Read Between the Lines

  I find an open spot in the parking lot and practice my mad three-point parking skills. My mother sucks in her breath as I make the last turn and slide into the space. I don’t blame her for being nervous. It’s not as if I’ve had a lot of practice yet. But I manage to get the car between the white lines.

  I cut the engine and wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans. We spot my dad’s empty Ford Taurus across the way and head inside. I walk slowly, letting my mom go ahead of me a bit. I realize that I might know some people here from school, and they are about to see me with my parents, and possibly my parents behaving very emotionally. This all has the potential to be the most embarrassing moment of my life. An image of my dad jumping up from some ketchup-stained table and running across the restaurant toward us, arms outstretched, picking my mom up and swinging her around in a circle, flashes in front of me.

  Please no.

  My mom pauses at the door like I’m supposed to open it for her. I mean I know I am, but, just this once, couldn’t she pretend not to know me? For pity’s sake?

  I take a deep breath and open the door. A flood of warm, greasy chicken air engulfs us. My mom cranes her neck around like a turkey to spot my dad. Most of the tables are taken by kids from school or old people. There’s a long line at the counter that snakes through a maze marked by a metal railing. A few girls are sitting on the top rung, laughing and snapping their gum.

  “There he is!” my mom says way too loudly. She grabs my hand as if I’m five and starts to drag me across the restaurant. I twist free (kind of like a five-year-old) and pray to God no one saw. My mom winds her way through the tables, stepping over backpacks left on the floor. My dad’s sitting at a big table all by himself, and most likely being silently cursed by everyone in the room for taking a huge table for himself.

  He stands up and opens his arms to us. Only my mom walks into them. He hugs her tight, just like I envisioned. Thankfully, he does not swing her around. We all take our seats. Me across from them.

  “Well?” my mom says. “Are you going to keep us in suspense?”

  He beams at me. I’m not proud, but the first thing that pops into my head is, What Willy Loman story are you going to try to sell us this time?

  I feel terrible.

  “Wait,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “I want to savor this moment.”

  “Walt,” my mom says, giggling. “You’re such a goof.”

  They’re holding hands on top of the table. I scan the room for people I know. I recognize a bunch from school but don’t see anyone I actually know-know, thank God. Not that there are many that would fall in that category.

  “As you are aware,” he says, all serious, “I had a job interview today.”

  “We know!” my mom says. “Now tell us what happened!”

  “First, the interview lasted nearly three hours,” my dad says matter-of-factly. His face is glistening with sweat. He’s wearing his old brown suit, and I notice the elbow area is threadbare. It makes me sad. My dad has horrific taste in clothes. He wears light-blue polyester-type shirts with a breast pocket and brown pants and jacket of a similar material. This is his uniform. I’m surprised that these clothes are actually for sale anywhere. In fact, they probably aren’t. My dad has been wearing them forever. Probably since before I was even born. If it weren’t for the thinning hair and the fact that he’s old, his clothes might even pass for retro cool. But they don’t. Because my dad is wearing them.

  “Three hours!” my mom says. “You must be exhausted.”

  “It was intense, that’s for sure.” He grins.

  “What’s the job, Dad?” I ask, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible.

  “Managerial,” he says. He reaches below the table and fiddles in his pants pocket with his free hand, then pulls out a yellowed handkerchief. I’m pretty sure I am the only person under the age of fifty who has a parent who still uses a handkerchief. He carefully dabs the sweat off his face with it.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I’m still nervous! Can’t seem to calm down.”

  My mom uses her free hand to pat him on the shoulder. “Well, you’d better tell us the news before we all need that thing,” she says.

  I could be sweating buckets and I would not touch that handkerchief.

  “OK, OK,” he says. He sits up taller. “They made an offer.”

  My mom screams. Everyone looks over at us. She claps her hand over her mouth, then hugs my dad.

  When they finally pull apart, they are both crying.

