Unforgettable

by Loretta Ellsworth

  February 23, at 7:37. Their first date. Dink handed the dozen roses to Mom. “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman.”

  She blushed. “They’re gorgeous. You shouldn’t have, but I’m glad you did.” They both laughed, but Dink’s laugh sounded forced.

  Another memory flashes: July 18, at 10:44 p.m. Dink had another dozen roses in his hands. He was in the kitchen. Mom had just come home from her job at the newspaper. From the living room I could only see part of her, one hand on her hip. Dink’s voice was pleading. “Come on, Mary. You know I work on commission. Things are tough right now. I’ll help out as soon as I can.”

  “Why do you spend money on flowers when you can’t help with the rent? You’ve only paid me one time in the last eight months,” she hissed in a low voice. Mom didn’t like to fight in front of me. She knew I’d remember it.

  “I have expenses, too,” he said angrily. “I pull my weight around here. Who fixed that leaky faucet last week? You’re lucky to have me.”

  He threw the roses against the wall. Red petals scattered across the floor. Then he slammed the back door on his way out. I knew he’d come home drunk. He always did when they fought.

  I wonder which memory Mom’s thinking of as she cries now. I go back to my room and Gatsby, and I read how Daisy’s husband Tom broke his girlfriend’s nose with his open hand in a single instant.

  Dink’s temper was like that. Unpredictable. One minute he was acting like we were best buddies, the next he was yelling at me and trying to scare me into doing what he wanted.

  I didn’t steal Dink’s money because he’d slapped me that one time. I stole Dink’s money because he used Mom and me. He made us trust him, and then he made me write down those credit card numbers. He was a fake from the start, and we both fell for it.

  Thoughts of Dink creep into my bed, making it impossible to sleep. Every sound unnerves me. Rattling windows. Creaking walls. The sound of a car driving by. Distant footsteps.

  “I know what you did, Baxter.” Dink’s voice reached across the aisle of the courtroom. “You took my money, didn’t you?”

  “Don’t listen to him. He’s going to prison. You don’t have to see him ever again,” Mom said, taking me in her arms.

  “Give it back,” Dink shouted. “I know you have it!”

  The guards pulled him away. Mom started crying. I pretended I didn’t hear Dink, but I could see him through the crease in Mom’s sweater. He was swearing and tugging against the guards like a dog on a leash.

  What will happen if Dink finds us? Why didn’t Mom kick him out sooner? Why did Daisy stay with her cheating husband when she had someone like Gatsby who adored her?

  I turn on the light and continue reading, rooting for Gatsby to win in the end as if my own life depends on it.

  My First Date

  On the way to school I sit in my usual spot on the bus, fifth seat from the front on the left-hand side. We’re halfway to school when a green car passes us going in the opposite direction. For a moment I think it’s a Camaro. A metallic, fern green Camaro. But I’m not sure because I only got a glimpse and it’s gone now.

  I lean my head against the window and clutch my stomach. I have an acid taste in my throat. I look at my watch but the memories spill out like a waking dream and I’m stuck back with him again.

  I wrote the numbers down. Dink grabbed the paper from my hand.

  “I wish I could take you to Vegas, Baxter. Maybe when you’re a little older.” He sounded all friendly, like he hadn’t just slapped me across the face twenty minutes ago, like we were buddies again. But I wouldn’t forget. I’d never forget.

  Just the thought of Dink makes me sick. That acid taste fills my whole mouth. I imagine last night’s chicken splattering across the bus floor and I open the window and gulp air.

  An hour later I’m staring down at my Social Studies book, trying to get the memory of Dink out of my head when two hands reach around and cover my eyes.

  “Did you miss me?” Halle’s bubbly, daffodil voice provides instant relief. My stomach is no longer queasy and everything is okay, even the fact that I’m a Peeping Tom and totally unworthy of her.

  She reminds me of Daisy at that moment, so I respond the way Fitzgerald would have written it in Gatsby. “The whole school is desolate. They were planning to paint their notebooks black until you returned.”

