I remember how shocked Bryn was the first time she saw our barren kitchen. She went through all the cupboards and the fridge and then finally turned to me and said, “No wonder you stay so skinny, Cass. You guys must live on air around here.” I considered making up some big old tale about how it was shopping day that day and how we’d just cleaned out our cupboards last night. But too many times I’d witnessed her twisting and turning in some crazy whopper she’d gotten herself caught up in, and I simply decided to stick to the truth.
“Well, I guess this is what comes from having a drunk in the family, Bryn.” I smirked at her and pointed my finger in mock accusation. “Just let it go to show you that if you keep up your wild-thing drinking ways this might happen to you, too.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Oh yeah, I’m so sure. I can just see me at an AA meeting now. Hi, my name is Bryn and I’m an alcoholic.” Then she got serious. “Is that why you won’t drink none, Cass?”
I shrugged. I usually tried not to make a big deal about it when I refused a beer or whatever the going thing might be, but I suppose she was partially right. “I just don’t like the taste of alcohol,” I admitted, which was not untrue.
She laughed again. “Ya don’t hear me complaining none. That just means more for the rest of us. Hey, where does your dad hide his booze, anyway?”
I showed her one of his secret little hiding spots beneath the bathroom sink and watched as she poured herself half a glass of amber liquid. I didn’t really care if she emptied the entire bottle, didn’t care if he noticed it missing or not.
By then he and I were like ships that passed in the night, anyway. I made sure I only spoke to him when I stopped in to see him at work when he was mostly sober—and then it was always just to say “hey” and joke around before I’d hit him up for some cash. I’d found that was my best chance of obtaining money during those on-again, off-again drinking days. If I waited for him to come home at night, his head would often be swimming and his pockets empty. But when I caught him on a payday, every other Friday, he’d usually give me enough for groceries and then some. Problem was, he sometimes got a draw on his check, and I could never tell exactly when that might be.
As a result I ate at Bryn’s home quite a bit. And here’s one more thing I’ll have to give Bryn—she may have been a liar and way too loose with the boys, but she had a most generous and giving spirit. And so did her mother, Mrs. Tuttle. In some ways, looking back, I see those Tuttles almost like angels in disguise. Okay, so maybe the disguise was laid on a little thick, but I’m not quite sure what I’d have done without them. Or maybe things would’ve just unraveled all that much sooner.
By the time I turned fifteen (the summer before entering high school) I was already feeling somewhat old and frayed and worn down in my spirit. And, I suppose, just slightly jaded, too. Life no longer seemed to hold much promise or sparkle. Not that it ever had, but at least when I was a kid, I’d had Joey around, and together the two of us weren’t afraid to dream big, and in those days we could even believe in those impossible dreams. And dreams could carry you a long ways back then. But more and more now I felt just like a kid standing outside and gazing longingly through a candy store window. I saw others living the kind of life that I knew I could never have, and I suppose it was finally getting me down. For years, I’d tried not to pay much attention to those other girls—the ones like Sally Roberts and the like. And you’d think it might’ve gotten easier over time, but it never really did. In fact, I’m sure it only became harder. And for some reason the summer of ‘69 pushed me to the limits.
Sure, I still had Bryn. She and I still hung out a lot of the time (at least when she wasn’t with her new boy-of-the-month). I knew she was better than nothing—and better than being the town’s social outcast all on my own little lonesome. And her home really did provide a handy haven from my daddy’s fits of drunken rage, which had been coming on more frequently and with more regularity once the warm weather came upon us. For some mysterious reason, my daddy thought summertime was drinking time.
The honest truth was I liked Bryn’s company less and less as time went by—and even that made me feel bad. More and more, I found myself wanting something more, something beyond all this. I just wasn’t exactly sure what it was or how I could possibly get it.