  I glance around the restaurant, horrified. But everyone has already gone back to eating. No one seems to care that my parents just hugged and kissed in public. No one cares that they are sobbing tears of joy.

  If that was Ben and me, everyone would be staring. Let’s face it. Two guys kissing is still a rarity. The captain of the basketball team kissing me in public would be epic.

  I touch my bruised mouth and think of the two of us, hiding in the stairwell. Of Ben’s tears.

  My parents don’t realize how lucky they are. They don’t realize how easy they have it, being able to love each other in public like that. Ben and I could be as out as flags on the Fourth of July, and we still wouldn’t get that kind of pass. Everyone would stare. Everyone would snicker. Everyone would judge.

  It’s hard to believe I could ever feel jealous of my parents, but right now I kind of do.

  “We’re so proud of you, honey,” my mom says, wiping my dad’s face. “We have to celebrate! Stephen, why don’t you get in line for some milk shakes. Chocolate, right, honey?”

  “Sure, sure. That would be great,” my dad says. “And French fries. Remember how we used to dip ’em in our shakes?”

  My mom smiles at him. “Of course I do.” She lets go of his hand and fumbles in her purse for some money.

  “What flavor do you want, Mom?” I ask.

  “Chocolate. Of course!”

  They beam up at me, faces still glistening. So happy. Despite what happened with Ben earlier, I admit I feel happy too. My dad’s dream actually came true. Damn. He finally did it!

  I take the money and go to the back of the line and wait. The group in front of me is definitely from my school but older. Maybe seniors. They’re talking about the colleges they’re applying to and how they hope to get as far away from here as possible. Good plan.

  The chicken smell mixed with the person’s cologne in front of me is making me feel nauseous.

  Every few minutes, we move forward a couple of feet, then wait. Pretty soon three guys get in line behind me. I know two of them from my lit. elective, but we don’t talk much. Jack Messier and Dylan something. They’re in the grade below me, so we weren’t friends when we were younger, and at my school, it seems the friend cliques that formed in elementary school stay that way, except in rare cases. Like Lacy and me, who became friends because we never belonged to a clique, and I guess eventually we circled around the outside long enough that we bumped into each other.

  I touch my phone in my back pocket and think maybe I should call her. Try one more time. But I know it’s hopeless. She was so hurt when I told her the girls were just using her to get closer to Ben. She didn’t want to hear it. And then when she caught Ben and me together one night at her house, it sent her over the edge.

  “You’re the one using me! Not them!”

  And just like that, we went from being best friends to strangers.

  Jack nudges Dylan, and he kind of falls into me.

  “Sorry,” he says, not even looking at me.

  He’s carrying a backpack that he keeps rehiking over his shoulder. He also keeps glaring at one of the guys behind the counter who appears to be giving orders to everyone else. Dylan sort of looks like he wants to kill him. Then the friend I don’t know grabs him and starts pulling him back. They all turn to peer out across the dining room at . . . my dad.

  “Uh-oh, isn’t that the guy from this morning?” one of them whispers.

  My dad gets up. He’s looking at them like he
knows them.

  “Crap. We need to get out of here,” Jack says.

  My dad is striding toward them, his hand raised up like he wants to get their attention. But they bolt, running out the door. My dad hurries to the glass door just as it swings closed. He stands there, watching them run across the parking lot and jump into their car and take off. He stands in front of the glass, watching them go. He shakes his fist at them. “I know what you did!” he yells. “I’ll report you!” Then he gives them the finger. But they’re gone.

  He keeps standing there, though, tapping his middle finger against the glass. It’s not like my dad. Not like him to make a scene. Not like him to give anyone the finger. I look over to see if my mom — the finger hater — sees him, but it’s too crowded, and all I can see is the top of her head poking up, trying to see what’s going on.

  I get out of line and run over to my dad. Up close, he looks even more not right. Not himself. He looks . . . crazed.

