You May Already Be a Winner Page 7

  The whole lunchroom was silent and I wondered if it’d be Beyoncé or maybe the president of the United States.

  And then, after a few seconds, a man’s voice came on.

  My dad’s voice.

  My dad.

  And he said, “Don’t go, Olivia! Come to Bryce Canyon with me! I miss you so much! Don’t go to Maine and eat lobsters.”

  I wanted to go to Maine to eat lobsters.

  Of course I did.

  But I knew, even though the girls were all staring at me, some holding hands, others whispering, Maine, Maine, Maine, Maine, even through all that, I knew, with all my heart, that I was meant to ride around on a horse with my dad at Bryce Canyon.

  And that’s when someone threw a hamburger patty at my head.

  Hamburgers are delicious.

  One time our whole family, including the dog because Dad brought one home once but then it got smashed by a semi on the highway, one time, my whole family went to Granny’s restaurant for hamburgers up the canyon.

  It was my best day.

  The windows down.

  The music loud.

  And a fancy meal.

  Cheeseburger, tomatoes, lettuce, onions, thick fries with cups and cups of fry sauce, and a Butterfinger shake to go with it.

  Berkeley said, “Can we do this again?” as she took a huge bite of her gummy-bear shake.

  And Mom laughed and Dad smiled and said, “Of course we can. Of course we will.”

  Of course.

  Of course.

  Of course.

  ~

  Now there was ketchup on my face but not onions or tomatoes or lettuce because we don’t have those kind of hamburgers at school and fifty thousand people staring at me, and I sat there.

  And someone said, “Who threw it?”

  And someone else said, “Who is that?” because no one knows who I am.

  And someone else was laughing.

  Most people were actually.

  And I was trying to sit there.

  And not cry.

  Just sit there.

  And maybe start eating my chef salad that I bought for 1.56 plus tax.

  Should I keep eating?

  Should I stand up?

  Should I go to the bathroom?

  Should someone come over here and tell me what to do?

  Or should they sit there and laugh and talk about it and then go back to their food and their friends and yelling so and so and something and something.

  What should I do?

  ~

  Then there was someone.

  A lunch lady named Edna who said, “Come on, sweetie.” And she took me to the back of the cafeteria where she and all the workers were.

  I left my chef salad on the table without one bite. 1.56 plus tax gone. I wanted to shove it in my backpack but I didn’t have time.

  She said, “Are you okay?”

  I said, “Yes.”

  They were done serving so they were cleaning up and Edna said, “Lisa, throw me a clean cloth.”

  Lisa was a lady with braces and she smiled and I smiled back and then she threw the cloth.

  While I was wiping my face, Edna was talking to me.

  She was saying things like, “Those darn kids.” And, “They don’t have a cell in their brains and when I was your age I got the treatment, too. It was relentless and all because I had headgear. Do you know what headgear is?” and no, I did not know what headgear was but Lisa the other lunch lady did. And then Edna was saying that it was going to get better when I was older. That there’d be a time where I would see those same little-brained kids on the street and point my finger and say look how you turned out and look how I turned out and then I could laugh.

  She was telling me all these things while I was wiping my face.

  And she was still talking when I looked over to the dishwasher area because a kid yelled something and that’s when I saw Bart.

  With a hairnet on his head.

  And he saw me.

  After the hamburger patty and after I said, “HEY,” and Edna said, “Who you shouting at,” and Bart took off and went out a door and I said, “Who was that?” And she said, “Who was who?” And I said, “Bart?” And she said, “I don’t know a Bart,” and I said, “That kid washing dishes?” and she said, “Harrison?” And I said, “His name is Bart I thought,” And she said, “That was one of our student helpers, Harrison.” And then she said, “I don’t know a Bart except there was a Bartholomew in my community ceramics class two years ago and he was a character. He had a full beard and a wonderful sense of humor and we may or may not have spent a little time getting to know each other, if you know what I mean,” and then she and Lisa were laughing and I had most of the ketchup off my head, after that, I left.

  I said, “Life is stupid.”

  And Melody said, “Don’t say that.”

  I was drinking ginger ale and eating cookies and saying life was stupid and she was telling me not to say life was stupid even though she sat on the steps of her trailer and cried all day and all night and her husband, Harry, was nowhere, just like my dad was nowhere. I’d seen her sitting there after school and for no reason I decided to talk to her and for no reason she got me ginger ale and cookies.

  I said, “It is.”

  She said, “It’s not.”

  I said, “It’s not?”

  She said, “It’s not.”

  I said, “Today someone threw a hamburger at my head.”

  She paused. “A real hamburger?”

  I thought about what a fake hamburger would be like. Maybe one of those candy ones?

  But it was real so I said, “Yep.”

  “Really?”

  Then I told her the whole thing. I told her how I sat there.

  I told her how I had to go in the kitchen part of the cafeteria while everyone watched or didn’t watch.

