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Or every time I walk by in front of the concession stand, and Anthony—totally busy with nothing at all whatsoever—points at a stray popcorn kernel on the ground (that he likely tossed there) and says, “Hey, sweeper boy, don’t miss that spot right there.”
Or whenever I’m already lugging two full, heavy, smelly bags of trash over my back like Movie Theater Santa Claus across the lobby, and Anthony flags me down from the concession stand to say, “I’d offer to help, but Mr. Lemon gave me strict orders to stay back here and inventory my popcorn bags and candy. I’ve already counted them twice, but y’know: manager’s orders! I’m so bored and tired back here! Nothing to do! Should I take a nap?”
Constant antagonizing.
Constant taunting and sneering.
Constant Anthony Myers, every day this week.
Doesn’t anyone else work that damned concession stand??
The end of my long shift Thursday afternoon couldn’t come fast enough. I clock out quicker than I’ve ever clocked out before, wash my hands after dealing with an unusually sticky job of taking trash out to the dumpster, then hurry out the doors to the tune of Anthony calling at my back: “See you Sunday, trash boy!”
I hope the only capacity in which he sees me is my knuckles when they kiss his annoyingly high cheekbones.
I don’t vent a word of my frustrations to Jimmy, because that would basically be an open invitation for him to come down to the theater, kick Anthony’s ass, and cause another big Spruce-caliber scandal with me and Jimmy at its center.
Besides, don’t I have enough to worry about?
Like the fact that Jimmy and I haven’t seen each other since we said goodbye at the movie theater Sunday?
Getting home, however, I find myself caught in a different predicament entirely. “But sweetie,” my ma sings in her light and plumy tone, “I was really hoping you’d stay in tonight and relax with your father and I. We haven’t seen you all week.”
“Ma, you’ve only seen me all week,” I argue back, unable to keep the whininess out of my voice. “Every day after work, in fact. I’ve stayed in every night, too. I’ve got two full days off, and I want to spend them with Jimmy.”
“Always that Strong boy. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy.” She’s sitting in a chair by the living room window, some multicolored mess of a crochet dropped into her lap. “Honey, I don’t want to be the one to say it, really, but—”
“What is it, Ma?” My frustration from the day I’ve had at work has built up to the exploding point already. I’m so tired, I can feel an ache in my toes. All my patience is sapped.
My sweet, well-meaning ma doesn’t seem to notice any of it, obliviously prattling on. “I’d just hoped by now that you’d—”
“That I’d what, Ma?”
She doesn’t notice how terse I’m getting, how I’m cutting off everything she’s saying. “I wish you would have realized that the Strong boy isn’t … like you, in that way.”
I shut my eyes and let out the most aggravated sigh. “What do you even mean, Ma? I’ve had a long day.”
“Sweetheart, he can’t love you in the way you want him to.”
I pop my eyes open and look at her. She isn’t looking back at me, however; her gaze is lost somewhere around my knees, her lips pursed with a wistful little frown to them.
“Ma,” I start, “I don’t know what you’re thinkin’, but I—”
“You like him, sweetheart. I know you do.”
“Ma …”
“He’s a handsome young man, it makes sense. You’ve been inseparable ever since you were kids. He took you to prom. But sweetie, I think that prom night meant more to you than to him.”
The explosion is inevitable. Between the day I’ve had and the things she’s saying, and the uncertainty that still pulsates in the air between me and Jimmy … “Ma, I’m tellin’ you …”
“Nadine and I were talkin’, and really, she’s on the same page as I am. It’s not that I don’t value your friendship. I do. I just think you should be careful with your heart, and your—”
“MA.” She won’t stop talking until I explode. She won’t stop with her soft, insistent, endless and sweet barrage of reason. “PLEASE. MA.”
“—feelings with that boy. I don’t want him breakin’ your little heart because he can’t love you the way you want him to. He just can’t, sweetheart. He can’t love you in the way—”
“HE ALREADY DOES!”
For the first time since she started talking, her eyes snap up to mine with surprise, her jaw dropped.
I grit my teeth.
I shouldn’t have said that.
After a moment of silence fills the room from one blank-faced wall to the other, she brings a hand to her mouth, then murmurs through her fingers: “How do you mean, sweetheart?”
“Never mind,” I quickly say. “I don’t know. I’m stressed, and—Never mind. I’ve had a long day at the theater.”
