Split Just Right by Adele Griffin

Sallese is awful. He’s shorter than I am, not counting the huge helmet of Ken-doll hair that swoops up from his forehead. He has a son, too, named Rocco. I didn’t even think that was a real name. Worse, Rocco plays drums in a grunge band. I see my whole new step-familied life in a flash and it looks crowded and horrifying.
    “He’s nice, Mr. Sallese.” I shrug.
    “Okay, I totally understand if you want to change the subject? Mr. Sallese, yeah, he’s nice, but he definitely mousses.”
    I’m confused. “Wait, Portia, how’m I changing the subject?”
    “And anyone trying for that much volume? That might mean hair plugs.”
    “Portia, hang on—who was my mom with at the Greenhouse on Tuesday?”
    Portia looks straight at me, her eyes round as dimes. She seems nervous.
    “With? No, Danny—she wasn’t with anyone. She was, uh, training? To be, uh, a waitress? I think? I’m pretty sure.”
    “Oh, yeah, that.” My brain freezes but I keep right on talking. “I only know a little about that, but she’s, like—it’s some acting thing, technique thing. She’s in a new play.” My heart is beating sickeningly fast, and I wonder if fourteen-year-olds ever have heart attacks.
    “Ohhh.” Portia looks visibly relieved. “A play about a waitress? That sounds cute. Because it would be kind of funny—strange funny I mean?—if she really was waitressing? Since, well, since so many of us kids go, since so many people go out to dinner at the Greenhouse, you know? You know what I mean?”
    “Yeah.” I shove myself into my barn jacket. “Look, I better head home.”
    “Okay, yeah, I need to study bio. And Mr. Jackson’ll give you a lift to the station. It’s totally dark now”
    “See, Mom gets into method acting. She’s read all that Uta Hagen stuff.”
    “Well, then I guess that would be good training and since it’s not for real—Danny, I hope you don’t mind, but can I just tell you?” Portia smiles and presses her fingers to her braces as if she’s trying to hold inside something she wants to shout. Instead she giggles. “Your mom is about the most clueless waitress that I ever ever saw.”
    I laugh. Right now it’s just about one of the most unfunny things I’ve heard in a long time, but I laugh anyway “Yeah I bet,” I say “Some things you just can’t act, probably”
    And then I escape.
    The train, crowded a couple hours ago, holds only a handful of businessmen and women heading home from their jobs. They sit in their overcoats and gray suits and the sounds they make are all muted and polite. A quiet crinkle as they turn the page of a newspaper, a discreet ahem when they clear their throats. I hear one man talking on his cell phone, his hushed voice explaining what time he’ll be pulling into the station. A few of them give me quietly thoughtful looks, like they’re trying to figure out what I’m doing on their train.
    Small mysteries are lifting all at once from my brain like a cloud of gnats. The pair of ugly black sneakers that Mom had been carrying around in her basket bag this past week. The dried ketchup smear on her jeans, grossly big and sloppy, even for Mom. The time I tried calling Bellmont to remind her to pick up orange juice and Louis said she wasn’t scheduled to come in that night. “I was there,” Mom had said later, looking mystified. “I was in the box office. Louis sure is losing it lately”
    It seems so strange and terrible, thinking of her hiding this job from me. What did it mean? Why wouldn’t she have discussed this with me before? I feel sort of worthless, knowing that for some reason Mom decided I didn’t count enough to confide in about her decision.
    “Bide Away,” the conductor calls.
    Worthless. Mr. Paulson asked if Ty Amblin was worth my time. I’d never thought about it before. Now I wonder if Mom sees me as a worthwhile person. A person you can explain important things to, even if they’re tough to talk about, like losing your job and having