Stuck in the 70's (14 page)

I look away.

“You haven’t been over in a while, Evie,” Mom says. “You kids aren’t having a tiff, are you?”

“Actually, we—” Evie starts to say.

I interrupt. “Actually, we’re fine.”

“Move it,” a chubby girl behind me mutters.

Mom gives Evie a square hamburger and burnt fries. “I’d like you to eat vegetables too, dear.”

She nods, a genius left speechless, and staggers off.

I step forward and point to the burgers and fries.

As Mom hands me my food, she says, “You and Evie seem so unhappy. Tyler, dear, you know I hate when you make that sad-sack face.”

The chubby girl behind me giggles.

“What if your face froze with that frown on it?” Mom asks.

The chubby girl says, “Yeah, don’t be a sad sack, Tyler, dear.”

I stomp off, but can’t help stopping and staring at Mom one more time. It finally dawns on me what’s different about her today. She’s smiling.

I head toward my new friends, or, if not exactly friends, friendly acquaintances. But first I take a detour to find Evie. She’s sitting with some guys from the math club who I hardly ever talk to anymore. They’re laughing. It’s not that fake laughter like with the popular kids. I stand a few yards away, wondering what’s so darn funny and why Evie’s so darn happy without me.

Robert Beed, who most everyone else calls The Enquirer, taps me on the shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asks.

I peel my gaze away from Evie. “I’m fine.”

“What’s the scoop? Your parents get divorced?”

“No. Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“I saw your mom doling out food in the cafeteria.”

So that’s what this is. Another wonderful benefit of Mom working at my school. “She wants to, okay? It’s a feminist thing.”

“Not so loud.” The lunch monitor approaches with his fingers on his lips.

As Robert slinks off, the lunch monitor whispers, “Is everything all right with your family, Tyler? Business is booming at my uncle’s typewriter store. I could put in a good word for your father if he needs a job.”

I shake my head. “My family is just fine.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I see your mother’s working in the cafeteria today.”

“We’re fine! My dad’s fine. My mom’s fine. Everyone’s frickin’ fine!”

“Shh!”

I rush to my lunch table.

Before I can get there, Janie Jensen grabs my arm. “I heard about your family. I am so, so sorry.” She dabs at her eye. “I hope your father gets back on his feet soon. I noticed your sister’s clothes are really tight on her now. I have some extra blouses she could use.”

Argh!

I’m scrubbing the world’s
nastiest, oiliest, most ginormous pan. Mariel is next to me filling the dishwasher and practicing her English.

“Hey, Mariel, you want to go shopping with me? I need shoes.”

“Use pay for shoes?”

“Say it this way, Mariel. ‘Are you going to use your earnings to buy shoes?’”

“You family no need the money?”

“My family?” The Grays, I guess. “Uh, I owe them money.”

“You live in they house.” Mariel wipes around the sink.

“And they bought me clothes and pay for my food and keep me in Tab. The Grays take care of me.” I feel my damn eyes tearing, and I can’t even wipe them because my hands are coated with sausage grease.

Mariel dabs my tears with her fingers, which is, like, the nicest thing anyone’s done for me—except for everything the Grays have done.

“Mariel.” My voice wobbles.

“Is okay.”

“No, it’s not. The Grays are the best thing that ever happened to me.” My voice is all quiet and quaky, but I don’t stop. “Listen to me, Mariel. In the future you should never ignore your kid, or tell her she ruined your life, or buy stock in a company called Enron. You probably w on’t do any of these things, but some people do. And d on’t ever get a dragonfly tattoo if the artist sucks and it’s right on your wrist where everyone can see it.” The twin waterfalls come, and I sink my face into Mariel’s shoulder so she can hold me in her doughy arms. “If I don’t get back, will you water my fern?” I whisper. “It’s about all I miss from home. The stupid fern. And you, I guess, too.”

She d oesn’t say anything.

I step back so I can see her kind eyes. “You know what I’m talking about?”

“All be okay.”

“But do you know, Mariel? Did you . . . Did you do something that day at Jake’s house?”

“Who is Jake? Know what?”

“I guess not.” I wipe my eyes with my arm. “Jake is nobody. Nobody important, anyway. I d on’t need shoes that bad. I mean, that badly.” I better use correct English if I’m going to teach it.

