THE THIRD DAY . . .
(Sunday, June 14, an hour before dawn)
CÉCE:
The nightmare wakes
me up. Gunfight in the desert. Anthony gets hit. I was cruising
YouTube with Ma for soldier’s-eye clips before I went to
bed.
Why is he doing this?
I know, somebody has to do it, but let
it be somebody else. If anybody should go over there it’s me,
except I would be the suckiest soldier ever. Violence flips me out.
When I see it, I freeze.
I trip myself to the
bathroom and splash water on my face. Down the block a dog yips.
Two dogs, barking now. Fighting. My hands are shaking.
When I was nine, we
were at this block party, crazy hot out, too many people, music way
too loud. I had to get out of there. It was either walk all the way
around the block on a hundred-plus-degree day or cut through the
neighbor’s alley. I side-saddled the fence, right over the No
Trespassing sign, picture of a guard dog, teeth barred. The
homeowner wasn’t lying: He had this giant German shepherd mixed
with a pit bull—I’m sure it was a pit bull—but it was a horrible
guard dog. It had been around for as long as I could remember, and
I never heard it bark. Besides, it was always tied to the fence
behind the garbage pails on a short chain. As I walked by, it
whimpered. It was filthy, matted, a choke collar embedded in its
neck. It was panting. Its water bowl was empty. I cranked the
spigot and filled it up. The dog drank the bowl dry and looked up
at me. I went to kiss the top of its head. It jumped up and bit my
face and didn’t let go.
I opened my mouth to
scream, and the dog got in there. It knocked me to the cement and
shook me. Its jaw locked—that’s how I know it was part pit
bull.
How I survived that
... How I got away . . . I can’t . . . I can’t
remember.
Twenty stitches. I
still have the scars. Those pit bulls are the worst. Their eyes?
Creepy. Like they want to eat you.
I go downstairs and
make a sandwich in the dark. Not seeing it makes it easier to scarf
down. I’m two bites in when I see a shadow bent over the kitchen
table.
Carmella Vaccuccia
slurps a beer. “Hey.”
“Ma, it’s four
fifteen.”
“Cocktail
hour.”
“In the
morning.”
“Whacha eatin’ there,
babe?”
“PBJ.”
She’s eating one too.
“You are your mother’s daughter.”
“You’re absolutely
sure? I’m doomed.” I grab her beer and
dump it in the sink.
“Don’t turn on the
light, Céce.” Her voice is soft, sweet. Headlights from a passing
car briefly light up two shiny streaks of mascara slitting her
cheeks. I practically have to carry her up to bed. I tuck her in.
She winks at me and slurs, “Howya doin’, sister?”
“Carmella, the sister
act is getting old. Could you be the mother for five
minutes?”
She smiles. Those
gold teeth. Anybody else would look four hundred percent retarded,
but she’s beautiful. Sometimes I want to hug her till I break her.
The woman is demented.
I wonder if that Mack
boy is working today.
I pop my head into
Anthony’s room. He’s out?
Middle of lunch
shift, Marcy sticks her head into the walk-in. “Céce Vaccuccia, why
you hanging out in the refrigerator?”
I hide my third slice
of cheesecake. “Cooling off, duh.”
“God swapped June for
August on us. Probably be like this till winter, and then overnight
it’ll be five billion below zero, freeze nail polish right in the
bottle. You can’t win, Cheech. You can’t. They got it stacked against
us.”
“Who’s
they?”
“Them, chica. The system.”
I pat the cheese
wheel for her to sit with me. “Hang out.”
“Ohmigod.”
“What?”
“Ew!”
“What!”
“You totally made out
with that loser delivery guy dude last night.”
“What? No.”
“I can see it in your
eyes, you lovesick bitch.”
“You need to pop
another Lexapro.”
“Tell me later. You
got a tray of manicotti up and your tables are howling for their
checks. And Céce, the manicotti? Vic totally went heavy with the
ricotta this morning. Gonna feel like you got a Honda Element on
that tray. I can’t believe you swapped spit with that dropout
moron.”
“I. Did not. Kiss.
The delivery boy.”
“Ick.” She leaves.
I’m totally bloated.
Skirt zipper is gonna rip any old shift now. It’s like I ate a
ten-pound box of chalk and then somebody pumped hot gasoline into
my stomach. Make out with Mack? Is she out of her half a mind? Dude
won’t even look at me.
End of lunch shift
I’m at the bar, refilling the salts and peppers, thrill-a-rill. The
salt is all clumps in the heat. While I’m spilling the condiments
I’m checking my G and T practice test grid against the answer
key.
I aced
it?
Maybe not so
remarkable, because Vic keeps quizzing me words all the time. Like
last night, I was picking up an order, and he handed me my linguine
red sauce and said, “Frenetic.” And I replied, “Crazed, as in
‘Marcy is running around in a frenetic state, trying to catch up on
her orders, because Vic’s Too, currently the one and only Vic’s
eating establishment, is slamming.’”
Of course, this is
only the multiple-choice part. I still don’t have any idea what
I’ll write for the essay, but I have a few weeks to cook up a
really good lie.
Marcy flies into the
bar and drags me to the bathroom. “Your psycho boyfriend?” she
says.
