Free Lunch

by Free Lunch (retail) (epub)

  She just sits there, sobbing, crying for a long time.

  That’s when I realize.

  She’s broken.

  I don’t know if she was born this way, or if something broke her along the way. Maybe being poor broke her. But she isn’t well. And she can’t get well as long as this is her life.

  As much as I want to, I can’t hate her. She’s my mom. My only mom. I crawl over, into the milk, and hold her. She’s moaning now, like some ghost is trying to escape her from deep down inside. The sound makes every part of me feel loaded with guilt, so heavy I could drown in it.

  I have to stop fighting her. I have to try to help her.

  I just wish I knew how.

  APOLOGIES

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “For what? What’d you do now?” Mom asks. She’s barely talked to me for days. Instead of being mad about it, I keep reminding myself: Be nice to her, be nice to her, be nice to her.

  “I don’t know. For everything,” I say. “I know I’m not easy.”

  “You’re telling me,” she says. But Mom eyes me closer, waiting for something. “What’s the catch? You apologizing because you want something?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. I just want to say, I know it must be hard. Dealing with what you deal with. Adult stuff, I mean. Paying bills. Trying to find work. All that stuff.”

  She can’t tell if I’m sincere. But I am. Some part of her knows. She softens a little. But just a little.

  There’s this part of me, way deep down inside, it’s like the little kid I used to be. That part wants to break down, crying and begging, to say I’m sorry for everything. Take the blame for all the bad things. The fighting. The money. The move. Because I just want her to hug me and say she loves me.

  But there’s another part of me, I guess the part of me from right now, the older me, that refuses to do that. ’Cause I’m not sorry for everything. ’Cause it’s not all my fault, and I won’t say it is, ’cause that’s a lie. I won’t take responsibility for the things I didn’t do. For her hitting me. Or for Sam hitting me. Or for her fighting with Sam. That stuff isn’t my fault. I’m sorry that stuff happens, but I didn’t do it. And I won’t say I’m sorry for it. But I am sorry about everything else. So that’s what I try to say.

  “I know I have a temper—” I say slowly. Slowly, ’cause I’m trying to think about what I say before I say it. I want to say, a temper I learned from you. But I don’t. ’Cause that won’t help things. “—and I’m sorry for yelling at you—” I bite my lip this time ’cause I want to say, even though you always yell first. “I want to be better. I want to help around here.”

  Mom’s eyes narrow, trying to figure me out. “Good, it’s about time you apologized,” she says in a nasty tone. But then she softens a little more. Adding, “I’m sorry too. I know this life isn’t easy.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say on reflex. I’m not sure if I mean it, but I think it’s what she wants to hear.

  Maybe what she needs to hear.

  And I’m right. ’Cause her eyes get real wet, and she’s about to cry.

  She sniffs and says, “It’s really hard. Being poor in this country is like—like starving at an all-you-can-eat buffet. You can see all of this food piled high, but you can’t have any of it. It’s just out of reach. Like everything else. Jobs. Houses. The things you see in TV commercials. It’s all a pipe dream for people like us. It’s all window-shopping. The grocery stores, the malls, the car lots everywhere. It’s all luxury, and people don’t realize how lucky they are if they can afford any of it. We know, because we can’t have any of it. No matter how hard we work, we’ll never have money like the people at the top. We work just as hard as they do. Harder sometimes. But we’ll never make the money they make. The system is broke. It’s just—it’s not fair.”

  Usually when I say that—it’s not fair—Mom says, Life’s not fair. I don’t say that though. I just nod.

  “I want to work,” she whispers. “I do. It’s easy to get a job when you have a job. But the opposite is true too. When you don’t have a job, no one wants to hire you. No one wants to take a chance.”

  “Someone will,” I say.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Someone,” I say. I offer a little smile.

  Mom smiles back. She hugs me.

  I know it’s not a lot, but it’s a start.

  SATURDAY

  On Friday, out of the blue, Liam asks me if I want to come over. “It’s been forever. Wanna hang out?”

  “OK,” I say.

  “We can bike around. Like old times.”

  “I moved. I live on the other side of town now.”

  “Oh,” he says.

