Ask the Passengers
Page 15
Seconds after I stand up outside the car and straighten my shirt, Juan arrives at the deliveries door and says something to me. I have no idea what he says. I think he’s speaking Spanish.
If I spoke Spanish, I think a little part of me would want to say, “Thank you for saving me, Juan. I owe you one.”
Today we make five pounds of shrimp, some clams on the half shell, four vegetable trays with broccoli, cauliflower, celery and carrots, and three trays of mushroom vol-au-vents. I pretend to have fun with Dee singing our shrimp-deveining song and stuff like that, but I don’t go into the walkins. I don’t even help her do dishes. Before we go our separate ways after work, we sit in my car. And before I say anything, she says, “You’re going to tell me to back off again, aren’t you?” She pouts.
“See? You’re a maniac.”
“I’m a fiend for you. I can’t help it.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“I don’t know. I just—” She moves in closer. “I just want you so bad, Jones.”
I grab her approaching hand. “If all you want is sex, then why don’t you find a girl who just gives out? I want to get to know you better.”
“What’s there to know?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” I reach past her into the glove compartment for my Rolaids. “What’s your favorite meal?”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I reach over and hold her hand. We slink down in the car seats, and I put my feet on the dash.
She shrugs. “I like roast beef and mashed potatoes with homemade gravy and… hmm… carrots? No. Peas. No. Carrots.”
“You can have both, you know.”
“Yeah, both.”
She looks bored. It’s as if she’s never talked about her favorite foods and held hands before.
“What about your favorite thing to do?”
She looks at me with that pout again. “Not allowed to say,” she says.
“I mean, before you did that—what was your favorite thing to do?”
“Hockey.”
“Oh yeah. Of course.”
“And running. I love running.”
“And you love washing cauliflower, right?”
“As long as I’m with you, I love it.”
I look at her and c**k my head. “I think that’s the sweetest thing you ever said to me.”
“All true,” she says. “So why were you so tired this morning? Up reading some crazy book? Writing poetry about how much you love my fine brawny ass?” she asks.
I chew my Rolaids and take an extra second to consider my options here. It’s Dee. She no doubt knows about Atlantis. She may have even been there before. I think about Kristina and Justin and their secrets that I’ve sworn to keep. I think about how I have different secrets hidden from different people in different areas of my life. I think about how that might be the reason I’m chewing on Rolaids all the time.
She leans in to kiss me good-bye, and when she does, I wish I lived on the right planet where kissing Dee Roberts wasn’t a big freaking deal. Where it didn’t mean I have to affix a label to my forehead so people can take turns trying to figure out what caused it or what’s wrong with me. And I wish I didn’t have to lie so much. I don’t think Frank Socrates would approve of all this lying.
I think Frank would want me to cause a lot more trouble.
14
I THINK THE RACCOONS NOW HAVE DYSENTERY.
THE CLOSER I GET TO HOME, the worse my hangover gets. My head aches, and my gut feels horrible. Especially when I walk into the house and have to face the smell of my mother’s paella. Oh, God. It’s her crazy ultimate paella with every shellfish known to man in it. Why can’t I have a normal mom who wants to make American food? Burgers and fries. Something from the freezer section? Grilled cheese sandwiches and canned tomato soup?
I change out of my work clothes and take a shower. Then I check through my backpack for any homework I can get a jump on so I can avoid going into the land of ultimate paella. I have to write a paper about one of the stories we read in lit class, so I lie on my bed and wait for an idea to come to me, until I get dangerously close to sleep, and then I make myself get up.
“Will you give me a hand?” Mom says as I walk through the kitchen.
“Sure.”
“Can you fill glasses?”
I grab the pitcher full of water and start filling glasses.
“Shit!” she says. I look over and see her wrestling with the huge stockpot, trying to tip the contents into a large serving bowl. I put down the pitcher and help her. Not without catching a whiff of the mussels and pimentos.
“Thanks,” she says. I am amazed at how normal this whole exchange was. I’m impressed that she didn’t critique my serving-bowl-holding abilities or something.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pretending to eat paella but really eating more bread dipped in olive oil than paella. So far, no one notices.
“We play Holy Guardian on Tuesday, and then we’re at home on Friday against Frederickstown again. Over halfway through the season already,” Ellis says.
“I’ll make it to the Frederickstown game. Can’t do Tuesday, though,” Dad says.
Mom stays quiet.
“Awesome, Dad. You rock,” Ellis says.
Does anyone else in the room hear the not awesome, Mom—you don’t rock part? I do.
“Doesn’t look like you guys will make it to the postseason, though,” Dad says. “I know you really wanted to.”
“It’s cool. I have next year to try again, right?” Ellis smiles at him.
“What about you, Astrid? Anything happening this week?”
I dip more bread into the oil and pick up my fork as if I plan to eat paella. “It turned out that Zeno is right,” I say. I still haven’t told them about Zeno, so we’ll see if they bite.
“Really?” Mom says.
“Yep.”
“Which one is he again? The history or the American lit teacher?” Mom says. She pours herself another glass of wine.
“Isn’t he a philosopher?” Dad says.
I point at him and shoot a finger gun. “Bingo.”
“Oh,” Mom says. And when I don’t say anything else, she says, “Which one was he again?”
“The guy who said motion is impossible,” I say. I take one pseudo-bite of the paella, and it’s pretty good except for the pimentos. And the fish. I try to get forkfuls of rice only. Then I go back to just the bread.