“He’s not my—”
“Yah. He’s a felon.”
“What?”
“Your mother was
asking Vic about him because she, like everybody else who isn’t
you, can tell you’re crushing on him.”
“I’m crushing on a
felon?”
“Vic’s like, ‘Well, I
suppose you should know he’s had some problems in the past.’ And
then your mother’s like, ‘What kind of problems?’ And then Vic
goes, ‘Well, he has a bit of a record.’”
“What’d he
do?”
“I don’t know. I
snuck out from where I just happened to be behind the trash
compactor to run here to tell you, but it was probably something
wretched.”
Ma comes into the
bathroom. “You know what they have to say about those who
gossip?”
Marcy hides behind
me. “What do they have to say, Mama Vaccuccia?”
“Not a lot. Go fill
those pepper shakers, girls. And Marcy, you keep sneaking around
like that, we’re gonna have to make you wear a bell.”
Wow. A felon. It had
to be something not too bad. A boy that
quiet would never do something violent.
I head upstairs to
get the linens for dinner. Vic lives up here in a little bedroom
stacked with vinyl records and books flagged with pink stickies
that say POTENT and bright red ones that say VP! I can’t help but
peek into the room as I walk past, because Vic never remembers to
close doors when he leaves. He leaves his car door open half the
time. He has one picture on the wall over his desk, this crappy
printout Ma gave him. He framed it. Me, Ma, Anthony, and Vic a few
Christmases back. It’s a blurry picture. Ma set the timer and put
the camera on the stairs and ran to be in the shot without
bothering to check the auto focus, which was on a sweaty beer can
she left on top of the TV.
Down the hall is
another bedroom, the supply room. Anthony is at the window with a
stack of pizza boxes that need folding under his arm. He waves me
over. “Quick, check this out,” he whispers. The exhaust fan blocks
the window, but I can see through the grate: Mack is down in the
alley. He pulls his broken plastic watch from his pocket, checks
the time, frowns.
“So?” I
say.
“Hang out,” Ant
whispers. “They used to meet like this back at the other
Vic’s.”
“Who?”
A few seconds later
this guy comes into the alley, older, slash scars from the corners
of his mouth up to his ears, shabby-looking army coat in all this
heat.
Mack checks the
alley, all clear. He gives the guy money, they palm grip, the other
dude says, “Dog Man, whatever you need, you let me know,” and
goes.
This Mack kid is not
only a dropout felon but also a junkie? I’m crushed, until I
remember I don’t even know him. “Awesome, a meth transaction behind
Vic’s Too. Great crowd draw. We gotta tell Vic.”
“No meth involved,”
Ant says. “It’s a one-way. Mack’s just giving him
money.”
“Anthony, wake up.
There’s a mothball being transferred in the palm
grip.”
“Cheech, I
know this kid. I’d bet my life on it:
It’s charity, pure. He makes fifty bucks a shift and gives away ten
of it. I feel like I’m a firewalker when I see stuff like this.
Puts me on a totally different plane, faith restored.”
“You’re
retarded.”
“I swear, I ever get
rich? Just to see what he’d do with it, I’m giving Mack all my
money.”
“What about
me?”
“You can give him all
your money too.” He sighs as he leaves the window. “Feel bad for
the dude with the smiley. He would’ve had to been held down to be
cut twice.”
“Ant, you’re trying
to find magic in the bottom of a mud puddle again. Can you please
stop feeling bad for everybody?”
“Actually, kid, I
can’t.” He messes up my hair and goes.
I pull the linens
from the rack and count the creaks in the steps. When I’m sure he’s
downstairs, I bury my face in the napkins so nobody hears me. I
can’t breathe. In two weeks my best friend is on a plane, headed
for boot camp.
(The next afternoon, Monday, June 15, the fourth day . . .
)
After last period I
head for the library, basically where people go to take part in the
unending spitball war that has been plaguing my class since the
fifth grade. How many times have I scratched a monster zit on the
back of my neck only to discover it was a masticated quarter page
of Warriner’s English Grammar and
Composition?
Mustering a rare
burst of initiative, I’d booked the back room for a study session
for kids who were thinking about taking the G and T. I advertised
it on my Facebook page and hung a lame sign on the announcement
board. As I’m walking into the study room, my ESP zings me: I’m
going to be the only one who attends the session.
I am
correct.
I dump my backpack.
Yupper, I left it home, the book I need. I’m hungry and grumpy and
so flipping hot and why can’t I stop wondering why the junkie
dishwasher avoids me at work? Or am I a paranoid loser? “Or am I
both paranoid and
shunned?”
“Who you talking to?”
Nicole Reeni swings into the room. She’s breathless, spitballs in
her hair.
“Thanks for coming,
Nicky,” I say.
“What are you
talking about? G and T study session?
I’d rather pick the corn out of my crap.”
“I want your life,
Nic.”
She drops six
quarters into the soda machine, clunk
goes the Fanta Zero, and the Reenster bounces.
One more week of
school, and then I go from working weekends to slinging hash
full-time at the just barely airconditioned Too in a one hundred
percent synthetic fiber uniform that went out of style in 1954. I
so rule this Earth.