  “It’s fine. I’ll be there.”

  “Cool. See you tomorrow.”

  On Saturday morning it takes me an hour to walk from Slate Road to Glendale Avenue. When I get there, Liam is shooting hoops in the driveway of his two-story house. All sweaty, he asks, “What took you so long?”

  “It’s a long walk.”

  “You walked?”

  I shrug. I don’t say my mom wouldn’t drive me ’cause gas is expensive.

  “You hungry? Let’s eat before we bike.”

  Inside, his mom is making pancakes, eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit. When she sees me, she runs over and gives me this big warm hug. “Rex, it’s been forever! How are you? Oh lord, please pardon my appearance, I’m a mess!”

  She’s not though. Her hair is perfect, and she’s wearing a red holiday sweater, pearl earrings, and a matching pearl necklace. The only thing messy about her is the pancake batter on her hands and apron.

  “Liam told me you’re not playing football. Good for you. Ever since he started, his grades have been abysmal. I’m tempted to make him quit the team.”

  “Mom! Stop talking. He’s my friend, not yours!” Liam groans.

  His mom giggles, then pretends to zip her lips. She hugs me again, and whispers, “It’s so good seeing you. Come over again soon. Help yourself to anything in the house.”

  I load up my plate with a little bit of everything. Liam’s mom always makes food just right: the pancakes are the size of silver dollars, the eggs are soft-scrambled, the bacon crispy. She even cut up the best fruits: strawberries, honeydew, and pineapple. When I finish, I get seconds. Liam ignores all the food she made, and instead heats up a Pop-Tart.

  After breakfast, we run up to his room so he can grab his bike lock. The house is huge. They have three bedrooms, three bathrooms, an office, an attic, a two-car garage, and a small pool in the back. To me, it seems like a lot of rooms for three people. But I wish I had that.

  Liam has two bikes. He loans me one so we can ride around. I follow him to Birmingham Lake. We skip rocks in the water and talk about school and movies and things we used to do in fifth grade. I don’t ask about football. It’ll remind me of the fun I’m missing. And I don’t like being jealous.

  When we’re riding home, we stop at the Fast-Mart. “I’m thirsty,” Liam says. “Want something?”

  I’m super thirsty, but I don’t have any money. I shake my head no. We go inside the store, and Liam grabs a soda from the fridge. He opens it and starts drinking before he’s paid for it. I could never do that, ’cause cashiers would probably call the cops.

  He grabs a Gatorade and a bag of chips, tossing each to me. “Carry this, will ya?”

  A woman comes in to pay for her gas. Liam looks over his shoulder to make sure the cashier is busy. Then he slips four candy bars into his pocket. He says to me, “Come on, grab something.”

  I shake my head no.

  Liam’s dad is a lawyer. If he gets caught, he’ll just get grounded. If I get caught, I’ll go to jail for the rest of my life.

  Liam shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He slips a pack of Starburst into his other pocket. Then he walks to the counter, looks the man in the eyes, and smiles real charming-like. Which he is. Everyone likes Liam. Which is probably why he can get away with anything. />
  He puts the empty Coke can on the counter and burps real loud. “Excuse me.” He laughs as he grabs the chips and Gatorade and puts them on the counter. He pulls out a small roll of cash. Mostly fives and tens. He pays for his stuff and winks, saying, “Have an awesome day, dudester.”

  We’re about to walk out when the cashier says to me, “Hey! You not buying anything?”

  “No.”

  “Let me see your pockets,” the cashier snaps.

  Real annoyed, I lift my shirt and pat myself down. There’s nothing in my pockets. Not a single penny. The cashier gives me the stink eye anyways.

  When we come out of the Fast-Mart, Liam starts laughing so hard he’s crying. “That. Was. Priceless!”

  “I’m glad you think it’s funny.”

  “It is! I rob the guy blind, and he’s staring at you the whole time. We should go to a jewelry store together.”

  “No, thanks,” I say. I’m real irritated for a bunch of reasons. For one, if Liam had got caught, I probably would have gotten in trouble too. Second, I hate that cashiers always think I’m trying to steal something. It makes me so mad. And third, third is the part I just don’t get. So I ask. “Why do you do it? You have money. A lot of it. So why? Why risk getting in trouble?”

