liar?” The casual way Mike asked this made Allie wonder if he assumed lying to be a normal means of communication.
“They’re still touring. None of them are dead.”
Mike must have been as uninterested in Mighty Zamboni as Allie was, because he said, “My friends and I used to eat at your dad’s place all the time in high school.”
“Oh yeah?!” Allie looked at Mike and tried to spin her head out of the shock of the closed restaurant.
“Great fucking burgers.”
“Yeah.” Frank had always been proud of the burgers.
“Wait. This isn’t your dad’s place! The guy who owns this is some black dude. I remember seeing him at the cash register and checking on the tables all the time.”
“That’s my dad.” Allie had never seen her father anywhere else within three hours of suppertime.
Mike took Allie’s arm and turned her toward him. “You’re black?!”
“Yeah. Half. Or a—” Allie was in the process of saying a quarter when Mike pulled her in and kissed her.
“That’s so hot,” Mike said, when he pulled up for air.
“It’s the first thing I’ve said that you’ve believed.” Allie laughed, then stopped laughing as Mike leaned into her and they went at it again. She could feel the four packs of coke pushing into her chest through Mike’s T-shirt. She could feel his bones and muscle obliterating the worry about her father and his restaurant. And, yes, okay, so maybe he was only kissing her because he thought she was black (which she was), but there was no reason to think about that now.
Mike pulled off her again. “There’s a pay phone at Tambor’s. Wanna go there and call your dad for the scale?”
Tambor’s was the deli down the street. Allie nodded.
In Tambor’s, Mike walked with Allie to the alcove where the bathrooms and pay phones were. “I’m going to step into the men’s room and do a little toot,” he whispered. He backed into the door and winked before he disappeared into the bathroom.
Allie dropped a dime into the coin slot and dialed the number for her father’s restaurant. The three harmonica-sounding notes of a misdial went off and then an echo-y, fuzzy recording said the number she had dialed was no longer in service. Allie felt hollow and sad, like she had just stumbled upon an obituary for a seldom-seen friend. Then she remembered the index card with her mother’s number on it. She hit 0 and placed a collect, person-to-person, call to the number.
A voice that Allie imagined belonged to a white woman with a silk scarf knotted at her neck answered. After the operator asked if she’d accept the charges, the woman scoffed, “The queen’s not here,” and hung up. Allie was hit with a quick stab of rejection from the denied call, even though she didn’t even know whose voice was on the phone. She tried to brush it aside.
Allie dropped another dime into the phone She tried 411 next. Her father changed apartments so often (always looking for the deals—free gym membership, free first-month’s rent, free utilities for three months) that Allie had never had his home number. Besides, he was rarely home.
“There are seven Frank Dodgsons,” the operator said.
“How about Franklin Lutwidge Dodgson,” Allie said. Her heartbeat ramped up.
“I’m sorry,” the operator said. “I have Frank G. Dodgson.”
“Can you try the first one and then stay on the line until we find the right one?”
“It’s against the rules,” the operator said. “You’ll just have to pick one.”
Mike came out of the bathroom, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “There’s no one in there,” he said, and he pulled Allie’s hips toward himself and started grinding into her.
“I’ll try back later,” Allie said, to the operator, and she hung up the phone. She wanted to forget about her current status as an orphan. Mike could help with that.
“Let’s go in the bathroom together,” Mike said, and he nipped the top of Allie’s ear.
“The bathroom?” There
“They’re still touring. None of them are dead.”
Mike must have been as uninterested in Mighty Zamboni as Allie was, because he said, “My friends and I used to eat at your dad’s place all the time in high school.”
“Oh yeah?!” Allie looked at Mike and tried to spin her head out of the shock of the closed restaurant.
“Great fucking burgers.”
“Yeah.” Frank had always been proud of the burgers.
“Wait. This isn’t your dad’s place! The guy who owns this is some black dude. I remember seeing him at the cash register and checking on the tables all the time.”
“That’s my dad.” Allie had never seen her father anywhere else within three hours of suppertime.
Mike took Allie’s arm and turned her toward him. “You’re black?!”
“Yeah. Half. Or a—” Allie was in the process of saying a quarter when Mike pulled her in and kissed her.
“That’s so hot,” Mike said, when he pulled up for air.
“It’s the first thing I’ve said that you’ve believed.” Allie laughed, then stopped laughing as Mike leaned into her and they went at it again. She could feel the four packs of coke pushing into her chest through Mike’s T-shirt. She could feel his bones and muscle obliterating the worry about her father and his restaurant. And, yes, okay, so maybe he was only kissing her because he thought she was black (which she was), but there was no reason to think about that now.
Mike pulled off her again. “There’s a pay phone at Tambor’s. Wanna go there and call your dad for the scale?”
Tambor’s was the deli down the street. Allie nodded.
In Tambor’s, Mike walked with Allie to the alcove where the bathrooms and pay phones were. “I’m going to step into the men’s room and do a little toot,” he whispered. He backed into the door and winked before he disappeared into the bathroom.
Allie dropped a dime into the coin slot and dialed the number for her father’s restaurant. The three harmonica-sounding notes of a misdial went off and then an echo-y, fuzzy recording said the number she had dialed was no longer in service. Allie felt hollow and sad, like she had just stumbled upon an obituary for a seldom-seen friend. Then she remembered the index card with her mother’s number on it. She hit 0 and placed a collect, person-to-person, call to the number.
A voice that Allie imagined belonged to a white woman with a silk scarf knotted at her neck answered. After the operator asked if she’d accept the charges, the woman scoffed, “The queen’s not here,” and hung up. Allie was hit with a quick stab of rejection from the denied call, even though she didn’t even know whose voice was on the phone. She tried to brush it aside.
Allie dropped another dime into the phone She tried 411 next. Her father changed apartments so often (always looking for the deals—free gym membership, free first-month’s rent, free utilities for three months) that Allie had never had his home number. Besides, he was rarely home.
“There are seven Frank Dodgsons,” the operator said.
“How about Franklin Lutwidge Dodgson,” Allie said. Her heartbeat ramped up.
“I’m sorry,” the operator said. “I have Frank G. Dodgson.”
“Can you try the first one and then stay on the line until we find the right one?”
“It’s against the rules,” the operator said. “You’ll just have to pick one.”
Mike came out of the bathroom, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “There’s no one in there,” he said, and he pulled Allie’s hips toward himself and started grinding into her.
“I’ll try back later,” Allie said, to the operator, and she hung up the phone. She wanted to forget about her current status as an orphan. Mike could help with that.
“Let’s go in the bathroom together,” Mike said, and he nipped the top of Allie’s ear.
“The bathroom?” There
Similar Books