  She removes her hand. My skin tingles at the memory of her touch.

  Halle scrunches up her nose. “You’re kind of odd sometimes, Baxter.”

  I flash a blank look back. Did she see me peeking in her window yesterday?

  Then her eyes turn playful. “Want to go out to lunch with me?”

  “We have different lunch periods. I have second and you have third.”

  “And your point is?”

  “You want me to …?”

  “Skip.” The word rolls off her tongue like a challenge.

  I let out a nervous laugh.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never skipped before.”

  I think back to my days with Coyote. A private tutor is best left unmentioned. “I was homeschooled for the last three years,” I say instead. “It’s hard to skip there.”

  She shakes her head. “See what you’ve missed? It’s absolutely expected in high school. What classes do you have after lunch?”

  “Phys Ed and Lit.”

  Mrs. Ball makes a shushing sound as she writes on the board. Halle sits down and murmurs, “Everyone skips Phys Ed. And you can definitely skip Shaw’s class. Meet me in the south parking lot at twelve-thirty.”

  Like a gypsy who’s satisfied with the spell she’s cast, Halle opens her book and doesn’t so much as glance my way the rest of the period. I spend the entire morning in a nervous rush, weighing the consequences of skipping. But the debate going on in my head isn’t a fair one. I’m going to skip; I can’t deny the pull Halle has on me. If it was anyone but her I wouldn’t do it. I’m too much of a wimp.

  But there are other things to consider. Mom, if she finds out. My teachers, who already think I’m a slacker because I barely take notes, and even though I’m getting better grades, I’m still careful not to ace my quizzes. And there’s the concern that Halle and her friends are a bit on the extreme side. Eddie seems like a hothead, and if Halle really smashed in a pop machine in junior high, what’s to say that smashing down a taconite-plant fence won’t soon follow? I was released by the police because I ratted out Dink and I was only twelve years old. But I don’t need unnecessary attention.

  At 12:28 I stand outside the door and lean against a brick wall warmed by the sun, trying to look like I’m waiting for a ride, like I’m supposed to be here. I’ve never cut class before, and never had a girl invite me to lunch, either. Two firsts. I’m not sure how to act. Is this a date? Should I pay? I only have ten dollars on me.

  Halle bursts out the door with a bright smile on her face, as if skipping school is the best thing in the world. She looks at me and clicks her tongue. “If it will make you feel better, we’ll talk about Gatsby during lunch. Then you won’t feel so guilty.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Completely,” she says and her voice sparks of glee. “Come on.” She pulls me up a grassy hill toward a street leading downtown. I don’t know where we’re going but I don’t really care. Carefree. The word flits through my mind, making a new connection.

  “Were you sick yesterday?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Sick, tired, burned out. I know; it’s only the second week of school.”

  “Why do you hate school so much?”

  “I don’t hate it. I’m just not all that into it. When I was a little girl I was so excited to go to kindergarten. I thought it was going to be this great adventure I’d heard my sister talk about. So finally the first day of school came. I went and met my teacher and the other kids; I remember we had this huge castle in our classroom that I loved.”

  “Made out of gray cardboard.” The words fly out of my mouth
before I can stop them.

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “I … I’ve seen one before.”

  “God, Baxter. You’re always one step ahead of me. Well, anyway, after I got home, my mom asked how it was and I said, ‘Just okay,’ because no one played with me in the castle, and Mom said, ‘Well, you’ll have more fun tomorrow.’ And I said, ‘You mean I have to go back?’ I thought it was a one-shot deal. I had no idea that school went on for twelve long years.”

  That first day of kindergarten Halle wore a red jumper with a white polo top and white knee socks. The first time I saw her she was inside the castle, peeking out through the bookmark-sized openings at the rest of the class, singing a little song to herself about a teapot. I liked her the minute I heard her voice. Then I saw her cherub face and curly blond pigtails and I was hopelessly in love. But she was very shy; she kept hiding inside the castle whenever I looked at her, so I didn’t talk to her that day. Instead I played an alphabet matching memory game with Danny Jamison. Danny was horrible at it.

