Blue Plate Special Read Online Free

Her face tightens and her sadness evaporates, replaced by sudden irritation. She scowls, yelling through her window. “What are you staring at, fat girl?”
    “N—nothing,” I stammer. I look away, exhale, slump down low in my seat. Crouched, I count to sixty, deciding one full minute is enough time to prove I’m sorry. But when I try to straighten up, there’s a problem. One of my stomach rolls is wedged beneath the steering wheel. Frantically, I jerk from side to side, except it doesn’t do any good. I’m trapped. I can’t move, can’t breathe.
    Panicking, I grip the steering wheel to lift myself out. But the wheel is slippery and my hand slides off, smacking the horn, sounding a long, loud blast.
    People inside the store turn to gawk. Marcia Brady stares too. And when her boyfriend reappears, dropping a six-pack of Budweiser in the backseat, the girl pokes his arm, pointing at me, saying, “Check out the fat girl. She’s stuck!”
    I look down at my pinned stomach. Then up at the boy and girl, laughing. At Mom, walking toward our car, cradling her beer like a baby again. I bite my lip to keep from crying.
    Mom slides in and slurs, “Whassamatta? Yourfaceisallred.”
    My heart slams against my chest. “I’m stuck!” I blurt out.
    Mom’s eyes focus on my pinned stomach. She starts to giggle, then presses a finger to her lips, shushing herself. “Thelatchisontheside,” she manages, nodding toward the floor.
    Jesus, I’m so stupid.
    I feel for the lever on the lower edge of my seat. Hold it in, press it back. The seat glides away from the steering wheel. Finally, I can breathe.
    Elton John sings “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” as the Camaro pulls out of the space. A space the boy won’t remember parking in five days from now, or five months, or five years.
    But I’ll remember. Because I will always be stuck here. In this spot. In this body. I will never be a spirit. Or anything other than what I am.
    As his car merges onto the main road, Marcia Brady’s still laughing.
    * * *
    By the time I pull into our driveway, Mom is passed out cold. I wake her and help her out, steadying her as she stumbles up the steps to our apartment.
    Inside, she collapses on our sofa. Within seconds, she’s snoring.
    I slip her shoes off and put them in her closet, careful not to disturb the pillars of playing cards stacked in one corner. A carton of Mom’s cigarettes comes with a free deck, and she’s saved overtwo hundred of them, still wrapped in their original plastic. Lord knows what she plans to do with them. Maybe build a house someday.
    Returning to the couch, I open the ratty green blanket folded across the back—the one I plan to replace with a homemade afghan—and I spread it across Mom’s sleeping form. “G’night,” I say, even though I know she can’t hear me.

Desiree
    dressing for school,
    i slip on a black pleather skirt
    and my new halter top—
    mostly to keep mam from finding it
    when she snoops through my stuff,
    treating me like a whore
    who can’t be trusted.
    she has no clue
    i’m still a virgin.
     
    over the halter top
    i button a denim shirt,
    tie it in a knot at my waist.
    i twist my long, dark hair into a coil
    and clip it at the back of my head.
     
    downstairs,
    mam’s at the kitchen table,
    watching the morning news,
    pigging out on sugar doughnuts.
    as i walk to the fridge
    and pour some o.j.
    her eyes bore holes into my back.
    skirt’s kinda short, isn’t it?
    her version of good morning,
    and a thick-tongued and slurry
    one at that.
    sure as hell,
    she’s stoned on headache pills again.
     
    i down my juice,
    turn to set my glass in the sink.
    still, she’s studying me,
    recording my many fuckups:
    skirt’s too short,
    hair’s too long,
    makeup’s too heavy.
    too, too, too.
    why are you staring at me?
     
    she reaches for another doughnut.
    sometimes i can’t believe
    how much you look like
    —she cuts herself off—
    someone i used to know.
     
    who?
     
    without