America to carry this blend.”
That little speech always seals the deal and sure enough, I’m soon brewing an order of Indian masala chai.
Before I can head back to crisis-manage my sister, a couple of girls my age walk in. One looks familiar and when she keeps looking at me, I know with a sinking feeling that we must have gone to school together.
My parents used to send me to the fanciest, most expensive school in St. Petersburg. That was actually how they made their decision. They looked at the tuition of all the private schools in the area and chose the highest one.
I hated St. John’s. I hated the brand-new cars in the parking lot, the five-hundred-dollar purses the girls carried, the expensive haircuts. I even hated the teachers, with their eager faces, their anxious desire for their students to succeed and to like them. So after I overheard my parents argue about money, the first such fight in five years, I quietly applied to South St. Pete’sCitrus Park High, the science magnet high school, known for its terrific marine-science program and ghetto location. Once I was accepted, I came to my parents and begged to switch.
I should have realized that things were getting bad, and fast, when with very little begging and pleading on my part, my parents let me transfer and attend a school at the edge of one of the worst neighborhoods in the city, where a little girl had died in a drive-by shooting a few months earlier and two policemen were killed in the line of duty a couple of years back.
I don’t regret switching schools but it’s never fun bumping into former St. John’s schoolmates. Somehow, they always manage to convey that by leaving the school to go to a public high school, I was no longer “one of them.” These two are no different. After an awkward little visit down not-so-fond memory lane, I take their order, serve them and send them on their way.
The moment they’re out the door, I hurry to my sister’s office. Her back is to me, head resting on her folded arms at her desk. She’s usually very aware of her tattoo, of her body, and like a model she always makes sure she’s displayed in the best light, at the best angle. In this position, though, Natasha’s curved spine puts the tattoo in stark relief, the Japanese characters stretched out. It’s not a good pose for her.
A horrible thought occurs to me.
“Natasha, are you pregnant?”
“What?” Her head snaps back to stare at me. “Don’t be an idiot.”
I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. Natasha procreating. I shudder. The world is not ready.
“Leni,” she says, her voice cracking. “You can’t even imagine,you can’t …” She loses her train of thought and her eyes focus on something over my shoulder. Instinctively, I look behind me, but there is nothing there.
“Your birthday’s coming up,” she says suddenly.
“Yeah,” I say, wary about this change of topic. “The big one-eight.”
My birthday is in nine days and Natasha has already offered the shop to host the party. The gala, as my parents keep calling it. It’s a joke of epic proportions to think of hosting a gala for my eighteenth birthday. It’s only with the free use of space and Natasha’s wholesale contacts that it’s even conceivable, and even so it seems like a colossal waste of money. I told my parents that I would rather they tally up how much they were planning to spend and make a donation in my name to a couple of organizations that work to protect Tampa Bay, but they laughed me off and said they’d do both.
Maybe Natasha’s reneging on hosting the party. Fine by me.
“Don’t give the money to Mom and Dad,” she says.
“Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“Watch your mouth,” she snarls at me.
“What is your problem, Natasha?” I snap back.
“Do us all a favor, okay?” she says. “Get rid of the money. As soon as you can. As soon as you turn eighteen. Get rid of it. Give it away.
That little speech always seals the deal and sure enough, I’m soon brewing an order of Indian masala chai.
Before I can head back to crisis-manage my sister, a couple of girls my age walk in. One looks familiar and when she keeps looking at me, I know with a sinking feeling that we must have gone to school together.
My parents used to send me to the fanciest, most expensive school in St. Petersburg. That was actually how they made their decision. They looked at the tuition of all the private schools in the area and chose the highest one.
I hated St. John’s. I hated the brand-new cars in the parking lot, the five-hundred-dollar purses the girls carried, the expensive haircuts. I even hated the teachers, with their eager faces, their anxious desire for their students to succeed and to like them. So after I overheard my parents argue about money, the first such fight in five years, I quietly applied to South St. Pete’sCitrus Park High, the science magnet high school, known for its terrific marine-science program and ghetto location. Once I was accepted, I came to my parents and begged to switch.
I should have realized that things were getting bad, and fast, when with very little begging and pleading on my part, my parents let me transfer and attend a school at the edge of one of the worst neighborhoods in the city, where a little girl had died in a drive-by shooting a few months earlier and two policemen were killed in the line of duty a couple of years back.
I don’t regret switching schools but it’s never fun bumping into former St. John’s schoolmates. Somehow, they always manage to convey that by leaving the school to go to a public high school, I was no longer “one of them.” These two are no different. After an awkward little visit down not-so-fond memory lane, I take their order, serve them and send them on their way.
The moment they’re out the door, I hurry to my sister’s office. Her back is to me, head resting on her folded arms at her desk. She’s usually very aware of her tattoo, of her body, and like a model she always makes sure she’s displayed in the best light, at the best angle. In this position, though, Natasha’s curved spine puts the tattoo in stark relief, the Japanese characters stretched out. It’s not a good pose for her.
A horrible thought occurs to me.
“Natasha, are you pregnant?”
“What?” Her head snaps back to stare at me. “Don’t be an idiot.”
I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. Natasha procreating. I shudder. The world is not ready.
“Leni,” she says, her voice cracking. “You can’t even imagine,you can’t …” She loses her train of thought and her eyes focus on something over my shoulder. Instinctively, I look behind me, but there is nothing there.
“Your birthday’s coming up,” she says suddenly.
“Yeah,” I say, wary about this change of topic. “The big one-eight.”
My birthday is in nine days and Natasha has already offered the shop to host the party. The gala, as my parents keep calling it. It’s a joke of epic proportions to think of hosting a gala for my eighteenth birthday. It’s only with the free use of space and Natasha’s wholesale contacts that it’s even conceivable, and even so it seems like a colossal waste of money. I told my parents that I would rather they tally up how much they were planning to spend and make a donation in my name to a couple of organizations that work to protect Tampa Bay, but they laughed me off and said they’d do both.
Maybe Natasha’s reneging on hosting the party. Fine by me.
“Don’t give the money to Mom and Dad,” she says.
“Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“Watch your mouth,” she snarls at me.
“What is your problem, Natasha?” I snap back.
“Do us all a favor, okay?” she says. “Get rid of the money. As soon as you can. As soon as you turn eighteen. Get rid of it. Give it away.
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