Mariel smiles. “You shoes do fine.”

She has a lovely smile. “You should go to school,” I tell her. “You d on’t want to spend the rest of your life as a dishwasher or, like, a housekeeper, cleaning up after bratty, rich teenagers. Trust me on this.”

“Maybe I go the school.”

“Actually, learning can be fun. D on’t tell anyone I said that.”

Dinner is bright orange
chemicals, also known as Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. I eat very little of it.

Dad pushes his plate toward the center of the table. He glares at Mom, sitting next to him. “I want my wife back, the one who cooks dinner—real dinner—and irons and starches my shirts.” It’s more of a command than a plea. My dad doesn’t plead.

“The kids at school think we’re having money trouble now,” I say. “People offered me their old clothes today.”

“For God’s sake. That’s it.” Dad pounds his fist on the table. “You have to quit that job.”

“I just started,” Mom says.

“It’s either the job or me.”

Oh, no. “Dad, you’re kidding, right?”

He shakes his head and picks up the
L.A. Times
.

Mom stares at him for a long time. Actually, she stares at the newspaper in front of his face for a long time.

This is when Mom decides what’s important
, I tell myself.
This is when she realizes we’re the best part of her life, and stops listening to Shay’s crazy ideas. This is when she digs out her recipes for Oriental chicken and red velvet cake.

She clears her throat. “I choose the job.”

22

Heather and I cleaned
up from dinner an hour ago and Tyler went upstairs way before that, but Mrs. Gray is still at the dining room table. She’s sitting alone with her hands clasped in front of her, gazing down. I stand at the opposite side of the table.

She doesn’t look up.

“Um, Mrs. Gray?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for buying me clothes last month.”

She keeps staring down.

I put three twenties in front of her on the table, which is a ton of money in 1978, especially when y ou’re getting paid $2.30 an hour.

“Hmm?” she repeats.

I back away slowly and head upstairs.

On the way to Heather’s room, I bump into Tyler. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw clenched tight. “I’m sorry. I never meant for your dad to leave,” I tell him.

“Well, what did you think would happen?” He talks through gritted teeth. “I told you not to interfere.”

“I just paid back your mom for the clothes she bought me. Next I’m going to return your f orty-s ix dollars.”

“Where did you get the money for my mom, anyway?”

Like I’m going to cop to washing dishes at a dive restaurant? Especially after Tyler said I was smart.
Dishwasher
is not the job for a smart girl. “It’s not really your business where the money came from.”

“Did The Dick give it to you? For recent services?”

I slap him across the face.

I’m standing in front
of Shay and Heather’s room. It’s approximately 1:47 A.M., but I can’t sleep. And it’s not just because my left cheek is red and raw. I tap on the bedroom door and creak it open.

Heather is snoring softly, but Shay is sitting in bed with her arms crossed against her body.

“Meet me in the kitchen,” I tell her before leaving the room.

I go downstairs and sit at the table, surrounded by my physics books and notebook and graphs, thinking that this might be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. And also thinking that my face hurts.

But I haven’t spent all this effort perfecting my time travel theory for nothing. I have to send Shay back in order to save my family and my friendship with Evie, even if they don’t realize they need saving. I’m like one of those religious crusaders, except I’m definitely right about who needs to be saved.

She arrives rubbing her eyes, looking deceptively innocent in one of Heather’s flannel nightgowns, which I can’t help noticing is snug around her chest. “What’s the matter?” she asks.

“I’ve been studying physics books. I’m pretty sure I can get you home.”

“Home?”

“To 2006.”

Her dark eyes dart around like caught criminals. “Don’t you want to return to your family?”

She shrugs.

“And all your cool friends, and your boyfriend Jake?”

“He was never my boyfriend.”

“If you leave now, I won’t even mention the forty-six dollars you took from me.” I open my notebook and start talking fast. “You see, if that guy Jake’s bathtub was a perfect spherical shell, under Einstein’s theory of gravity and Newton’s postulates, it would exert no gravitational effects inside of it. If tidal forces hit the bathtub and hurled you back in time, you wouldn’t feel the motion of travel even as it approached the speed of light.”