  Halle sighs. “Mom broke it to me gradually. Kept telling me I had a few more days. Then I eventually figured it out on my own. But school is so boring. If it weren’t for Shaw’s class I wouldn’t show up at all.”

  We walk down the tree-lined streets of Wellington. The homes are older, not as big as Halle’s, but they’re what Mom calls quaint. She says they each have a character and a history. I’d never thought of houses that way.

  Our shoes crunch leaves that are falling off trees even though it’s warm enough to wear shorts. The trees seem to know that autumn is here even if the weather doesn’t. “So I take it you’re not interested in college?”

  “No, but I don’t have a choice. It’s expected. The problem is I’m too smart for school. It’s not challenging.”

  “You could take advanced classes.”

  “Did I mention that I’m also lazy? And I love to watch daytime soaps on TV?”

  “It gets lonely studying by yourself. I did it for three years.”

  “Well, I do like hanging out with my buds.” She slips her hand in mine. “And there’s the Mental Club.”

  My hand feels like a limp noodle in hers. I try to act casual. I try not to look like I’m exploding inside.

  Halle pulls me along, shuffling through as many leaves as she can, winding back and forth across the sidewalk as she kicks at them with the pointed toe of her Mary Jane shoes, as though she’s practicing some ballet move. I try to keep up with her, but I only have one move and it’s not that graceful.

  She has on jeans that look expensive, the kind with jewels on the butt, and when she bends over to pick a yellow flower, I have to remind myself not to stare. “My favorite color,” she says, twirling the flower in her hand as if she knows the color matches her voice.

  We probably look strange strolling back and forth across the sidewalk, hand in hand. But this is one time I don’t care what others think. I’d walk this way every day if it meant that Halle would let me hold her hand. What would she say if I told her who I was, if I reminded her that in kindergarten she got stung by a bee and her arm broke out in a rash and she had to go to the nurse’s office? Or how in musical chairs it was down to her and me and I let her take the chair? Would she remember me? Would she remember how I recited the entire dialogue from a Pokémon movie she loved? Would it make a difference?

  The words hang on my tongue, ready to slip out. But I derail them. I don’t want anything to ruin this day. “Did you get in trouble with your dad?” I ask innocently.

  Halle lets go of my hand and I immediately regret asking her that question. “You mean about our protesting? No big deal. He just said that next time we have to stay off the road.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, it’s not like we did anything illegal. It’s our right to protest. He understands that.”

  That’s not what I heard yesterday at her window. She was crying and her dad was yelling at her. I can always tell when Mom is lying—her voice quivers just a bit. It’s subtle, but I’ve noticed it since I was young. Maybe that’s what I’m hearing in Halle’s voice now. There’s a tension to it, as though it’s costing her something to tell this lie. Why isn’t she being honest? And why does it bother me so much that she’s not telling the truth when I’ve been dishonest from the start?

  We walk past a nail salon and I see the red awning across the street. It’s then that I realize where we’re heading. I put my hand out.

  “Wait. That’s the Tin Cup Restaurant. My mom works there.”

  Halle stops. “Really? We’ll have to go to Mel’s Diner then. It’s just around the corner.”

  She leads me around the block, taking the long route so we don’t pass in front of Mom’s restaurant.

  “I have to warn you. Mel’s is a dump,” she says.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkened interior. We get our own menus from a front counter and sit in a booth away from the window.

  The lunch specials are printed on a grease-lined piece of paper attached inside the menu. Mine has a dead fly stuck to it. Fried chicken and meatloaf are the specialties of the day.

  A waitress sets down two plastic glasses filled with water, no ice. “An order of nachos with no meat,” Halle says. “We’re splitting them.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Two Cokes,” Halle says before I can open my mouth. I quickly add up the cost: five dollars and forty-nine cents for the nachos and one dollar nineteen cents for each of the Cokes. That’s seven dollars and eighty-seven cents for the meal before tax with enough leftover for a small tip. Even though there might be some disagreement on whether or not this is a date, at least I can afford it.

