The People We Keep(8)

When I was fourteen, she took me to get my work permit and we made it official. She even bought me a new apron—white, with a big daisy on the bib. “I’m proud of you, kiddo,” she said, her eyes shining.

“I didn’t do anything. I just got older.”

“Ain’t that the truth? That’s what we’re all doing, right, girlie?” She put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed me until I was smushed against her boob. “Tst. Just got older!” When she laughed, I could feel her whole body shake against mine.

I didn’t know if I was supposed to hug back or say something or what. Except for Margo, no one ever hugged me.



* * *



Dale comes in, so Margo works the dining room with me, but she lets me keep all the tips. We finish the lunch shift, do refills and wipe downs, count out the drawer, and play Old Maid at the counter until my real shift starts.

“I don’t get why you’re failing math,” Margo says, pulling a card from my hand. “Not once have you made a mistake with the drawer. Not even when you were little.” She puts a pair of kings down.

“It’s not the same math,” I say. “It’s like if train A is running at x speed and train B is running at y, which one will get there first.”

“Is one of them an express?” Margo cringes as I pull a card from her hand.

“Yeah, they don’t tell you that.” I put down threes.

“Then how you supposed to do the problem?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” I angle my hand so she can take another card.

“They should teach you useful stuff, like how to fight with the power company when your bill is wrong. You want to know when a train comes in, you read the schedule.”

I know what she’s saying doesn’t add up to a hundred percent, but I like that she’s siding with me just the same.

Margo gets stuck with the odd queen.

“Old Maid,” I shout, slapping my last pair on the counter.

“Well, you don’t have to go calling me names, Miss April,” she says, scooping up the cards to deal another round.



* * *



Ida comes back at four thirty for dinner. “How was school today, April?” she asks, following our usual script.

“I didn’t— I saw you at lunch.”

Ida blinks at me, panicked.

“It was fine, Ida,” I say. “School was fine.” I go to put her order in before she can say anything else.



* * *



Margo drives me home after we close up. “Alone again?” she asks when she pulls in the driveway. Icy rain smacks the windshield.

“He’s been over with Irene and the boy for a couple months straight now.”

“I don’t know what he’s thinking leaving a young girl by herself all the time.” She sighs. “You know I’d take you at my place if I could.”

I want to ask her why she can’t, but I don’t want to make her feel worse.

She shuts the engine but leaves the radio on. It’s Bon Jovi. “Well, I’ve got good news and bad,” she says, “which you want first?”

“Bad,” I say.

“Bad news is, I crunched numbers and I still can’t figure how to give you extra shifts. You can come an hour early to the ones you already have, and I’ll give you first dibs if anyone calls in sick, but I can’t afford it otherwise, honey.”

She’s looking right in my eyes and I know she can tell I’m disappointed. I make myself smile, and say, “Hit me with the good news,” praying that coming in an hour early wasn’t it.

“The good news is I called Gary, over at Gary’s Tap Room. He wants you to play on Friday nights. I told him you were the best thing since sliced biscuits.” She pats my arm and her bracelets jangle.

“You haven’t even heard me play.”

“I know.” She tips her head back and laughs. I love it when she cracks herself up. “I know! I know! I put on my good sweet voice and told Gary you were our own little Joni.”

“I don’t think I sound anything like Joni Mitchell,” I say, feeling heat rise in my cheeks.

“Oh, Gary’s deaf in one ear anyway, hon. It don’t matter one bit what you sound like.”

Margo’s been seeing Gary. She thinks I don’t know, but Matty and I were three rows behind them at the movies a few weeks back. They made out like teenagers the whole time.

“I only have three songs,” I say.

“Then you better write more!” She kisses me on the cheek, and I get out of the car. She waits for me to unlock the door to the motorhome, like I couldn’t just climb in through the boarded up window at the back if I lost my key.

I shut the door behind me, leaning against it so the lock latches. Turn on the TV for noise and light and grab my dad’s buck knife from under the sink, because I feel safer when I can see it. I sit down with my guitar and try to write for a while, but I come up empty.

When I brush my teeth for bed, I see a big pink lipstick smudge on my cheek in the bathroom mirror. I don’t wash it off.





— Chapter 3 —


I sleep in till eleven a.m. and then work the antenna on the TV until I get a soap in clear enough to watch. There’s static and I can’t always tell who’s who, but the chatter lets me pretend I’m not alone. The mean lady, the one my mom always loved, just had brain surgery and it made her remember she has a twin sister named Sandra. Everyone’s shocked, forming a search party. Her ex-husband just said, “Searching for Sandra is asking for double trouble.” I can’t understand how my mom used to watch this stuff. Like really watch it, not just have it on for noise.