Part 2 (1/2)

”Why aren't you at work?” I ask, slouching so I won't be so conspicuous.

Mom has the most presidential name ever-Margaret Carter-Madison-and even though all she runs is a small elementary school, people are always clamoring for her time. It's amazing the things she has to deal with-parents who are obsessed with their six-year-olds' social development; Mrs. Smith, who's this warped fifth-grade teacher who insists dinosaurs never existed; occasional lice epidemics-sometimes I don't understand how she can handle the pressure of it all. Somehow, though, she always manages to stay calm. She has a voice that's a little quieter than most people's, so you have to pay closer attention when you listen to her, and instead of sitting in the audience during the little kids' productions, trying to look interested, she plays the piano for them. She gets all excited, even though the songs are the same every year.

She's not answering my question, so I say, ”I thought if you left Riverbank Elementary before seven P.M. the results would be disastrous.”

”Well, it's your first day back,” she says, sounding a little too cheerful.

”And that means what exactly?”

”I thought we'd go to our j.a.panese place. You've just begun the second half of your high school career. We should celebrate.”

I get kind of squirmy when she says that. I don't know why she's trying so hard. I mean, our our j.a.panese place? We haven't been there since I was a kid. We used to go sometimes back before she became a princ.i.p.al and started working all the time, when I could still order the children's special bento box. I don't know how to respond, so I open up the glove compartment and dig around in it, just for something to do. Tic Tacs. A pair of old sungla.s.ses. The car manual. j.a.panese place? We haven't been there since I was a kid. We used to go sometimes back before she became a princ.i.p.al and started working all the time, when I could still order the children's special bento box. I don't know how to respond, so I open up the glove compartment and dig around in it, just for something to do. Tic Tacs. A pair of old sungla.s.ses. The car manual.

I pop a Tic Tac in my mouth and offer her one. She accepts. I keep eating them, one by one, crus.h.i.+ng them to minty dust between my teeth. By the time we pull up to the restaurant, I've finished them. I toss the empty see-through box back into the glove compartment before I get out.

It's that slow, in-between time-too late for lunch, too early for dinner. Mom and I are the only customers, which is something I hate. Whenever there are no other customers in a restaurant, I can't stop thinking that if we weren't here, the waiters would probably be eating or talking on the phone or turning the music up, so I feel like we're ruining what should be their downtime. I especially hate it when they hover in a corner, waiting to refill the water gla.s.ses. That really depresses me.

The whole time we're looking at our menus, and ordering, and pouring green tea from a hot metal pot into tiny cups, I can feel Mom preparing to say something. I don't know how I know exactly, it's just this feeling I get. She keeps looking at me and smiling.

”Who did you eat lunch with at school?”

I pick up the tiny cup and start to take a sip. Too hot. I set it down and stare at the wet circle it made on the paper place mat.

”Guess,” I say.

She doesn't.

I trace the circle with my finger. ”Come on. It's obvious.”

”Not to me.”

I roll my eyes. ”Obviously, I ate with no one.” I ate with no one.”

Mom's cheery mood disintegrates.

”Caitlin,” she says.

She says my name all the time, but this is different. It's all disappointed-sounding, like I had a choice, like there were a million kids lined up to eat with me and I was like, Sorry, I'd rather eat by myself Sorry, I'd rather eat by myself.

”What?” I snap, and she doesn't say anything else.

After about two seconds of waiting, the waiter comes with our food. I stare into the enormous bento box I ordered, heaped with tempura and chicken teriyaki and California rolls, and part of me wishes I could still get the kids' box. It has everything that this one does, just smaller portions. I eat one tempura carrot, and feel full.

”My friend Margie at work suggested a very good therapist. Her daughter enjoys working with her.”

”What's wrong with Margie's daughter?”

”Nothing is wrong with her. Like you, she's just going through a difficult time right now.”

”Oh,” I say, all sarcastic. ”A difficult time difficult time.”

Mom sips her tea. I bite into a California roll and soy sauce dribbles down my chin. I swat it away with my napkin and hope the waiter isn't standing somewhere watching us.

”I'm not going to see some therapist,” I mutter.

Mom looks, sadly, into her rice bowl. I wish I knew what she was thinking.

We don't say much after that, and I feel kind of bad about it, but I don't know why she had to bring that up. She can't expect me to go along with every suggestion she makes just because she's taking me out to eat.

8.

Friday-night dinner, I sit at the table with Mom and Dad and eat in silence. Dad asks questions about my first week back at school in the cheerful tone Mom has been using for days. I give him one-word answers, stab pasta with my fork. Soon they start talking to each other and I tune them out. When I can't sit there any longer I get up, push the leftover food into the sink, and stick my plate in the dishwasher.

I climb into the backseat of my car and put my knees up against the seat covers I ruined. I was supposed to have gotten my license three months ago, but instead of making three-point turns, I was watching my best friend's casket lower into the ground. Now I can't seem to call the DMV to schedule a new appointment.

This car is so old it only has a tape player. I only own one tape. Fortunately, it's a good one. Ingrid's brother, Davey, made it for my birthday one year. It has all these indie bands on it that I had never heard of. The songs kind of blend together, but they're all so great. I reach up, turn the key in the ignition, and a boy's voice wails through the speakers. A few minutes later my dad comes out to the car.

”Do you have any homework? If you get it done now, you'll be able to enjoy the weekend.”

”No,” I lie.

He lifts my backpack into the air. ”I brought you this just in case.”

After a while I pull out my math book and some paper. The tape turns itself over. There's the sound of a quiet guitar; a woman's voice starts and then a man's joins her. It sounds pretty. I try to do my math, but I don't have a calculator in the car. All of a sudden I want the phone to ring. I picture my mom coming out with the cordless and handing it to me when I roll the window down. I would stretch out on the seat. And listen. And talk. I would come up with something interesting to say. But the only person who ever called me was Ingrid, so I know it will never happen. I reach up and turn the music as loud as it can go. The whole car shakes and it sounds like I'm tuned to a radio station that doesn't come in clearly.

I push everything off the backseat and lie down. Through the moon roof, the sky darkens. I imagine that the phone is propped on the seat, right next to my ear.

So what was Veena wearing the first day? Ingrid asks. Ingrid asks.

I didn't notice.

Of course you noticed. I bet it was something new.

She acted like she didn't know me. I wasn't exactly paying attention to her clothes.

Imagine her cleaning out her cat's litter box.

Did you hear what I said? All week long, she acted like she hates me.

Oh my G.o.d, I know: imagine her finding moldy leftovers in her refrigerator.