  “Dad?” I ask. “Are you OK?”

  He’s still staring out the window.

  “That was those boys from this morning,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Thugs. They scammed me.” He says it so quietly. “They . . . pulled a fast one on me. I knew it. But what could I do? Those boys are bad. You stay away from them.” His hand reaches up to his chest. “They targeted me, those boys. Somehow they knew . . .”

  “Dad? What’s wrong.”

  “My chest feels funny,” he says. “I’m not sure —”

  He clutches my arm with his other hand. So tight. I grab him, but he’s sinking to the floor.

  “Walt!” my mom screams. She pushes her way through the people who have stood up to see my dad and me. “Walt!” she screams again.

  But he only stares up at us. No, not at us. At the ceiling.

  “Oh my God, Walt! Someone call nine-one-one,” my mom yells.

  A bunch of people pull out their phones as my mom and I crouch down and try to loosen my dad’s shirt and lift his head up. My mom pats his cheeks. “Walt? Walt?”

  She’s shaking.

  A guy in a Little Cindy’s uniform pushes through to us. It’s the guy Dylan looked like he wanted to kill.

  “What happened?” he asks, crouching next to my mom. His name tag says DEWEY HARTSON. Dewey. Now, that is one unfortunate name. I don’t know why I have this thought when my dad is on the floor, maybe dying. It just stands out. Everything does. Feet surround us. Black Converse. Bright-red running shoes. Silver ballet flats. That’s all I see. Colorful feet encircling my parents on the greasy floor.

  “I think he’s having a heart attack,” my mom yells at Dewey’s face.

  “Are there any doctors here?” Dewey calls out.

  No one answers.

  “Walt!” my mom says again, lightly tapping my dad’s face. His head is resting against her thighs now. She’s kneeling at his head.

  “Maybe you should splash water on his face,” someone suggests.

  “Someone get some water!” Dewey yells.

  A girl who looks like she might be a senior runs over with a cup of water. My mom holds it to my dad’s lips and tips it up, but the liquid just dribbles down the side of his face.

  My mom looks over at me. I reach for her arm. “Help’s coming,” I say. Which is probably the lamest thing I could possibly tell her, but what else is there?

  Her eyes are filled with worry and fear.

  I squeeze her arm. “He’ll be OK,” I say, pretending.

  Dewey glances around desperately. “Did you call nine-one-one?” he asks no one in particular.

  A boy holds up his phone. “They’re on their way. They’re asking a bunch of questions.”

  “Give me that thing!” Dewey says.

  The boy hands his phone over.

  “Yeah. This is the manager. We’ve got a customer on the floor.” He studies my dad while the person on the other end asks him questions. It’s like he’s watching a hurt animal, not a person, the way he scrunches his face.

  “I don’t know. Maybe two minutes ago? Yeah. Yeah. No, he’s not responding. Loosen his shirt more!” he says to my mom.

  I help her unbutton it. My dad’s not wearing a T-shirt underneath, and sweaty black hairs pop out as soon as they’re set free. His belly is going up and down, which is a relief. But it seems to be doing so very slowly.

  “Give him some room!” Dewey says. The shoes step back, leaving us like an island on the sticky tile floor.

  “I hear sirens!” someone yells.

  The crowd, oddly, cheers.

  “Help’s coming,” my mom whispers in my dad’s face. “Hang on, Walt. Just hang on.”

  Seconds later an ambulance pulls up outside the door, and three EMTs come running in. The crowd parts for them. One starts talking to my mom while the other two pull out instruments and things from their bags and slap them on my dad.

  I stand up and step back, watching. Watching like this is a movie I fell inside of. But I can’t hear anything. My ears are ringing. My body is tingling. I don’t feel the floor under my feet. I just keep stepping backward until someone’s hands are on my arms, squeezing, and a faint voice is saying, “Whoa, sit down. Here you go. Give this kid some air.”

