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Mom’s always been incredibly strict about the line between the political and the personal. A few years ago, Tracy forgot to bring money to pay for skates at McKinskey Rink and the guy who ran it, a supporter of Mom’s, said not to worry. Mom marched Tracy right in there the next day and paid full price, even though Trace was skating in off-hours.
Her eyebrows draw together. “We’re consenting adults, Samantha. Unmarried. There are no rules being broken here.” She lifts her chin, folding her arms. “I resent your tone.”
“I—” But she’s already gone to the closet door and pulled out the vacuum cleaner, cranking it up to the soothing roar of a 747.
I occupy myself with my smoothie, wondering how I could have handled that better. Mom practically ran background checks on Charley and Michael, not to mention some of Tracy’s more dubious choices.
But when it’s her…
The vacuum suddenly gives a guttural choking sound and stops dead. Mom shakes it, turns it off, unplugs it, tries again, but nothing.
“Samantha!” she calls. “Do you know anything about this?” which I know from long experience means
“Are you responsible for this?”
“No, Mom. You know I never touch it.”
She shakes it again, accusingly. “It was working fine last night.”
“I didn’t use it, Mom.”
Suddenly she’s yelling. “Then what is wrong with this thing? Of all the times for it to break! Clay’s coming for di
As usual, the living room is pristine. You can’t even tell which side is the one she’s just vacuumed.
“Mom. It’ll be fine. They won’t even notice.”
She kicks the vacuum cleaner, glaring at me. “I’ll notice.” Okay.
“Mom.” I’m used to her temper, but this seems over the top.
Suddenly, abruptly, she unplugs the vacuum cleaner, gathers it up, walks across the room, and throws it out the front door. It lands with a crash on the driveway. I stare at her.
“Don’t you have to be at work, Samantha?”
Chapter Eleven
Then, of course, work is particularly a
Finally, they get ready to leave. Thank God they overtip. Charley winks at me as they go, working the dimples. “The mainmast offer stands, Sammy-Sam.”
“Get lost, Charley.”
I’m cleaning up their completely trashed table when someone tugs at the waistband of my skirt.
“Kid.”
Tim’s unshaven, his rusty hair rumpled, still wearing the clothes he had on the last time I saw him, fla
“Yo, I need some cash, rich girl.”
This stings. Tim knows, or used to know, how much I hate that label, which got tossed at me by the kids on opposing swim teams.
“I’m not going to give you money, Tim.”
“’Cause I’ll ‘just spend it on booze,’ right?” he asks in a high, sarcastic voice, imitating Mom when we passed homeless people on visits to New Haven. “You know that ain’t necessarily so. I might spend it on weed. Or, if you’re generous and I’m lucky, blow. C’mon. Just gimme fifty.” He leans back against the counter, folding his hands and cocking his chin at me.
I stare back. Face-off? Then, unexpected, he lunges for the pocket of my skirt, where I stash my tips.
“This is nothing to you. Don’t know why the fuck you even work, Samantha. Just give me a few bucks.” I pull back, jerking away so abruptly I’m afraid the cheapo fabric of the skirt will tear. “Tim! Come on.
You know I’m not going to.”
He shakes his head at me. “You used to be cool. When did you turn into such a bitch?”
“When you turned into such an asshole.” I brush past him with my tray full of dirty dishes. Tears spring to my eyes. Don’t, I think. But Tim used to know me as well as anyone could.
“Trouble?” Ernesto the cook asks, looking up from the six frying pans he’s got going simultaneously.
Breakfast Ahoy is not a health food restaurant.
“Just some jerk.” I dump the dishes into the bussing bin with a clatter.
“Nothing new there. Damn town full of damn folks with silver spoons up their damn…” Oops. Inadvertently activated Ernesto’s “favorite rant” button. I tune him out, paste on a fierce smile, and go back to deal with Tim, but the flash of a dirty plaid pajama cuff and the slam of the door is the only sign of him. There’s a skim of coins on the table by the door, and a few more on the ground. The rest of my tip is gone.
There was this day a few weeks into seventh grade at Hodges, before Tim got kicked out, when I’d forgotten my lunch money and was looking for Tracy or Nan. Instead I ran into Tim, sitting in the bushes with the worst of the worst of Hodges’ stoner crowd—Tim, who, as far as I knew till then, was as i
“Oh, it’s Tracy Reed’s sister. Take a load off, Tracy Reed’s sister. You look tense. You need to re-laaax,” Drake said. The other kids laughed as though he was hysterically fu
“Walk on the wild side, Tracy Reed’s sister.” Drake waved a bag of—I didn’t even know what—at me.
I made some lame comment about how I had to get to class, which Drake enjoyed riffing on for several seconds with lots of sycophantic chortles from his loyal groupies.
I started to leave, then turned back and called “Come on” to Tim, who was still staring at his loafers.
That was when he finally looked at me. “Fuck off, Samantha.” Chapter Twelve
It takes me a while to shake off Tim’s visit, but things at Breakfast Ahoy come at you fast, and that helps.
Today, however, it’s all bad.
The morning also features a woman who becomes extremely indignant when we can’t allow her cockapoo to sit at the table with her and a man with two extremely cranky toddlers who throw the jam and sugar packets at me, and squirt mustard and ketchup into their napkin dispenser. As I walk home, I check my cell messages, finding one from Mom, still sounding peeved, telling me to clean the house: “Make it immaculate,” she emphasizes. And then “Make yourself scarce, as Clay’s bringing those donors over.” My mother has never asked me to make myself scarce. Is it because I asked about Clay? I walk up the driveway, pondering this, then see the vacuum cleaner, still sprawled like a vagrant.
“Samantha!” Jase calls from around our fence. “You okay? Looks like life was tough today on the bounding main.”
“No sailor jokes, please. Believe me, I’ve heard ’em all.” He walks closer, smiling, shaking his head. Today he’s wearing a white T-shirt that makes him look even ta
I explain about cleaning the house and making myself scarce. “And,” I say as I kick it, “the vacuum cleaner is broken.”
“I can fix that. Let me get my kit.” He jogs off before I can say anything. I go inside, ditch the sailor garb, and pull on a light blue sundress. I’m pouring lemonade when Jase knocks.
“In the kitchen!”
He comes in, carrying the vacuum cleaner in both arms like an accident victim, his tool kit dangling from one thumb. “Which is the part of your house that isn’t clean?”
“My mother’s kind of particular.”