Also known as elvis, p.12
Also Known as Elvis, page 12
I hear my mom shout at Megan and Jessie to turn off the TV and come eat.
The TV clicks off midsong, but Jessie keeps singing, “ ‘I wanna be like other girls’ ” at the top of her lungs, which makes Mom cry, “Jessie! You’re on my last nerve!”
I shut my bedroom door behind me, not wanting anybody to see my packed bags yet, and go into the kitchen, expecting to find my mom in some kind of rage. But instead she’s standing there putting a bunch of daisies in the middle of the table. She looks up at me when I come in and smiles. Actually smiles.
“I picked up this vase at a porch sale on the way home,” she goes. “I thought it would be nice to have flowers for a change. Remember how we used to put flowers on the table every Friday night?” Meaning, she used to put flowers on the table.
I do remember. “I liked that,” I tell her.
“Me, too,” she says, then calls out, “Girls! Wash your hands and come to the table. I’ve got to leave in thirty minutes!”
She starts to tell me to wash my hands, too, then stops herself when I hold them up and she sees they’re already clean. That’s something else that’s changed this summer. I used to be a total slob. But working at the Candy Kitchen, I had to clean up my act. I guess my friends were right. OMG, I’m wholesome!
While my sisters fight over the soap in the bathroom just feet away from where we’re standing, my mom gets all misty-eyed and says in a soft voice so they won’t hear, “I’m going to miss you, Skeezie.”
“How do you know I’m goin’ anywhere?”
“I just know,” she says.
“Well, it’s what you want, right? You’re kicking me out, right?”
The mist turns to light rain, and she tears off a square of paper towel to wipe her eyes. “How can you say that?” she goes. “I just want what’s best for you. You should be with your dad. It’s selfish of me . . .”
She stops when the girls arrive at the table.
“What?” Megan says. “What are you two talking about?”
“Nothing,” says my mom. “I’m just tired.”
“You’re always tired,” Megan says, and I tell her, “Leave her alone. She works hard.”
And we sit down at the table, nobody talking for the longest time, just Jessie humming “I Wanna Be Like Other Girls,” between forkfuls of Skeezie’s Super-Duper Franks ’n’ Beans.
The Night Before the Longest Day
Friday night I hardly sleep.
Saturday is going to be the longest day I’ve ever had to get through. First, I have to mow Addie’s lawn. It hits me that I’m going to have to tell her dad that I can’t do it anymore. I don’t think he’ll care; he’ll be glad to get his favorite form of meditation back.
Then I have a five-hour shift at the Candy Kitchen, although I figure what’s the point, since I’m going to quit. Who knows, maybe Donny will kick me out and tell me he doesn’t ever want to see my face in there again. And Steffi might say I’m letting her down when she was counting on me and she doesn’t want to be my friend anymore. The thought of that makes me sick to my stomach, and one time during the night I have to run to the bathroom because of it.
And then I think how I have to tell my friends. That’s going to be the hardest part of the whole day. They all texted me—even Bobby, who said he and his dad were at a museum or something and he had two bars of power—to say they’d be getting home in the afternoon, and we came up with this plan to meet at four at the Candy Kitchen when I get off work. My dad’s picking me up at the house at six, so I have less than two hours to say to my friends, “Welcome home! And by the way, I’m leaving forever.”
Every once in a while I drift off to sleep. When I do, I have this same dream in which Addie and Joe and Bobby come home. They get all excited to see each other and act like I’m completely invisible.
The Skeezie-Steffi Dialogues: The Future
Steffi:
You’re sure?
Skeezie:
Why wouldn’t I be?
Steffi:
You like it here, remember?
Skeezie:
I’ll come back and visit.
Steffi:
It’s not the same.
Skeezie:
Look, maybe it won’t work out and I’ll move back here. Who knows? But right now . . .
Steffi:
No, you’re right. It’s just . . . now I’m going to have to put together a whole new playlist. And who am I going to call Elvis?
Skeezie:
What about your boyfriend?
Steffi:
Alex? He’s hardly the Elvis type. Besides, I broke up with him last night.
Skeezie:
Why?
Steffi:
Because I don’t want to get married and have babies. Not yet. I’ve got another semester at community college and then I’m going to a four-year school and getting a degree.
Skeezie:
Around here?
Steffi:
Mm-mm. In Vermont. I’m going to a culinary institute.
Skeezie:
Say what?
Steffi:
Cooking school. I’m going to learn how to cook.
Skeezie:
You already know how to make every kind of ice cream dish and sweet potato fries. What else is there?
Steffi:
(laughing) Seriously.
Skeezie:
So you’re leaving, too.
Steffi:
I guess. But I’ll be back.
Skeezie:
Says you now.
Steffi:
Says me now. You’re right. Who knows what the future will bring?
Skeezie:
The future’s scary.
Steffi:
And exciting.