  Liam shrugs. “I dunno. Because I can.”

  On my long walk home, I think real hard about that. Maybe it’s a good thing Liam and I aren’t friends anymore. When we were kids, doing dumb stuff was fun. But now I’m getting older. I can get in real trouble. That’ll just make things worse. Not just for me, for everyone, like Sam and Mom and Ford.

  I know I thought Ethan was a total weirdo when I met him, but suddenly I’m real glad he’s my friend. He would never steal something just ’cause. Ethan’s a good person. I kinda hope that if I hang around him long enough, I’ll be a good person too.

  CHOPSTICKS

  When I come out of my bedroom, Mom screams, “Rex!” She charges toward me like a bull. I cover my head, caving against the doorframe, bracing myself.

  She doesn’t hit me though. Instead, she hugs me, squeezing me until I can’t breathe. She yells, “I got it! I got the job!” She jumps up and down. She’s smiling. An actual, bright, wide, white smile. “I got it! I got it!”

  She wraps her arms around me again. It feels bizarre, claustrophobic. It’s not that it isn’t nice. It is nice, I guess, just . . . unfamiliar.

  I ask, “Where?”

  “Birmingham’s newest restaurant: Mandarin Garden. Rex, this is a game-changer. This restaurant is gor-geous! It’s just off the highway in the center of town, so the place will be packed night and day. I’m so excited. I’m going to make so much money! We’ll be rich!”

  Rich seems like a bit of a stretch. But I don’t say that. I smile and give her a hug. I ask, “Can we eat there?”

  “That’s the best part. I get one free meal a day, and any food left over at the end of the night. You can eat there on opening night. They told the whole staff to invite their families. And it’s half-off!”

  That night, I dream of running on top of giant egg rolls, swimming in steaming egg-drop soup, and battling a giant dragon. He burns off one of my legs, but underneath is a chopstick. I don’t get the meaning, if there is one, but I wake up feeling hungry. By the time Friday rolls around, my mouth won’t stop watering.

  Even Ford is excited. Over and over he asks, “I use stop-chicks?”

  “Chop-sticks,” I correct him.

  “That what I said. Stop-chicks!”

  Sam gets home an hour earlier than usual. He stinks of weed killer and fertilizer fumes, from the toxins he spent all day spraying on lawns. Thirty minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom a new man. He puts on the button-up shirt he saves for special occasions and church with his mother. His hair is combed and parted, and he smells of cologne. He even shaved.

  He asks, “Y-y-you guys ready to st-stuff your faces?”

  Ford and I shout, “YES!”

  We pull off the highway when we see the sign. MANDARIN GARDEN. FAMILY-STYLE CHINESE EATERY. NOW OPEN!!

  The building looks like it was made in China and brought here just for us. Its base is brown brick and black trim. Its windows are bordered by deep red tile and gold detailing. The sloped roofs above shine golden in the setting sun. Large crimson doors are guarded by two giant stone lions. I put my hand in one’s mouth and say, “Ford, help! The lion is eating me!”

  We all laugh. Ford climbs up, puts his hand in the lion’s mouth and says, “Is eating me too!” Usually I’m annoyed when Ford copies me. But tonight, we’re all in a good mood.

  Inside, the restaurant feels even more authentic. Dragon murals are painted above on the ceilings. The furniture is black with red leather. Gold detailing covers the walls, showing tigers and warriors doing battle.

  “Welcome to Mandarin Garden,” says the hostess in a thick accent. “Three for dinner?”

  “Can we sit in Luciana’s section?” I request.

  Mom sees us and rushes over. She hugs me and Ford tight, and kisses Sam on the mouth. She introduces us to the restaurant owners, then leads us to her section. She gives us large black menus with golden tassels. “It’s so fancy, isn’t it?” she whispers to us. “Everything on the menu is in English and Chinese.”

  I try to figure out the alphabet so I can write in Chinese, but I give up so I can read our place settings—which explain the Chinese Zodiac. I really wanna be a Tiger or a Dragon, but my birth year makes me a Horse.

