The Spite House(4)
Dess glanced at the clock. Six thirty. Dad hadn’t called the room to check in on them in close to two hours. Whatever he was looking into today, he was lost in it. She had the feeling it was something major, some big, wild idea, and the more she sat around thinking about it the more restless she became. She turned the television off, got up from the bed, and walked to where Stacy sat drawing and humming to herself.
“Hey Staze,” Dess said, “let’s get some pancakes. That little diner down the street has a sign that says, ‘Breakfast All Day.’”
Stacy turned to her sister so fast she almost fell from the chair. “Really? I thought we didn’t have money.”
“I’ve got a little extra.” Last night, shortly after the others had fallen asleep, Dess had snuck out and earned one hundred dollars by making a delivery run on foot, relying on speed and conditioning she’d cultivated in three years on the varsity track team. Her father wasn’t the only one finding work wherever he could get it, although she found hers on considerably less reputable websites than he did. It was dicey, but necessary, she believed. Dad hadn’t refilled her emergency fund in weeks. If anything should happen to him while he was out on a job, that fund was supposed to buy her time to think. There was a plan in place for what she was to do if he went out and couldn’t make it back, but she didn’t agree with it. They had left home for a reason. Going back wasn’t a legitimate option. Plus she was eighteen now. She’d grown up a lot in the last year and a half, especially since they’d been on the road. If it came to it, she was confident she could take care of Stacy on her own.
Granted, spending any of what she had to treat the kid to some pancakes—and herself to a cheeseburger and fries—could be taken as proof that her confidence was undeserved. They had bread, cold cuts, and chips in the room. That was good enough for lunch and dinner every other day the last two weeks, and it would have been good enough tonight. But she was sick of ham sandwiches and store-brand chips, and had a little over five hundred dollars in her secret stash. She could afford to splurge at a roadside diner, even accounting for the tip.
“Don’t we have to wait for Dad?” Stacy said, still in a bit of disbelief.
“Nah. We’ll bring him something back. Come on.”
Stacy smiled, clapped her hands once, and held them close to her chin as though saying a thankful prayer. “You think they’ll have blueberries?”
“They better, or I’ll tell them to go pick some, because my sister loves blueberries. But if that doesn’t work, I’ll let you use extra syrup, just this once. Now get your shoes on. Grab your sweater, too, in case it’s chilly in there.”
Dess opened the motel room door and peeked outside like a lookout, something she’d got some practice doing in her after-hours work. After confirming their father wasn’t near, she hustled Stacy out in an exaggerated fashion, pointing her toward the same side door she had used the night before to avoid coming and going through the lobby.
* * *
Should have brought my own sweater, Dess thought. At Stacy’s behest, they sat at a booth near the windows that faced the frontage road and highway. Hardly any of the warmth from outside penetrated the glass, however. The restaurant seemed to be overcompensating for the eighty-degree October day, as if it could be an indoor haven for autumn-seekers. She had almost broken a sweat between the diner and the motel.
Turning from the window, she scanned the restaurant as though she were one of the properly paranoid spies in her favorite novel. She looked at the other patrons scattered across the dining room, looked at the waitstaff and hostess, and wondered if she was able to read anything in their faces. Had anyone watched her and Stacy enter? Not simply seen them, but watched them? Were any of them watching now? Did anyone look like they were trying not to look, or trying not to get caught? Was anyone there liable to give them any trouble?
Dess tried not to presume prejudice in the people who lived here simply because this was small-town Texas, but it was what it was, and they were the only black girls in the dining area. Possibly the only darker-skinned people in the building. When one of the waitresses exited the kitchen, Dess looked through the swinging door and thought she saw a cook who might have been Hispanic or mixed, or at least had a deep tan. That was it. Everyone else she saw was white, and most were in their fifties at least. Even when they didn’t look at her at all, she sensed that they wanted to, and maybe do more, such as approach and ask questions that masked warnings that doubled as threats. Or maybe not. Being one of only two or three nonwhite people in a restaurant or store was something she was still adjusting to. It wasn’t a common occurrence for her back in Maryland, on the outskirts of D.C.
Their waitress—Tanya, per her name tag—came to take their order.
“Can I have pancakes with blueberries, please?” Stacy said.
“You sure can,” Tanya said. She had a tune-up twang in her voice that, to Dess, made her sound a little na?ve, but also kind of condescending. Dess knew that to native ears it probably didn’t sound like anything.
“And what can I get you, dear?”
“Cheeseburger, medium well, please, but no onions. Some fries and a couple of waters. Thanks.”
As Tanya jotted the order in her notepad, Dess thought she noticed a woman in a blue shirt and a man in plaid staring at them from a few tables over. When she looked over at them, they both looked down at their menus.