  There are eight other people in the restaurant. Halle picks up the plastic glass and swirls it around, focusing on the water. “The only thing edible here is the nachos. Definitely don’t try the lefse. Everyone knows that Mabel Turner is the only person in Wellington who can make decent lefse and she only does it on special occasions down at St. John’s Lutheran.”

  “What’s lefse?”

  Halle lets out a small laugh. “It’s like a potato tortilla. Not that bad, really. Just don’t let anyone talk you into trying lutefisk.” She makes a sour face. “Jellied codfish. Need I say more?”

  I put my hands up. “Please don’t.”

  She takes a breath. “The Tin Cup has much better food.”

  I nod. “My mom brings home dinner three times a week. The shrimp scampi is the best I’ve ever had.”

  “Too bad your mom is working there. That makes it off limits for lunch. What do we have to avoid so we don’t run into your dad?”

  “He died when I was three.”

  “I’m sorry. You don’t remember him then?”

  I shrug. “I have some memories.”

  “Really? I can’t recall anything that far back. I kind of remember living in California when I was little, but it’s pretty vague.”

  I could refresh her memory.

  She leans forward and says in a low voice, “So do you want the real lowdown on Wellington, Minnesota? Or do you prefer the Stepford version?”

  I bend and our faces meet in the middle of the booth. Hers is inches away. This is the closest I’ve been to her since I kissed her back in kindergarten. I could reach over and kiss her now. I wonder what she’d do, if she’d kiss me back, or if she’d smack me in the mouth. Does she even think of me the way I think of her? Does she think of me at all?

  “What’s the truth about Wellington?”

  “It has decent schools, but a lot of snow and you’ll freeze your butt off here. The kids grow up and go off to good colleges and never come back. Period.”

  “So where do they go?”

  “Bigger cities like Minneapolis or Chicago, or if they’re smart they go south where it’s warmer. We moved here when I was in kindergarten, but I’m going back to California someday. Back to sunny, warm weather.”

  “Maybe you should check out coll
eges there.” I picture us both at the same university. By then I’m sure Dink will have gotten himself into trouble again and be serving twenty years for another felony. At least I hope so.

  The waitress sets our Cokes on the table. “Nachos are almost ready,” she says, then leaves.

  Halle picks up her straw and twirls it around her fingers. “I’m thinking of going to Portugal and doing something totally impulsive, like learning to be a cork stripper.”

  My eyes widen.

  “It’s not what you think, silly. They strip the bark from trees to make wine corks. Except that I have a problem with destroying trees, so that probably won’t work. Did you know that obrigado is Portuguese for thank you?”

  “No. I never studied Portuguese.”

  “I don’t either; I just read that somewhere. I’ll probably go to Princeton, actually. That’s where F. Scott Fitzgerald graduated. I’ll let Daddy pay for it, then I’ll write my own Gatsby about the lack of morality in companies like his.”

  “I thought Gatsby was a love story.”

  Halle’s eyes smirk at me. “What chapter are you on?”

  “Six. We’re having a quiz tomorrow on chapters five and six.”

  “The chapter where Daisy and Tom attend Gatsby’s party?”

  I nod. “And where we learn about Gatsby’s real identity, and how he transformed himself.”

  Halle takes a long sip of her Coke. “But he didn’t. He conjured up this image at the age of seventeen, this persona that he thought he could pull off. Nothing lasts forever. In the end don’t you think people will discover who he really is?”

  Her words slice through me as though she’s talking about me and not Gatsby. “Maybe it won’t matter.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want to throw you a spoiler, New Kid, but the truth always matters.”

  I know it’s just a book, but I’ve come to identify with Jay Gatsby, with his love for a woman he knew years ago and his desire to win her over again. But now that I’ve been warned about Gatsby’s future, it feels as though it’s become wrapped up in my own, in my plot to reinvent myself into something I’m not. If a man as clever and handsome and single-minded as Gatsby couldn’t succeed, then how am I going to?