God is in the Pancakes (5 page)

Aside from a few minor bumps (uneven sidewalks and a disagreement about whether to get extra butter on the popcorn or not), the plan itself was flawless. Less flawless was our plan to break back in.

As I wheeled Mr. Sands back to his room a little over two and a half hours later, Victoria, a large nurse originally from Trinidad, was waiting inside, her arms crossed in front of her, her eyebrows raised in an expression that spelled trouble.

“Victoria,” said Mr. Sands, honey dripping from his voice, “aren't you looking lovely today!”

“Don't give me none of that, Mr. Frank. Where 'ave you been? I've been outta my mind with worry!”

“Grace and I have been in the chapel. Praying,” he answered. And I
was
praying. Praying he wouldn't look at me at that moment because I could feel the laughter rising in me.

“The chapel?” Victoria said, shaking her head. “Now you know I'm a religious woman. So I'm asking you, Mr. Frank, are you lyin' ta me?”

“Would I lie to you about something like that, Victoria?”

“Yes, ya would.”

Mr. Sands chuckled. “Yes, you're right, I would! Well, you caught me. I broke the rules and I should suffer the consequences. I deserve to be thrown out of here. Honeybunch, just help me pack my bags and we'll go,” he said, giving me a wink.

Not even the angry Victoria could prevent herself from smiling at this. Of course later I was given a fairly harsh talking to by the candy striper coordinator, and told that if I ever did something that was so “grossly negligent and dangerous” again, I'd be fired on the spot . . . Still worth it.

I text Eric as I leave Hanover House later that afternoon and tell him to buzz me when he's finished practice, hoping we can meet up at Milk Bar. I could really use his company right now. I need the distraction and I know he'll make me feel calmer. Plus, time flies when we're together, and I'm more than ready for this day to be over.

My phone doesn't ring until 9:14 p.m., by which time I've finally settled in front of the TV to do homework. Lolly's sitting next to me and when I answer it, she shoots me an annoyed look that implies she'll never be able to concentrate on the TV show with me yammering in the background. I get off the couch and wander into the kitchen.

“Hey, how was practice?” I ask.

“Intense,” Eric replies. “It was like boot camp. I think the coach wanted to see who'd drop first.”

“How'd you do?”

“I dropped third,” he says almost proudly. “Then Mike and I went out with a few of his friends for dinner.”

“Oh yeah? Who with?” I open the fridge in search of something crunchy.

“Sam, Taylor, and the Roy twins.”

The Roys, Chelsea and Cara, are identical twins who seem to be everywhere at once. They annoy me separately
and
as a unit. “Was it fun?” I ask, as if setting up a joke for him.

“Yeah, I had a good time,” Eric replies. “And it turns out Chelsea Roy is really cool.”

“She is?”

“Very cool, and pretty cute too.”

This sounds suspiciously like enthusiasm. I shut the refrigerator door empty-handed. “You mean cuter than her identical twin?”

“You know, they don't actually look that much alike once you get to know them.” Irony is absent from his voice. “But man, I'm totally wiped, and totally screwed.”

“Screwed? Why?”

“Since Mike and I are both sophomores, the coach paired us as practice partners. But the kid's the size of the Empire State Building,” Eric says with a grunt. “I mean, do you have any idea how hard it is trying to keep up with him on the court? I have to run three steps for every one of his.”

“Well, at least you
can
take those steps.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, never mind. Come on, you're going to be fine. You know everything's going to work out okay,” I say. “You're a great player and you're going to be an awesome member of the team.”

“You're full of it.”

“You're welcome.”

“Thanks,” Eric laughs. And I smile, happy for the assist.

I decide to dedicate the following afternoon to routine self-maintenance: The hair needs help, the face needs exfoliating, and the developing mono-brow needs landscaping. But midway through plucking my eyebrows into what I hope is the right shape—not too thin and U-ey like a surprised clown, not too straight and thick like a Hitler mustache—the phone rings. Mom.

She wants Lolly and me to meet her at 6:30 at You Say Potato
. . . ,
one of the restaurants in the chain where she works as marketing manager. The office headquarters is based in the back of this particular restaurant, which more often than not means Mom comes home smelling like the day's special entrée. You get used to the garlic and Italian seasonings after a while, but the rubbed smoke smell is still a tough one to stomach. I tell her we'll be there. What I don't tell her is that Lolly isn't home, and though I don't know where she is, my money's on Jake's car. If possible, Mom's even less of a fan of Jake's than I am, so there's no need to serve up that can of worms pre-dinner. After hanging up with Mom I call Lolly, who answers on the last ring before voicemail.

“What's up?” Lolly asks. She doesn't sound terribly interested in my response.