If I spoke Spanish, I think a little part of me would want to say, “Thank you for saving me, Juan. I owe you one.”
Today we make five pounds of shrimp, some clams on the half shell, four vegetable trays with broccoli, cauliflower, celery and carrots, and three trays of mushroom vol-au-vents. I pretend to have fun with Dee singing our shrimp-deveining song and stuff like that, but I don’t go into the walkins. I don’t even help her do dishes. Before we go our separate ways after work, we sit in my car. And before I say anything, she says, “You’re going to tell me to back off again, aren’t you?” She pouts.
“See? You’re a maniac.”
“I’m a fiend for you. I can’t help it.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“I don’t know. I just—” She moves in closer. “I just want you so bad, Jones.”
I grab her approaching hand. “If all you want is sex, then why don’t you find a girl who just gives out? I want to get to know you better.”
“What’s there to know?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” I reach past her into the glove compartment for my Rolaids. “What’s your favorite meal?”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I reach over and hold her hand. We slink down in the car seats, and I put my feet on the dash.
She shrugs. “I like roast beef and mashed potatoes with homemade gravy and… hmm… carrots? No. Peas. No. Carrots.”
“You can have both, you know.”
“Yeah, both.”
She looks bored. It’s as if she’s never talked about her favorite foods and held hands before.
“What about your favorite thing to do?”
She looks at me with that pout again. “Not allowed to say,” she says.
“I mean, before you did that—what was your favorite thing to do?”
“Hockey.”
“Oh yeah. Of course.”
“And running. I love running.”
“And you love washing cauliflower, right?”
“As long as I’m with you, I love it.”
I look at her and c**k my head. “I think that’s the sweetest thing you ever said to me.”
“All true,” she says. “So why were you so tired this morning? Up reading some crazy book? Writing poetry about how much you love my fine brawny ass?” she asks.
I chew my Rolaids and take an extra second to consider my options here. It’s Dee. She no doubt knows about Atlantis. She may have even been there before. I think about Kristina and Justin and their secrets that I’ve sworn to keep. I think about how I have different secrets hidden from different people in different areas of my life. I think about how that might be the reason I’m chewing on Rolaids all the time.
She leans in to kiss me good-bye, and when she does, I wish I lived on the right planet where kissing Dee Roberts wasn’t a big freaking deal. Where it didn’t mean I have to affix a label to my forehead so people can take turns trying to figure out what caused it or what’s wrong with me. And I wish I didn’t have to lie so much. I don’t think Frank Socrates would approve of all this lying.
I think Frank would want me to cause a lot more trouble.
14
I THINK THE RACCOONS NOW HAVE DYSENTERY.
THE CLOSER I GET TO HOME, the worse my hangover gets. My head aches, and my gut feels horrible. Especially when I walk into the house and have to face the smell of my mother’s paella. Oh, God. It’s her crazy ultimate paella with every shellfish known to man in it. Why can’t I have a normal mom who wants to make American food? Burgers and fries. Something from the freezer section? Grilled cheese sandwiches and canned tomato soup?
I change out of my work clothes and take a shower. Then I check through my backpack for any homework I can get a jump on so I can avoid going into the land of ultimate paella. I have to write a paper about one of the stories we read in lit class, so I lie on my bed and wait for an idea to come to me, until I get dangerously close to sleep, and then I make myself get up.
“Will you give me a hand?” Mom says as I walk through the kitchen.
“Sure.”
“Can you fill glasses?”
I grab the pitcher full of water and start filling glasses.
“Shit!” she says. I look over and see her wrestling with the huge stockpot, trying to tip the contents into a large serving bowl. I put down the pitcher and help her. Not without catching a whiff of the mussels and pimentos.
“Thanks,” she says. I am amazed at how normal this whole exchange was. I’m impressed that she didn’t critique my serving-bowl-holding abilities or something.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pretending to eat paella but really eating more bread dipped in olive oil than paella. So far, no one notices.
“We play Holy Guardian on Tuesday, and then we’re at home on Friday against Frederickstown again. Over halfway through the season already,” Ellis says.
“I’ll make it to the Frederickstown game. Can’t do Tuesday, though,” Dad says.
Mom stays quiet.
“Awesome, Dad. You rock,” Ellis says.
Does anyone else in the room hear the not awesome, Mom—you don’t rock part? I do.
“Doesn’t look like you guys will make it to the postseason, though,” Dad says. “I know you really wanted to.”
“It’s cool. I have next year to try again, right?” Ellis smiles at him.
“What about you, Astrid? Anything happening this week?”
I dip more bread into the oil and pick up my fork as if I plan to eat paella. “It turned out that Zeno is right,” I say. I still haven’t told them about Zeno, so we’ll see if they bite.
“Really?” Mom says.
“Yep.”
“Which one is he again? The history or the American lit teacher?” Mom says. She pours herself another glass of wine.
“Isn’t he a philosopher?” Dad says.
I point at him and shoot a finger gun. “Bingo.”
“Oh,” Mom says. And when I don’t say anything else, she says, “Which one was he again?”
“The guy who said motion is impossible,” I say. I take one pseudo-bite of the paella, and it’s pretty good except for the pimentos. And the fish. I try to get forkfuls of rice only. Then I go back to just the bread.
