Blue Plate Special Read Online Free Page A

answering,
    she reaches for the tv clicker
    and ups the volume,
    dismissing me.
    * * *
    after the last bell,
    i meet jeremy and carol ann
    by the bike rack.
    eric used to walk home with us too,
    but he lined up an after-school job
    at the gas ’n’ go
    making five bucks an hour.
    lucky shit.
     
    the three of us stop
    at farth’s market,
    aka the fart mart.
    jeremy uses a fake i.d.
    to get a bottle of cheap sangria
    and a pack of newport 100s.
    i don’t like menthol,
    but i keep my mouth shut.
    jeremy’s buying
    and i am totally broke.
     
    outside the fart mart, we light up,
    start our usual trek
    along a dirt road
    littered with crap
    no one ever cleans up—
    beer cans, food wrappers, used condoms.
    just ahead
    the water tower rises
    like a huge blue zit from
    the pockmarked pavement below.
    we lean against the turquoise blue tank,
    unscrew the twist top on the wine,
    pass the bottle back and forth.
    the warmth goes off inside me,
    a bomb that quiets everything.
     
    carol ann tells knock-knock jokes
    that aren’t the least bit funny,
    but i slap my knee,
    pretending they are,
    because laughing
    feels so damn good.
     
    when the wine is gone,
    we walk into town,
    mildly buzzed, wavering.
    burger king smells taunt me.
    i’m starving. either of you got cash?
     
    sorry , jeremy answers,
    spent all mine at the fart mart.
    carol ann glances at her watch.
    it’s time for dinner. i should go.
    me too , jeremy says.
    ma’s making meat loaf tonight.
    aw —i scruff his hair—
    her baby’s favorite meal.
    he slaps my hand away.
    jealous?
     
    of course i am.
    carol ann’s parents
    are crunchy granola, and
    jeremy’s mom sees a shrink,
    but they’ve still got mam beat.
    we’re about to go our separate ways
    when larry’s brown nissan
    slows to the curb beside us.
    my long, skinny legs are reflected
    in his mirrored sunglasses
    as he leans his arm on the window ledge.
    hey, good lookin’, wanna ride?
     
    jeremy and carol ann exchange a look that says,
    who’s-that-crusty-old-perv-coming-on-to-her?
    so i tell them,
it’s cool
.
    larry’s my mother’s boyfriend.
    then,
    because i feel lazy
    and riding trumps walking,
    i wave good-bye and
    swing the door open.
     
    there’s a paper bag
    on the front seat.
    dinner , larry explains.
    you can toss it in the back.
    when i move it, i peek inside.
    there’s a six-pack of beer,
    a bag of doritos,
    and a grinder,
    meatballs and sauce.
     
    my stomach groans. majorly.
    larry laughs. hungry?
    i sit, buckle up.
starving
.
    well, then —he turns down a side street—
    let’s find a place to eat.
     
    larry parks behind the train tracks.
    a salvage yard’s on one side,
    woods are on the other,
    and the air smells like dirty socks.
     
    we sit on the hood,
    still warm from the engine,
    and larry parks the bag between us.
    within seconds
    we’re chowing down.
     
    larry twists the tops off two buds,
    passing one my way.
    it’s nice to be treated
    like a grown-up for a change.
    i clink my bottle against his. cheers!
     
    how’d your day go? he asks,
    a question mam never thinks of.
    i shrug. the usual.
    school’s not my favorite topic.
    i show up. i leave.
    maybe someday
    i’ll graduate.
     
    when the sandwiches are history,
    larry claps crumbs off his hands,
    reaches in his pocket for a smoke,
    then tips the pack my way.
    come on, have one.
    i won’t rat ya out to your ma.
     
    as we sit there, smoking,
    larry complains about mam—
    how she’s getting more headaches
    and taking more pills
    and never has energy for anything.
    he emphasizes anything.
    i read between the lines.
    gross.
    i don’t know how you put up with her ,
    i say, my words all loose and slurry,
    and this time it’s larry who shrugs.
    * * *
    larry finishes three beers,
    and i polish off two.
    when i lie back on the hood,
    the clouds spin
    and my stomach feels like hell.
    i sit up slowly, telling myself,
    you will not be sick ,
    you will not be sick.
    still, i lurch forward,
    hurl orange dorito barf