Shortly after my fifteenth birthday, I followed Joey’s example and got myself a work permit and—after several rejections at classier joints—a job at the Dairy Maid. It was smelly and hot and nasty in there, but at least I now had money in my pocket and a good excuse to stay out late at night. The rub was that kids from school often came in and naturally couldn’t resist poking fun of me and my silly little Dairy Maid uniform with its perky white hat and matching apron (a sharp contrast to my usual hippy getups of embroidered smock tops and beads and such). And unfortunately, I lost some of my usual hardness and confidence in this somewhat humiliating situation and ridiculous attire. I guess I felt sort of like a sitting duck—like suddenly it was open season on Cass Maxwell.
After one particularly long and tiring day—it seemed that every Little League team in Brookdale had come in, and every single boy wanted some sort of specialty sundae, and they weren’t exactly being patient—I was getting ready to close out the till and call it a night when I looked up to see Sally Roberts and two of her girlfriends walk in. I could’ve kicked myself for not having flipped over that Closed sign just a minute earlier, but it was too late now. All three girls had flopped down at the counter. And to make matters worse, it looked as if they’d spent an enjoyable day out the lake (since they had on bikini tops and cutoffs and were sporting some pretty dark tans). My tan had faded considerably since joining the working ranks.
“Sorry, you guys, we’re closing up now.” I smiled, trying to sound far more cheerful than I felt. I knew it did no good to put on my usual tough act while wearing that ruffled Dairy Maid hat. The two were just too incongruous to be believable.
“Oh, come on, you’ve got time to make us a little old banana split,” said Sally. “It’s not quite ten yet.”
I glanced up at the clock over the counter, silently watching as the second hand slowly made its way up to the twelve. “Well, it’s ten now,” I announced as I swiped a damp cloth over the plastic-laminate countertop.
“Yeah, well, we got in here before it turned ten,” said Sally with a familiar glint in her eye. The other girls giggled. “And you better serve us our banana split.”
I turned around and narrowed my eyes at her. “We’re closed, Sally.”
“Where’s the owner?” she demanded hotly. “Where’s Clint? Does he know what kind of retarded girl he’s hired to work for him here? Come to think of it, you’re probably not even fit to serve food, Cass Maxwell. I’ll bet you don’t even know how to wash your hands properly.”
I took in a deep breath, then pressed my lips together as I glared at her. Ironically, I had just discovered exactly whose blue Buick had been parking with such regularity at my Aunt Myrtle’s house, and I now felt sorely tempted to reveal my findings, which would be of particular interest to Miss Sally Roberts. But Clint was in the back cleaning up just then, and I didn’t really wish to create a problem that might threaten my job. So I bit my tongue. “Fine,” I snapped at her. “What do you want on your banana split?”
Naturally, it took them at least five minutes to make up their minds, and then they just ended up choosing the traditional pineapple, strawberry, and chocolate combination. “Fine,” I snapped again as I went over to the big stainless steel ice cream machine, which I unfortunately had not cleaned out yet or I would’ve had a legitimate excuse not to serve them. Thinking murderous thoughts about Sally, I ripped my knife through a banana and slapped it into the dish, then quickly heaped in three sloppy mounds of ice cream, adding topping, nuts, and whipped cream with a vengeance. It might not have been the most beautiful banana split, but at least it was quick. I thumped it down on the counter before Sally and turned to go clean the mac
hine.
‘That’s not what we ordered!”
I spun around in time to see Sally wink at her friends.
“We wanted hot fudge, marshmallow, and caramel toppings,” she said with a sly smile. The other two nodded in agreement with her, now starting to giggle. “I think she really is retarded,” Sally spoke to her friends as if I wasn’t there. “But then, what can you expect when her daddy’s such a lush and all? Most likely his drinking habits messed up her genes long before she was ever born.”
I felt just like the pressure valve on the deep-frying cooker after it had been left on High too long. I leaned across the counter and looked Sally right in the eyes. “Yeah, Sally, well, speaking of daddies, it’s too bad yours isn’t a little more discreet when he goes sleeping around. And I can’t say much for his taste in women, either.” I forced a harsh laugh, then added, “Does your mama know about this?” I paused for drama’s sake, thoroughly enjoying the shocked expression on her face. “Or maybe that’s your daddy’s whole problem in the first place—maybe your mama is a cold fish just like her little girl! Poor, poor man!”