  It’s Dewey. He comes around and faces me when I sit and asks if I’m all right. He has huge arm muscles and his shirt, I realize now, is way too tight. For some reason I think of my mom’s description of my dad when he was a hero all those years ago. Is this what she saw? Something like this? Is this what my dad used to be?

  Behind him, I watch the EMTs bring in a stretcher. They surround my dad and carefully lift him up onto it. My mom hovers nearby and follows them.

  He was so close, I think. He had the dream in his hand. I should have known something would keep him from having it come true.

  Willy Loman. Willy Loman, I hate you.

  “I have to go,” I say. I get up and nearly fall. I want to throw up. Dewey guides me outside and to the ambulance. My mom starts to get in after my dad, then turns and sees me, remembering I’m here.

  “You can drive right behind us,” one of the EMTs tells my mom.

  She nods and hurries over to me.

  “Are you sure you should drive?” Dewey asks her.

  She looks at him, foggy. Confused. Maybe she sees my old hero dad, too, when she looks at him.

  “Yes,” she says quietly. “Yes. Come on, Stephen.”

  I follow her to the car. She gets in on the passenger side. I take a deep breath and try to get a hold of myself. Focus. Breathe.

  He is not Willy Loman.

  He is not.

  You did not make this happen.

  He is not Willy Loman.

  “Stephen,” my mom says. “Let’s go.”

  Behind the wheel, things become more clear. Key. Ignition. Turn. Put in reverse. I pull out behind the ambulance, its siren blasting. The hospital is close by, thank God.

  My mom is clutching the bar on the passenger side again. But this time, she is not tapping her fingers. This time, she is not willing me to slow down but to go faster.

  “What was he doing?” she asks me. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “He just got up and hurried to the door. Who was he yelling at?”

  “I don’t know,” I say again. I don’t know why I don’t want to tell her about the boys.

  Thugs, my dad said. Those guys did something to him. Something mean. Something bad enough to break his heart.

  “Oh, Walt,” my mom says to the windshield.

  “He’ll be OK,” I say. And I pray, pray, pray that’s true.

  She shakes her head. “The world doesn’t want him to succeed,” she says, crying. “Why doesn’t the world want him to succeed?”

  I don’t know how to answer. But all I can think is Willy Loman again. I can’t get him out of my head.

  I see my dad standing at that window, and it seems he is not giving those guys the fing
er — he is giving it to the world. And right now, it feels like the world deserves it. The world broke his heart.

  “He’s going to be OK,” I say again.

  She reaches over and squeezes my thigh.

  “He has to be,” she says.

  “He will,” I tell her. I will not let him become another Willy Loman. I won’t.

  I press harder on the gas pedal, and we race after the ambulance.

  “Careful,” my mom says. “But hurry.”

  We continue on, determined to save my dad, once a hero.

  My dad, who deserves a chance to show the world it hasn’t won.

  THE FIRST TIME I SAW THAT GIRL ON THE wall, I knew she was bad news.

  She stood there like she was on a stage of her own making.

  The graffiti backdrop seemed just a little too perfect for the real world.

  She twisted her cigarette prop expertly in her fingers. Not smoking it. I don’t think it was even lit.

  She was only bad news because she wanted to be.

  She seemed to want anyone who dared to walk down her side of the street to be afraid. To feel like they didn’t belong.

  It worked.

  She showed up after summer vacation. Maybe she’d been there all summer. I don’t know.

  I only use the street to walk home from school.

  But now it’s her place.

  And all fall, she’s been letting me know it.

  Her friends are like backdrops, too. Standing not next to but behind her. Looking where she looks.

  Disapproving of what she disapproves of.

  They are her handpicked backup dancers, with costumes just like hers:

  High-heeled boots and short-short skirts or cut-off shorts.

  Black tights with holes at the knee or thigh.

  Too-tight tank tops.

  Bare arms crossed at their chests when they aren’t twirling their own cigarette props.