”
“No, Shane, that’s not true. I love that we can talk anytime. Really. I just needed to hear Liv’s voice. She’s my best friend. Can’t you understand?”
“No, Ariel, I can’t. Your voice is the only one I need to hear.”
My eyes well up. “Oh, Shane—” I step toward him, but my phone bleeps again.
Shane looks down. “Now you’ve got a picture.” He pauses, studying it. “Jesus, who are the faggots?”
I grab the phone from him and check out the photo. Liv’s dad and Steve, both wearing suits, are standing beside the table they’ve set for the party. Irises fill the center. Candles glow. Everything looks so elegant. I wish I were there. “These two men,” I answer, speaking slowly to help me stay calm, “are Olivia’s father and his partner.”
He flashes me his Ms. Delphi smile. “How quaint.”
I take several deep breaths. “Shane, look, I think we should forget about the phone and focus on us right now. You’re here. We’re together. Let’s make the most of it, okay?” I reach my arms out to hug him again.
But Shane turns and walks away. I feel partly responsible for his bad mood, so I follow him—behind a tall row of evergreens where his Yamaha is parked. Except there’s only one helmet on the seat. Mom would kill me if she knew I planned to ride without one—she doesn’t even like me riding with one—but I have to get away from this place.
I hurry toward Shane’s bike. “Shane, take me for a ride. Please. Just a short one. Five minutes.” I’m about to swing my leg over the seat when Shane holds out his hand.
“No!” he says. “Don’t!”
I stop.
Shane’s eyes lock with mine. They remind me of the obsidian chunks we studied in earth science—dark and glassy and cold.
“Why not?” I ask.
Shane is so motionless he looks like a DVD on Pause.
But in an instant, he’s back on Play, breaking up. He laughs so loud and so hard the sound slashes at my temples.
I’m near tears. “Shane, come on. Let’s go.”
“We—we—can’t!” he chokes out.
The pain in my head is so intense, I think I might throw up. “But, why?”
Blue Plate Special Page 15