Sally picked up the spurned banana split and chucked it straight at me. It hit me square in the chest, then slowly slid down my uniform front in an elongated sticky streak of yellow, red, and brown. “You big, fat liar!” she yelled.
Despite my dripping chest and the sticky mess now at my feet, I kept my calm. “No, Sally, it’s the honest truth. And if you don’t believe me, why not ask your daddy why his car’s always parked out behind Myrtle Brown’s house during weekday lunch hours and then again on certain evenings, usually around eight o’clock.” At this point, I didn’t even mind that I’d incriminated my own aunt—what had she ever done for me anyway? Besides, I figured most folks in town already knew all about this little affair by now.
Sally’s perfect Noxzema-girl complexion flushed deep red with anger, and maybe some embarrassment, too. And her two cohorts appeared appropriately and uncomfortably speechless, with Donna Moore tugging urgently at her elbow and nodding toward the door. But to my surprise, two fat tears began to roll down Sally’s smooth cheeks. I must admit I felt a slight trace of remorse just then, at least for a few seconds, anyway. But I smothered any compassion in my renewed anger as I realized the mess I now had to clean up due to her banana split-throwing incident. Fortunately for me, Sally said nothing more as she allowed her faithful friends to guide her out to the parking lot, where I’m sure they licked her wounds and said all sorts of horrible things about me.
I was just flipping over the Closed sign when Clint emerged from the kitchen. “What on earth’s been going on in here?” he demanded, eyeing my soiled uniform and the broken banana split dish still splattered across the floor.
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “These rude girls came in after closing time and ordered a banana split. And then after I gave it to them, one of the girls threw it at me and they ran off.”
“Kids!” he muttered as he turned back to the kitchen. “Don’t know why I don’t just sell this whole blasted business and go off and live on some quiet deserted island somewhere!”
Seven
Joey Divers was never one to let anything go to waste, and he hadn’t wasted any time putting his experience from Grandma’s store to good use. True to his word, as soon as he’d turned fifteen, he’d gotten himself a job at Saunders Stationery, and there he’d worked full-time for the past two summers (and part-time during the school year). I often spied him through the large plate-glass window as I hurried down the street to my own job. He always looked so studious and frightfully grown-up standing behind the counter at the office supply store, diligently serving his customers.
The Dairy Maid was just a few doors down the street, so Joey stopped in for lunch occasionally—although usually not more than once a week, and even then he always ordered frugally, usually a grilled cheese sandwich and iced tea. Sometimes I teased him about being a tightwad, but he assured me he was simply doing his best to save up for college.
“You saving for college?” I said as I refilled his iced tea (on the house, as long as Clint wasn’t looking). “You’re so smart, Joey, I’ll bet you’ll get all sorts of scholarship offers and things—they’ll probably pay you to go to school.”
He chuckled. “Oh, I doubt that. But you, better than anyone, should know that you can’t always count your chickens before they hatch.”
I laughed, remembering how my grandma used to say that to us whenever she’d catch us trying to calculate our weekly earnings from her little store, and she was usually right. “I suppose not.”
“Are you looking forward to going to high school this fall?” he asked as he adjusted his black-rimmed glasses. I still couldn’t get used to the idea of Joey in glasses. It did make him look older and slightly intellectual, even if it was in a somewhat nerdish sort of way.
“Yeah, but it kinda feels like I should’ve been there already.”
He frowned. “Yeah, I guess dating all those older guys makes you feel pretty grown-up.”
I could tell by his cynical tone that he didn’t approve of my personal life. And while an old, small part of me actually appreciated his concern, the larger, brassier, mouthier part felt judged and insulted. “Nothing’s wrong with me going out with older guys.”
He shrugged. “I guess not. That is, if you don’t care what people think of you or your reputation.”