  I told her about Lisa and Edna with the headgear.

  I did not tell her about Bart or Harrison or whoever he was.

  She sighed.

  Then I kept talking.

  It was like I couldn’t stop.

  I told her about how I had to go back to school and I hadn’t been going to school but now I had to and it was the worst.

  I told her how I was behind and how I had no friends but that I didn’t even try to get friends because it felt tiring and maybe I’d get to stay home again soon. I even told her how I made up a circus for Berkeley and how that was never going to happen. I told her that every day of my life—Every. Single. Day.—of my life was stupid.

  It was the first time I opened my mouth and let anything that wanted to just come spilling out.

  When I was done.

  And I was breathing hard.

  And probably sunburned.

  When I was done, she was quiet.

  Didn’t say a thing.

  I waited.

  I wondered what kind of perfume she was wearing.

  A fly landed on my leg. I slapped at it. It flew away.

  Then Melody said, “What if that had been a butterfly?”

  I looked at her. “What?”

  “Would you have swatted it if it’d been a butterfly?”

  “Uh,” I thought about it. Would I have? “Probably not,” I said.

  She nodded. Then she said, “Why not?”

  “Because butterflies are good. Flies are bad.”

  She said, “Are they?”

  I took a bite of cookie. Then she said, “Flies can be gross. They can spread disease and infest meat and grain.”

  “That’s what I mean,” I said.

  “But . . .” She cut me off. “They also pollinate more plants, including food that you would never guess. They do just as much good as the bees do and not only that, th
ey feed hummingbirds, sparrows, and songbirds.”

  I had no idea why she was talking about this. Who cared about the dumb flies? Also I didn’t know they did that kind of thing. But still.

  She took a cookie off the plate. “People decide things without knowing the whole story. Usually things aren’t all one way or all the other way. Usually they’re a little bit of everything.”

  I thought about that for a few seconds while she ate another cookie.

  Then she said, “A hamburger?”

  I said, “What?”

  And she said, “They threw a hamburger?”

  And I said, “A hamburger.”

  She said, “Cheeseburger?”

  I said, “Hamburger. They don’t have cheeseburgers at my school.” I also said, “They may not have been aiming at me.”

  And she said, “That’s the spirit.”

  Then I said, “Is Harry coming back?”

  She sat back and closed her eyes. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Then she said, “You weren’t going to school?”

  I said, “No.”

  She said, “Your mom knew you weren’t going to school? Do you guys get money from the government? They can help with day care.”

  My stomach started to bubble a little because Mom won’t do anything like that and says we don’t need other people’s money and it’s none of anyone’s business and we can take care of ourselves and here I was telling Melody, which Mom would hate hate hate so I said, “Where does Harry go?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know.”

  I took a drink of ginger ale. I thought about me. I thought about Mom. I also thought about Harry and Melody.

  I wanted to ask if Harry was bad. Or good. Or if he was a little bit of everything.

  I wanted to ask if he was the reason she sat out here for hours. Or if she loved him even though he left all the time or if he loved her even when he left all the time or if they talked or if he had a girlfriend that wasn’t her or if she thought about moving to Virginia or if she killed flies in her kitchen or let them lay eggs all over the place and multiply so that they could pollinate food and plants I would never guess and get eaten by songbirds. Maybe her house was filled with songbirds.

  Maybe she and Harry loved each other so much.

  Maybe she and Harry hated each other so much.

  I wanted to ask her everything.

  But then I decided not to ask her anything.

  Instead we sat in the sun.

  Then she said, “I know how to ride a unicycle.”

  ..............

  Dear Dad,

  I talked to Melody today. Do you remember her? It turns out she does stunt work and hair and makeup for local movies which there aren’t a lot of but she used to live in LA and she did it all the time there. A stunt person! Plus, hair and makeup. One time she was a double on a superhero movie but she couldn’t tell me which one for privacy reasons. I think it was Thor. Or Batman. But I don’t know.

  I told her how great school is going. She also said she could do my hair for free because she’s in between jobs right now and she needs to practice so we might dye it because Mom doesn’t do that anymore. She also said she could permanently straighten it. Like a reverse perm. Should I do that? Mom said I shouldn’t but Mom and Melody are different.

  I hope you are good and that you like being a ranger at Bryce Canyon where I know you are. That boy Bart is definitely a liar.

  Sincerely,

  Your daughter, Olivia

  P.S. He’s not dead or abducted.

  ..............

  The next day after the hamburger was a Saturday, which I was glad for.

  Even though I had gone to school for two weeks and I was starting to be okay for the most part, I was relieved to get a day off.

  A day to sit on my tramp.

  Mom didn’t have to work in the morning again so she got up early and by the time me and Berkeley were awake she was already scrubbing the kitchen, which she used to do back before but which she hadn’t done for a long long time.

  She didn’t like to bring work home with her.

  The whole place smelled like lemon.

  She said, “Get dressed, girls. We’re going out for breakfast.”