Skeezie:
So even if I stayed, you’d be going. And then who would call me Elvis?
Steffi:
I would leave strict instructions. Or make you a button: “Call Me Elvis.” Hey, why didn’t we think of that? This whole time you’re wearing that ridiculous “Hello My Name Is Skeezie” badge, when it should say . . .
Skeezie:
Elvis. Right.
Steffi:
You’re a nice kid, Big E.
Skeezie:
I told you, I’m calling you in five or six years. You said you’d marry me, remember?
Steffi:
I did?
Skeezie:
Ouch. Back in the fall, remember? I said I’d call you in five or six years and ask you to marry me.
Steffi:
Oh, right. You said you’d ask. I didn’t say I’d say yes.
Skeezie:
Well, just in case, it’s a good thing you broke it off with what’s-his-name.
Steffi:
Alex.
Skeezie:
Yeah, but he’s out of the running now. You’re all mine.
Steffi:
You’re trouble, you know that?
Skeezie:
Nah. I just look like I am. Inside I’m a pussycat.
Steffi:
I got news for you. You never had me fooled.
Skeezie:
So you gonna marry me, Steffi? I know it’s like your secret dream to be Mrs. Elvis.
Steffi:
Uh-huh. Let’s see what happens to you after a few years in Rochester. Grow up, come back, and we’ll talk. But right now you’d better go talk to Donny. He’s not going to be happy you’re leaving.
Skeezie:
I know. I’m sorry to give him such short notice.
Steffi:
It’s not that, you nitwit. He likes you. He’s going to miss you because he likes you.
Skeezie:
Yeah?
Steffi:
Yeah. Now go talk to him before we get busy again.
Skeezie:
Okay. Oh, and Steffi?
Steffi:
Mm?
Skeezie:
Three points to you for using “nitwit” in a sentence.
All the Friends Are Reunited
When I tell him, Donny gets a little miffed (one of Grandma Roseanne’s words), but who can blame him? I’m leaving him shorthanded. Then he says, “You can have your job back anytime, kiddo. You’re a hard worker and a quick learner. I should probably kick your butt for sticking me with Henry, but I want you to come back. So instead you can look for a little something extra in your last paycheck.”
Three hours later I’ve got that paycheck in my hand. He’s added on forty bucks. I can hardly believe it. I go into the kitchen to thank him, and when I come back out there are three people standing just inside the front door.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” I go.
“Tous les amis sont réunis!” Joe cries.
Translation in my head: “I’m here, I’m queer, get used to it!”
Actual translation: “All the friends are reunited!”
It’s a few minutes to four. Addie, Joe, and Bobby are back.
“We all got you presents!” Bobby announces.
“Mine is the absolute best,” says Addie, “if I do say so myself.”
“Nuh-uh. Mine!” says Joe. He is wearing a T-shirt that reads HAPPILY MARRIED TO A CANADIAN in rainbow colors. I sincerely hope he did not get me one that matches.
“Mine is not very exciting,” Bobby says apologetically, “but shopping options are limited in the woods.”
“That only makes it more of a challenge,” goes Joe. “Come on, Skeezie, open your presents. Oh, and I’ll have a double hot fudge sundae with pistachio and mint chocolate chip. I’m in a green mood.”
I go to make the sundae when Steffi says, “Sorry, fella, you’re no longer employed here.”
A glance at the clock tells me it’s four. I untie my apron and hand it to Steffi. “I guess I have to pay like everybody else now, huh?” I say.
“I think the last Dr Pepper float is on the house,” she says.
“And sweet potato fries?”
“Now you’re pushing your luck. Go on, Big E, sit down. One Dr Pepper float and a jumbo order of sweet potato fries coming up!”
“Don’t forget the double-green sundae!” Joe calls out.
After taking Bobby and Addie’s orders, Steffi whispers in my ear, “Good luck telling them.”
No kidding. They’re sitting in the booth—our booth—with presents for me. Why’d they have to get me stinkin’ presents? It’s hard enough.
“What’s up with the presents?” I ask, sliding in next to Addie.
“You’re welcome,” says Joe.
“We didn’t plan it,” Addie says. “We just all had the same idea.”
“Yeah,” says Joe. “It was just coincidental, so, so . . . comment allez-vous.”
“What?” Bobby asks.
“Okay, that means ‘how are you,’ but the point is we all thought of it independently—and no, I have no idea how to say that in French.”
“What Joe is trying to say in his limited English vocabulary,” Addie says, “is that we all thought about you being stuck here, not having a vacation at all this summer, which is so unjust, and we all brought you a little something to cheer you up. Open mine first. No, wait, save the best for last. Joe, you go.”
“Fine, fine, quel chien!”
Addie lets out an exasperated sigh. “That means ‘what a dog.’ ”
“What. Ever. Here, Skeezie. Or Big Eyeballs, or whatever your name is.”