  I read my horoscope out loud, “Popular and attractive to the opposite sex. You are often ostentatious and impatient. You need people. Marry a Tiger or Dog early, but never a Rat.”

  Ford looks confused. He asks, “Marry a dog? But that’s a pet!”

  When Mom returns with appetizers, we forget about the Zodiac. “This is egg-drop soup, wanton soup, egg rolls with sweet-and-sour dipping sauce, fried shrimp, and Crab Rangoon.”

  “What’s crab ragu?” I ask.

  “Rangoon. Deep-fried dumplings with crab, garlic, and cream cheese inside.”

  “Gross.”

  “Try it,” Mom says. Her gentle grin persuades me to take a bite. As the warm insides of the Rangoon splash onto my tongue, I’m in heaven.

  “It’s so good!”

  “See?” Mom grins. She holds Sam’s hand and tells him about her favorite items on the menu. In her black skirt, ironed white shirt, and black apron, Mom is the happiest I’ve seen her in a very long time. It’s like she won the lottery. I try to recall the last time she smiled this much, and I can’t.

  When she gets another table, Sam slaps her on the butt, saying, “G-g-get to w-w-work, h-hot mama.”

  Mom giggles. I scrunch my face and say, “Ew! Gross!”

  Every time Mom walks by, Ford goes, “Hot mama!” We all laugh.

  Ford, Sam, and I talk about our day as we devour the appetizers. Sam asks about school. I talk mostly about art class. Ford tells us about his favorite new cartoon. Sam tells us about work, how he stepped in dog crap, and tracked it into this lady’s house on accident, and how she clutched her pearls and almost fainted. I laugh so hard, soy sauce comes out of my nose. That makes all of us laugh even harder. It’s weird that I live with Sam but we haven’t talked in a long time. I forgot how funny he is when he tells stories.

  Mom returns with huge bowls of steaming white rice and platters of lemon chicken, sweet-and-sour pork, pepper steak, General Tso’s chicken, and the house special: Mandarin Garden Chicken—fried nuggets in a sweet garlic sauce. I want to try everything. The citrus lemon chicken explodes in my mouth, better than anything I’ve ever eaten. That is, until I try the fried nuggets. They’re like Chick-fil-A, only better.

  We all agree to try to use the chopsticks. Sam gives up after a couple of tries. Ford doesn’t, and keeps flinging food all over the table. I laugh until Sam grumbles to stop wasting food. I keep trying, but I can’t get any rice in my mouth. I’m too hungry to wait. So I give up and switch to a fork instead.


  We eat and eat and eat until we can’t eat another bite. I feel sick, but good sick ’cause I’m so full. Even my brain feels all floaty. Mom sits down in the booth, hugging me from the side. She kisses my forehead like she does Ford. She asks, “What’d you think?”

  “Oh my God, it’s so good,” I say. “Can we eat here every night?”

  Mom giggles again. “Well, not every night. Maybe once a month. But I can bring home takeout. How does that sound?”

  Ford and I high-five each other.

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” she runs off, quickly returning with a small golden plate with fortune cookies.

  We open them one at a time. Sam goes first. “L-l-land is al-always on the m-m-mind of a flying bird. What d-d-does that m-mean?”

  Mom reads hers. “Your shoes will make you happy today.” Sam and I laugh, but Mom says, “No, it’s true! These new work shoes are great for being on my feet all day!”

  Ford gives me his fortune so I can read it. “You will marry your one true love—and soon!”

  Ford’s eyes get big, then he says, “Hot mama!” We all laugh. Sam and I roar till tears stream down our cheeks. Mom turns red from trying not to laugh in front of her new bosses.

  Finally, I crack mine open and pull out the tiny rectangle of white paper. I read aloud: “Great wealth is coming your way.”

  Pure warmth rushes through my body. “Mom, it’s just like you said. You were right.”

  Mom squeezes my hand and gives me another hug. I could get used to this.

  The busboy takes our plates away, returning with our leftovers in small white takeout boxes. Each has a little wire handle and red Chinese temples printed on the sides. The owner, an older woman, gives me more fortune cookies and an extra pair of chopsticks. She insists that I learn to use them before I come back.