The place was getting busier now and so I just rolled my eyes at him and strutted off to take the order at the next table. Still, his words burned like iodine in an open cut and I couldn’t shake them as I clipped the order onto the wheel and gave it a spin. Then suddenly, it occurred to me. Maybe he’s just jealous! Maybe he wishes he were one of those guys taking me out.
From where I stood at the front counter, I glanced over to where he sat all alone at the little table, dressed in his usual neat white shirt and straight dark tie. Then I shook my head as I mentally tallied a tab. No way! Joey Divers was way too square and sensible to be interested in a wild thing like me. If Joey had a girlfriend (and for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine that he ever would, but if he did) she would probably be the type to wear a pleated skirt, not too short, matching knee socks, and shiny penny loafers—someone like Ali McGraw in Love Story. Not someone like me.
Joey looked slightly sheepish when he came up to the cash register to pay his bill. “Cass, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still think you’re great. I just want you to be careful—watch out for yourself, you know?” He smiled apologetically, a small flush creeping into his cheeks.
“I know, Joey. Thanks for caring.” I handed him his change and smiled in an overly bright way. “I’ll be just fine.”
On Labor Day weekend, just days before school started back up, I learned (by eavesdropping on a conversation between a couple of high school teachers who’d come into the Dairy Maid for the “best burger deal”) that Joey Divers had been moved up another year! He would start school as a senior the following week—now two years ahead of me. Mrs. Sparks, an English teacher, said, “With Joey’s test scores, he could’ve gone straight on to college, but he opted to stick around Brookdale High another year.”
“Probably due to that bad leg of his,” said Mr. Lawson, a science teacher who also coached football. “I’m sure that makes life tough for him.”
I felt a sharp mixture of pride and disappointment. This meant Joey would only be around town for one more year. I wondered why I even cared, since our paths crossed so seldom these days. But for some reason I did. It seemed like no matter what, Joey Divers was always leaving me behind.
I’d been thinking on his words some lately, and I suspected he was right. I did need to be careful. It seemed the only way to make any real change in the direction my life appeared to be heading would be to break off my friendship with Bryn. And even though there were things about her that drove me totally nuts sometimes, I didn’t know what I’d do without having her place to crash at when my home life was less
than ideal. I honestly couldn’t think of anyone else that would take me in. And so I felt caught between a rock and a hard place—the rock being Joey and the hard place, the Tuttles’ apartment.
And yet, when I made my first appearance at Brookdale High, it was with Bryn at my side. I’m sure we must’ve looked like a couple of hookers in our micro-miniskirts, colorful hosiery, snug-fitting tops, and flashy jewelry. It’s too bad the dress code at the high school prohibited pants for girls, or I’m sure I would’ve dressed a little more modestly in my embroidered bell-bottoms or even my OshKosh denim overalls. As it was, when it came to school, I simply fell into the habit of dressing like Bryn—almost as if it became a competition to see who could get their hemlines the highest. I’m guessing I might’ve won, but I had the advantage with longer legs. I’m sure we turned quite a number of heads—and not just the students’, either. By then, Bryn was dying her hair blonde, and I must admit it didn’t look half bad on her in a trampy sort of way. We didn’t have too many classes together since I, as usual, leaned more toward the academics, whereas Bryn chose her classes based on what she assumed she had the best chances of passing. Naturally, she had no intention of going on to college, and her mother often said it’d be a major miracle if she made it through high school with diploma in hand.
As it turned out her mother was right. Bryn got pregnant in the winter of our tenth grade year. To make matters worse, it wasn’t with one of her numerous boyfriends. No, it turned out to be her math teacher, Mr. Walker. He’d been tutoring her after school (well, that and other things…). Naturally, it was quite the scandal, since Mr. Walker was “happily” married with two young children. But then it was those “if it feels good, do it” kind of days—“Make love, not war” and the like. So, what could anyone expect? Of course Mr. Walker got fired, and Bryn got sent to live with an aunt up in Connecticut right after spring break just as she was starting to show.
Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) Page 6
