worried to angry. What did Kasi mean that Cher’s daddy was coming to visit? How dare Bozo plan to come down here and pay a visit to Cher? He had only talked to her three times since we had moved here. And only then to find out what I’d been up to. But then again, was Cher really telling the truth? Maybe she just told Laurel and her mama that he was coming to make them think Bozo gave a flip about her. Poor little thing .
As we put the trays of food out on the cafeteria line, Sammy continued to prod my quiet mood. He kept asking me if I was in trouble. “Nothing’s the matter,” I lied. I wanted to scream and tell him to watch for a murder on CNN, because I knew if Bozo showed up something bad would happen. After the attack I dreamed up, I pictured Sammy being interviewed and saying what a good worker I was. From down the line of third-graders ready to graze, I spotted Patricia with her arms draped over the shoulders of two little boys. She would be interviewed too. She’d wax her face up but good and act all sad over the horrible misfortune. I just hoped the killing wouldn’t happen right in front of Miss Claudia’s house. After all, Bozo did have her phone number.
“Mama said y’all had the best time Sunday,” Patricia drawled with one hand on a lunch tray and the other straightening the shirt collar attached to a little black boy. He rolled his eyes up towards her shiny red mouth. When she grinned and pursed her glossed lips, I cautiously guarded the potato-burger loaf. I knew that just any minute the honey-looking stuff on her lips would drip off into the food.
“It was real nice,” I said, handing her a plate. With my car dead and me soon to be next, I was not in the mood for herfakey ways. Keep moving down the line away from me . The image of my green paycheck gave me the strength to smile real nice at Patricia.
“I just hate that I missed it.” She released the little black boy, and he quickly stepped two paces ahead of her. Patricia’s hand dangled at her lips as if she was telling me the secret recipe to Kentucky Fried Chicken. “It just didn’t look good for Doctor Tom and me to go, you know.” She pursed her lips, closed her eyes, and shook her head real fast to emphasize the inappropriateness of it all.
Why Patricia called her own husband by the title of doctor, I never did know. When I first started working for Miss Claudia, I thought the word doctor was part of his first name. Just like I got two first names. Then I realized that this man, whose first name Patricia always threw the doctor to, was really a dentist. I guess if he spent all that time in school, he wanted to make sure he was appreciated for his hard work.
During lunch cleanup, I watched Sammy out of the corner of my eye. He twisted and turned to help this one and that one remove empty trays from the steaming bed. And with a prance, he was in the main kitchen, where he appointed Miss Dot, who was still ailing from hip surgery, the easy job of wiping down tables.
When he approached me, my stomach churned. I imagined the little kids who had earlier that day bravely stood on the cafeteria stage and spelled words longer than my arm. Swallowing hard and trying to imitate the spelling-bee bravery, I wondered whether I should go on offense or defense in justifying my squirrelly behavior.
“You know when you asked me what was the matter earlier,” I said, creasing the lines of the dishrag. “Well, my car is tore up. I had to catch a lift here this morning. You know, that’s how come me to be late, and I just hate to ask…”
His mustache spread wide, and he gently placed his hand on my white polyester shoulder. “You need a ride to Mrs. Tyler’s?”
While he drove me to my second job, Sammy talked about taking his cat to the vet. I leaned against the window, offering a few “uh-huhs” in the right places. Why couldn’t I get my new life in order? Why was Bozo showing up now of all times? If he would’ve come at all,
As we put the trays of food out on the cafeteria line, Sammy continued to prod my quiet mood. He kept asking me if I was in trouble. “Nothing’s the matter,” I lied. I wanted to scream and tell him to watch for a murder on CNN, because I knew if Bozo showed up something bad would happen. After the attack I dreamed up, I pictured Sammy being interviewed and saying what a good worker I was. From down the line of third-graders ready to graze, I spotted Patricia with her arms draped over the shoulders of two little boys. She would be interviewed too. She’d wax her face up but good and act all sad over the horrible misfortune. I just hoped the killing wouldn’t happen right in front of Miss Claudia’s house. After all, Bozo did have her phone number.
“Mama said y’all had the best time Sunday,” Patricia drawled with one hand on a lunch tray and the other straightening the shirt collar attached to a little black boy. He rolled his eyes up towards her shiny red mouth. When she grinned and pursed her glossed lips, I cautiously guarded the potato-burger loaf. I knew that just any minute the honey-looking stuff on her lips would drip off into the food.
“It was real nice,” I said, handing her a plate. With my car dead and me soon to be next, I was not in the mood for herfakey ways. Keep moving down the line away from me . The image of my green paycheck gave me the strength to smile real nice at Patricia.
“I just hate that I missed it.” She released the little black boy, and he quickly stepped two paces ahead of her. Patricia’s hand dangled at her lips as if she was telling me the secret recipe to Kentucky Fried Chicken. “It just didn’t look good for Doctor Tom and me to go, you know.” She pursed her lips, closed her eyes, and shook her head real fast to emphasize the inappropriateness of it all.
Why Patricia called her own husband by the title of doctor, I never did know. When I first started working for Miss Claudia, I thought the word doctor was part of his first name. Just like I got two first names. Then I realized that this man, whose first name Patricia always threw the doctor to, was really a dentist. I guess if he spent all that time in school, he wanted to make sure he was appreciated for his hard work.
During lunch cleanup, I watched Sammy out of the corner of my eye. He twisted and turned to help this one and that one remove empty trays from the steaming bed. And with a prance, he was in the main kitchen, where he appointed Miss Dot, who was still ailing from hip surgery, the easy job of wiping down tables.
When he approached me, my stomach churned. I imagined the little kids who had earlier that day bravely stood on the cafeteria stage and spelled words longer than my arm. Swallowing hard and trying to imitate the spelling-bee bravery, I wondered whether I should go on offense or defense in justifying my squirrelly behavior.
“You know when you asked me what was the matter earlier,” I said, creasing the lines of the dishrag. “Well, my car is tore up. I had to catch a lift here this morning. You know, that’s how come me to be late, and I just hate to ask…”
His mustache spread wide, and he gently placed his hand on my white polyester shoulder. “You need a ride to Mrs. Tyler’s?”
While he drove me to my second job, Sammy talked about taking his cat to the vet. I leaned against the window, offering a few “uh-huhs” in the right places. Why couldn’t I get my new life in order? Why was Bozo showing up now of all times? If he would’ve come at all,
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