“Mom wants us to meet her at the restaurant for dinner.”

“I'm not really up for that.”

“Cute, Lol.” I lean into the mirror to check on the arch of my brow.

“I'm serious, Grace, I'm not going to go. It's Friday night. Jake and I are going out.”

“Well”—I wince as I pluck a few remaining stray hairs—“then you can call Mom and tell her you're not coming yourself.”

“Oh, come on, it's no big deal, Grace. Just tell her when you get there.”

“She's mad enough at me already.”

“You owe me, little sister.” Lolly's tone gets singsongy, a reminder that it's time to pay up.

You Say Potato . . . is situated in a small strip mall on Lancaster Avenue, next to a dry cleaner's and a gourmet cheese shop. It takes about fifteen minutes to bike over, so I leave the house at 6:15 on the dot, not wanting to piss Mom off further. I walk through the restaurant toward the door marked “Private” at the back. This is the entrance to the room also known as “YSP Corporate HQ.” There are three other desks in the room, but Mom's the only one still here, and her area is covered in paper, foam cups, and stacks of those oversized green and white computer printouts with the holes on the side, the ones that come from printers made in the dinosaur era.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, Grace, ready for dinner?” She looks like she's ready for a drink.

“Yeah, we eating here?” This is not quite as dumb a question as it sounds since Mom usually can't wait to get as far away from this place as possible.

“Unfortunately yes,” Mom says with a nod, “because I still have a lot left to do tonight before I can come home.”

“Ugh, sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks,” she replies. “But there is at least a little good news.”

“What's that?”

Mom pulls her hair around to her nose and inhales. “Smells like today's special entrée is our favorite: fried chicken and mashed potatoes!”

It isn't until we take our seats in the booth that Mom eyes Lolly's empty seat next to me. “She with Jake?” When I nod, she shakes her head. “Be honest with me, Grace. Do
you
like him?” This time I shake my head and
she
nods. “I always get the feeling that he's trying to put something over on me, which is not exactly the most reassuring feeling for the mother of a teenage daughter. Thank goodness you're not dating too.”

“Yeah,” I say, making a face, “thank goodness.”

The waitress walks over with menus and smiles when she sees Mom. “Hey, Sheryl,” she says, “good to see you!”

“Trina, hi.” Mom smiles back. “I didn't realize you'd come back from maternity yet.”

“Well,” she says, leaning in, “I hadn't planned to be back so soon, but Tim lost his job and I figured if I was going to be spending my whole day doing feedings anyway, I might as well do it in a place where I'd get paid for it.”

Mom nods. “I hear you. Believe me, I know what the juggling act you're doing is like. I remember all too well when I had to manage kids, job, home,
and
an unemployed husband who needed coddling yet didn't quite get that being out of work didn't mean he was on vacation from household responsibilities too.” Mom blinks and looks back up at Trina. “But I'm sure Tim's not like that,” she adds, as if apologizing for the comparison to my dad. “And I'll make sure they don't work you too hard here.”

Trina exhales and shakes her head back and forth. “God bless ya, Sheryl.”

“Leave God out of this,” Mom replies, smiling. “This is between you and me.”

Trina laughs. “Okay, well then, I'll just leave these for you ladies,” she says, extending menus to us.

Mom waves her off. “Don't need them. You know what you want, Grace?”

“Yep.”

Trina takes out her pen and pad. “Let me just tell you about today's special then.” I eye Mom and we share a smile. “Let's see.” Trina flips through her pad for the special of the day cheat-sheet. “Today we've got the chef's Southern specialty: fried chicken, buttermilk mashed potatoes, and creamed corn.”

“Two of those.” Mom nods with a smile. “Thanks.”

When I get home after dinner, I head for my room and my eyes go right to my book bag that
still
contains Mr. Sands's envelope. I kneel again at the foot of my bed.

“Hi, I'm sure you didn't forget about my request,”
I say, my eyes flicking to the ceiling,
“but I thought I'd check back in because Mr. Sands doesn't seem to be getting better yet. And I just wanted to remind you that time is sort of ‘of the essence' here . . .”

The noise of a car pulling into the driveway below my window distracts me, and I wonder if Lolly will get in trouble later. I also wonder if I'd ditch out on dinner to eat with my boyfriend. Not that it's an issue . . .

I look back to the ceiling and refocus.
“Anyway, you know my mom doesn't really buy into this, but I really, really want to believe you're going to help Mr. Sands. I can't help him like he wants me to, but you, you could fix it so he wouldn't even have to think about that . . . And then I wouldn't have to think about it either . . . So just please make him well again, okay? Please.”
I close my eyes as if trying to seal up the wish and send it out to the universe.