Wing Jones(7)

I would love to do that. Maybe down at the Varsity. We’d get peanut-butter-banana-chocolate for sure. My favorite.

While I’ve been daydreaming, or whatever it is you call daydreaming when you do it at night but you aren’t actually sleeping, my waffles have gone soggy under the chicken and syrup. Aaron points this out.

“Your eyes bigger than your stomach, little girl?”

Marcus has called me little girl my whole life and it’s never bothered me. Hell, I’m pretty sure Aaron has called me little girl occasionally. But for some reason, tonight, it irks me. It reminds me who I am. What I am, and even though I’m almost sixteen, everyone still sees me as the little sister. The tagalong. That this is in no way any kind of double date and I need to stop pretending.

I hack at my waffle with vigor. “Don’t you worry,” I say. “I’ll finish.”

“Of course you will,” says Marcus, blissfully unaware of the turmoil going on inside me. “Y’all remember when Wing beat me at a dumpling-eating contest, right?”

“There you go, always making everything into some kinda competition,” says Aaron, shaking his head.

“I was eight,” I say, stabbing my fork into my macaroni and cheese.

“And I was ten! And I got outeaten by an eight-year-old. How many dumplings did you have, Wing? Thirty-eight?”

“Forty-one.” I’m unable to stop my lips from turning up into a smile.

“Damn, girl,” says Aaron. “I’m not even sure I could eat forty-one dumplings now. You should definitely be able to finish those waffles.”

I want to be dainty and feminine. I want to push my plate away and flutter my lashes, my stupid straight lashes, and say that I’m too full and I couldn’t possibly eat another bite. And maybe pout like Monica. I wonder how she knows how. Did she study Cosmo? Thinking about Monica reading Cosmo makes me think of the other things she might learn, and that makes me think of her and my brother and I need to stop this train of thought real quick because I do not like where it is heading.

The waffles are cold and soggy and not nearly as good as they were when we sat down. Nothing is. The grease is congealing on top of the macaroni and cheese and the skin on the fried chicken has gone limp. Even the booth seems to have lost some of its luster.

Everyone else has finished their food, even Monica, who ordered as much as me but you don’t hear the boys teasing her about her appetite, Monica wouldn’t stand for it, and I feel like the little kid at the table who is taking too long. I duck my head and focus on finishing my food as fast as I can, only half listening to the conversation around me.

“Why did you say you’d see Trey next weekend?” Monica’s tone is casual, but I know she doesn’t like it when Marcus makes plans without telling her first. Especially plans with people like Trey or Jasper.

“Ah, it’s Lamar’s birthday next week. His nineteenth. Party at Trey’s. It’ll be fun.”

“Was I invited?” says Monica pointedly. I’m still staring down at the remains of the chicken carcass on my plate, but I can picture her expression perfectly.

“Of course you were! Anywhere I’m invited, you’re invited.”

Monica makes a sound that is a little bit like a rhino getting ready to charge. A small rhino, but still a rhino. Marcus makes a similar sound back, and it’s like some sort of bizarre mating ritual I haven’t learned yet.

“Anyone else invited that I should know about?” I don’t know what Monica is getting at, but whatever it is, it makes Marcus frown and glare back at her.

“Wing, if you’re finished, why don’t we go get some fresh air and let these two chat?” says Aaron. “Not that I wouldn’t love to play referee to your little tiff.”

“We aren’t fighting,” says Monica. “We’re still celebrating. We’re just taking a little break, you know, a little halftime, whatever you wanna call it, to figure out next weekend’s plans. And find out why Marcus would accept an invitation on my behalf without talking to me about it. Especially without telling me who else might be there.”

Now she’s less like a rhino about to charge and more like a rhino actually charging.

“Maybe we should all go get some fresh air,” I suggest, digging around in my pockets for that five dollars my mom gave me earlier. I hope it’s enough to cover my share. It is all I have.

“No,” says Monica. “You two go outside. We’ll get the bill and see you in a few minutes.”

Marcus hasn’t said a thing. He’s leaning back in the booth, a small smile on his face. He finds Monica’s tantrums amusing. It must be from all the years of hearing Granny Dee, LaoLao, and my mom shouting about one thing or another that he’s able to find the humor in it. Or maybe it’s because he loves them all so much and he knows how much they love him, so it just doesn’t get to him.

I don’t find it amusing at all. It stresses me out when people shout or get upset. Which is why I slide out of the booth after Aaron and hurry out of the restaurant, keeping my head down with my hair in my face so I don’t have to see the expressions of the other diners.

When I get outside, Aaron is leaning against Monica’s car rubbing his fingers together, and I know he wants a cigarette.

I go as close to him as I dare, wishing it were closer.