  Berkeley said, “What?”

  And she said, “You heard me. As soon as I get this floor done, I’m getting in the car and getting me a McGriddle.”

  Berkeley started jumping up and down. “Can I get pancakes?”

  “Of course you can, baby girl. You can have pancakes and orange juice and even sausage if you want.”

  Berkeley squealed. “Come on, Livy,” and ran back into our bedroom.

  I don’t know why but I did not squeal or run back to the bedroom. Instead I watched Mom as she finished scrubbing.

  She looked up at me. “Why aren’t you getting ready?”

  I wanted to tell her the stuff I told Melody.

  About the hamburger.

  About how school was horrible.

  About how most of my teachers said I couldn’t catch up.

  I wanted to tell her that she ruined everything. And about why wasn’t Dad emailing me back? Or writing me back? And about how nothing ever ends up good except for when I do my own thing—when she doesn’t ruin it. Like I might get my hair reverse permed by Melody even if she didn’t like it. Like I might move to Zimbabwe even if she said Africa was full of wild animals. Like I might get on a Greyhound and go find Dad even if Lala said he was trashy and had a girlfriend and even if Mom promised he’d come back because I had a feeling he never would.

  I wanted to tell her all those things.

  But then I said, “I don’t feel like eating McDonald’s.”

  This was a lie and she knew it was a lie. She sat back on her heels and looked at me.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want a Sausage Egg McMuffin?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want orange juice?”

  “Nope.”

  “You don’t want an apple pie?”

  I tried to keep my face normal even though sometimes I think about those pies at night.

  “No, thank you.”

  She narrowed her eyes, which made her look like an evil lady and she said, taking off her gloves, “Fine by me. You going to go hang out with your best friend Melody?”

  Mom and Berk had got home late the night before and she saw me sitting with Melody. Melody had shown me some of her tricks on her unicycle which she really was so good at and then she’d braided my hair into a fishtail which I like very much and when Mom got out of the car we were laughing and Mom said, “What’s going on here?”

  And Melody stood up and said, “Hey, LeAnn.”

  And Mom said, “Take Berkeley inside the house, Liv. It’s time for dinner.”

  And I looked at Melody who was saying, “It’s okay. We had a good time.”

  And Mom said, “It’s not okay, Melody. She should’ve been inside doing homework. Has she been out here long?” Mom was using a nasty voice and even though my mom is tired and can yell sometimes, she’s not nasty.

  I didn’t get this. Whatever was going on, I didn’t get it.

  Why was she mean to Melody? Weren’t they sort of the same in some ways? Both their husbands gone?

  And now she was saying to me, “You going to hang out with your best friend Melody?”

  I said, “Maybe.”

  And she said, “Fine by me.”

  She stood up. Even in her old sweats and Justin Bieber T-shirt from the thrift store, she looked nice. Not fancy like Melody but beautiful. Like someone who should be a good mom.

  She used to be a good mom, I think.

  But now . . .

  “Berkeley,” she yelled. “Let’s
go.”

  “Aren’t you going to get dressed?” I asked her.

  “I am dressed.”

  “You’re going to wear that?”

  “Yep.”

  I said, “Oh.”

  I guess I thought she’d take time to get ready like she always did and then we’d talk and she’d ask why I didn’t want to go and then I’d say, “No. I don’t want to tell you,” and then she’d say, “I’m your mother. Please. You can tell me anything,” and then she’d beg me and then we’d hug and go eat Egg McMuffins and orange juice and apple in-my-mouth pie.

  But instead she and my sister put on their shoes, held hands, and went out the door, Berkeley turning to look at me just as it shut.

  I watched the Pontiac drive out of the neighborhood.

  They left without me.

  I sat in the kitchen.

  I sat in the front room.

  I thought about writing Dad.

  Or going to the library and emailing him.

  I thought about not emailing him just to show him how it felt.

  I thought about eating breakfast.

  I didn’t want to eat dumb-bum corn flakes again.

  I sat in my room.

  I wished I could enter some contests.

  I looked at my face in the mirror and checked if any of my freckles had gone away.

  Then I heard screams outside.

  I looked out the window and it was Carlene. She was screaming that Chip’s monster truck was in flames! FLAMES!

  I didn’t know what to do but then I knew exactly what to do and I ran out the door in my nightgown, grabbed the neighborhood hose, and while Carlene and her stepmom and Lala and Bonnie and all of them were standing there bawling, and Chip, who was the most devastated of all of course, was rolling around in the dirt in a ball, wailing, “My baby! My baby,” while all that, I started spraying the fire.

  I even went right up to the heated truck that was crumbling before our very eyes, and sprayed and sprayed and sprayed and when most of the flames were out, Carlene was still crying: PEBBLES! PEBBLES! Which is the name of her cat, which I am allergic to, and she said, “He’s in the cab! The cab!” and even though my body told me no, my heart told me yes.