The Silver Linings Playbook(17)

“You shouldn’t need more than forty dollars then, right?”

“I guess.”

“It’ll be on the counter when you come down.”

I shower, apply underarm deodorant, use my father’s cologne, and put on my khakis and the dark green button-down shirt Mom bought me at the Gap just yesterday. For some reason, my mother is systematically buying an entire wardrobe for me—and every piece is from the Gap. When I go downstairs, my mom tells me I need to tuck in my shirt and wear a belt.

“Why?” I ask, because I do not really care if I look respectable or not. I only want to get rid of Tiffany once and for all.

But when Mom says, “Please,” I remember that I am trying to be kind instead of right—and I also owe Mom because she rescued me from the bad place—so I go upstairs and put on the brown leather belt she purchased for me earlier in the week.

Mom comes into my room with a shoe box and says, “Put on some dress socks and try these on.” I open the box, and these swanky-looking brown leather loafers are inside. “Jake said these are what men your age wear casually,” Mom says. When I slip the loafers on and look in the mirror, I see how thin my waistline appears, and I think I look almost as swanky as my little brother.

With forty bucks in my pocket, I walk across Knight’s Park to Tiffany’s parents’ house. She is outside, waiting for me on the sidewalk, but I see her mother peeking out the window. Mrs. Webster ducks behind the blinds when we make eye contact. Tiffany does not say hello, but begins walking before I can stop. She is wearing a pink knee-length skirt and a black summer sweater. Her platform sandals make her look taller, and her hair is sort of puffed out around the ears, hanging down to her shoulders. Her eyeliner is a little heavy, and her lips are so pink, but I have to admit she looks great, which I tell her, saying, “Wow, you look really nice tonight.”

“I like your shoes,” she says in response, and then we walk for thirty minutes without saying another word.

We get a booth at the diner, and the server gives us glasses of water. Tiffany orders tea, and I say that water is fine for me. As I read the menu, I worry that I won’t have enough money, which is silly, I know, because I have two twenties on me and most of the entrées are under ten bucks, but I do not know what Tiffany will order, and maybe she will want dessert, and then there’s the tip.

Nikki taught me to overtip; she says waitresses work too hard for such a little bit of money. Nikki knows this because she was a waitress all through college—when we were at La Salle—so I always overtip when I go out to eat now, just to make up for the times in the past when I fought with Nikki over a few dollars, saying fifteen percent was more than enough, because no one tipped me regardless of whether I did my job well or not. Now I am a believer in overtipping, because I am practicing being kind rather than right—and as I am reading the diner menu, I think, What if I do not have enough money left over for a generous tip?

I am worrying about all of this so much that I must have missed Tiffany’s order, because suddenly the waitress is saying, “Sir?”

When I put my menu down, both Tiffany and the waitress are staring at me, as if they are concerned. So I say, “Raisin bran,” because I remember reading that cereal is only $2.25.

“Milk?”

“How much is milk?”

“Seventy-five cents.”

I figure I can afford it, so I say, “Please,” and then hand my menu back to the waitress.

“That’s it?”

I nod, and the waitress sighs audibly before leaving us alone.

“What did you order? I didn’t catch it,” I say to Tiffany, trying to sound polite but secretly worrying that I will not have enough money left over for a good tip.

“Just tea,” she says, and then we both look out the window at the cars in the parking lot.

When the raisin bran comes, I open the little single-serving box and pour the cereal into the bowl the diner provides free of charge. The milk comes in a miniature pitcher; I pour it over the brown flakes and sugared raisins. I push the bowl to the middle of the table and ask Tiffany if she would like to help me eat the cereal. “Are you sure?” she says, and when I nod, she picks up her spoon and we eat.

When we get the bill, it is for $4.59. I hand our waitress the two twenties, and the woman laughs, shakes her head, and says, “Change?” When I say, “No, thank you”—thinking Nikki would want me to overtip—the waitress says to Tiffany, “Honey, I had him all wrong. You two come back real soon. Okay?” And I can tell the woman is satisfied with her tip because she sort of skips her way to the register.

Tiffany doesn’t say anything on the walk home, so I don’t either. When we get to her house, I tell her I had a great time. “Thanks,” I say, and then offer a handshake, just so Tiffany will not get the wrong idea.

She looks at my hand and then up at me, but she doesn’t shake. For a second I think she is going to start crying again, but instead she says, “Remember when I said you could f*ck me?”

I nod slowly because I wish I did not remember it so vividly.

“I don’t want you to f*ck me, Pat. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

She walks around her parents’ house, and then I am alone again.

When I arrive home, my mom excitedly asks me what we had for dinner, and when I tell her raisin bran, she laughs and says, “Really, what did you have?” I ignore her, go to my room, and lock the door.