Joe thrusts this big box at me that’s all wrapped in paper with maple leaves on it. “Everything is authentic Canadian, eh?” he says.
“What?”
“Eh?”
“What?”
“That’s what everybody says in Canada when they’re not speaking French.”
“Eh?”
“Oui. Eh.”
“Know what I say to that?”
“Eh?”
“Meh.”
Joe and I high-five, Bobby giggles, and Addie rolls her eyes. It’s good to have my friends back home.
“There’d better be a moose inside,” I tell Joe as I rip open the paper.
“Better than that,” says Joe.
He’s right. There are two moose—meese?—inside.
“These are way cool,” I tell him, pulling out two ginormous moose slippers from the box. “But what size did you get? Twenty?”
“Twelve,” he goes. “Come on, Skeezie, you have the biggest feet on the planet, outside the circus. If they’re too big now, they’ll fit you in a few years.”
“Or you can use them to serve pancakes,” Bobby says.
We all stare at him.
“I think you’ve been out in the woods too long,” I say.
He brings up this small shopping bag from the seat next to him and slides it across the table. “Sorry it’s not wrapped or anything,” he says. “I think the store didn’t even have wrapping paper.”
“It’s okay,” I go. “Who cares about wrapping paper?”
From inside the bag I pull out pancake mix and a big bottle of maple syrup.
“I remembered how you told me that you and Megan and Jessie like pancakes and real maple syrup,” he says. “I hope it’s not a dopey present.”
It’s so not dopey that I’m having trouble saying anything. All I can think is how I’m not going to be there in the morning to make breakfast for my sisters. I’m going to be in some strange kitchen in a strange city. Who knows what they even eat in Rochester?
Finally, I manage to say, “Thanks, Bobby. This is the best present ever.”
“Well, second best,” goes Addie.
“Third best,” says Joe.
Addie hands me a small wrapped rectangular box. I notice that the paper is covered with music notes and that Addie’s hands are covered with graffiti.
“One,” I say, “is it a harmonica? Two, why are your hands covered with graffiti?”
“One,” she answers, “open it and find out. Two, this is not graffiti, O Ye of Little Culture. It’s called mehandi. Or henna. It’s like a temporary tattoo that’s done in India. Only my grandma found this place near her that does it, so we didn’t have to travel that far. Remember, I told you?”
“Oh, right,” I say, recalling the many texts Addie sent me about what she and her grandma were up to. “Cool.”
“Open it!” she says excitedly. “I have to be honest and tell you that Grandma picked it out.”
Judging from Addie’s face, there’s something inside that I’m going to like—and there is. “An Elvis watch!” I go. “This is freakin’ amazing!”
And like magic, “Blue Suede Shoes” comes up on the playlist. I can’t resist. I strap on the watch, jump up, and start singing and air-guitaring, nearly crashing into Steffi, who’s bringing our order. I take the tray, set it down on the table, and grab her hands. “Go, cat, go,” I’m singing as Steffi and I start moving around the room.
It’s the second time ever that I’ve danced with a girl.
• • •
For the next hour and a half, we’re sitting there, me and the gang, catching up on their vacations. They keep asking me stuff about what’s been going on here, but there’s a lot I don’t want to tell them.
I do tell them about looking at guitars with my dad. And I tell them about Becca. Right away Addie says, “See? Didn’t I warn you? I told you to be careful. Becca is so fickle. One day she’s your friend, the next day she acts, like, hello who are you. I mean, she’s a lot better than she used to be, but she still wants to be popular, and that’s a problem. And she is the biggest flirt! I’m sorry, Skeezie, she does like you, but who knows if that means as a friend or a boyfriend? Becca probably flirts with the mailman.”
“And the toaster!” cries Joe.
“And her shoes!” says Bobby.
And we’re off and running with a long list of things and people Becca flirts with. The whole time, part of me is laughing and happy and another part of me is worried sick.
Finally, when I look down at my new Elvis watch and see that it’s five thirty, I say, “Guys, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
And the Winner of the Worst Person in the World Award Goes to . . .
Me.
And the Winner of the Worst Moment in My Entire Life Award goes to . . .
Now.
Nobody speaks. Joe is crying. Addie and Bobby look like they might cry, too.
“Do I have to give my presents back?” I say stupidly.
“That’s not funny,” says Addie, not understanding that I was being sincere, even if it was a stupid question.
“It’s not like forever,” I go. “I’ll be back.”
“When?” Bobby asks.
“To visit,” I mumble.
Nobody says, “What? What did you say?” because nobody wants to hear.
“Why did you wait until the last few minutes to tell us?” Joe asks.
Now I’m going to start crying. I just shake my head and mumble, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
The Rolling Stones are singing, “Time is on my side, yes it is,” and I think, What a joke, when the only other sound I can hear is my Elvis watch ticking away the seconds.