She chews on her lip.

I stare down at my notes. “So, the tidal forces. I believe they’re reversible. A bathroom fan over the water could have caused a whirlwind, mimicking the tides of travel. We need to place a fan over our bathtub, with you in it, of course, and speed it up and reverse it to send you home.”

I wait for her to thank me. But she sits silently at the table.

I clear my throat. “You’re the one who gave me the idea of duct-taping a fan to the bathroom ceiling, instead of trying to wire it.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Because you’ve been cutting and duct-taping half of Heather’s clothes.”

Silence.

“Shay?”

“I like it here,” she says, finally. “And other people—Heather, your mom, this girl Mariel—they appreciate me. I’m accomplishing things.”

“Who’s Mariel? Never mind. I don’t care. Because you’re not accomplishing anything.” I touch my sore cheek for courage to continue. “Under the principle of self-consistency, time travelers don’t change the past because they were always part of it. In other words, you can’t do a darn thing here except cause temporary chaos.”

“That’s one theory,” she says as if she knows anything about scientific theories. She’s chewing her lip so hard, there’s a drop of blood on it. “And to think I once believed you were—”

“I was what? A nerd? A geek? A dweeb? Maybe I was. But I’m not anymore.”

“Kind. That’s what I was going to say.”

Oh. I touch my cheek again. “You have to leave, Shay.” “What about my birthday party?”

“Yes, Shay, exactly. If you leave now, you can celebrate with your real friends and family.”

“They’re all here.” She stands up, pushes in her chair, and walks off.

23

I sit next to
Evie on the bus this morning. She’s slumped against the window, wearing a beige T-shirt and baggy jeans and cheap sneakers.

I used to look like that. Today I’m in an Ocean Pacific striped shirt and corduroy Levi’s and Nikes. My big brown comb is in my back pocket, making me very trendy and making sitting uncomfortable. I grit my teeth, lift my head, and jut out my chin. According to Shay, a smug smirk and good posture are key components of cool.

“You okay?” Evie asks. “You hurt your neck?”

“I’m fine.” I stare past her, out the window, at the billboard of Bo Derek in
10
. I wonder what Evie would look like with cornrowed hair.
Focus, Tyler.
“You should sit with me at lunch,” I tell her.

“At the popular table? You don’t need me there. You have all those jocks and cheerleaders, and Shay, of course.”

“Shay.” I shake my head. “You know my dad left?”

“No. Sorry, Tyler.”

“All because Shay convinced Mom to be a feminist, and got her the cafeteria job, and made us laughingstocks.” I turn toward Evie. “Do you know the last time my mom made dinner? You wouldn’t know that either, would you? You’re never over anymore.”

“You never invite me over.”

“Come over next Saturday night. We’re throwing a kegger for Shay’s birthday.”

“A kegger? How did you get your parents to agree to that?”

“They won’t find out. My dad’s in an apartment in Sherman Oaks. He won’t come back unless my mom quits her job, which she refuses to do. My mom is going to this crazy Wimyn’s Fulfillment Retreat Shay got her to sign up for. Our party’s going to be, like, a blowout. Besides being Shay’s birthday party, this is my, like, coming out party with the popular people.”

“Do you realize you just used the word ‘like’ twice? You’re actually talking just like Shay now,” Evie says.

I cross my arms. “You think being cool is bad.”

“Yes,” Evie says. “If ‘cool’ means ditching your friends.” She crosses her arms too.

The bus stops short at a light, jolting us back and forth, but neither of us uncrosses our arms. We ride with our arms crossed all the way to school. Then I get off the bus without another word to Evie.

Debbie M. meets me at the sidewalk. “Ty Ty!” She puts her arms around me and squeezes. Oh, that sour smell. Does she rub lemons all over herself? Bathe in lemon juice? “I missed you sooo much since yesterday,” she coos.

I watch Shay walk onto campus. It looks like she taped up the thrift store dress at least half a foot.

“Did you miss me, Ty Ty?”

Where does Shay go all day besides physics class and the lunch area?

“Ty Ty, tell me you missed me.”

Evie is staggering past the school office under her loaded backpack. I wonder if Evie and I will ever talk again.