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I scroll further back and see a photo of her with two small girls. I pause. That photo looks like it’s from the 1990s, so that can’t be her. Then I read the caption and I understand. The grown woman in the photo must be her mother. A miniature version of Jewel sits cross-legged at the woman’s feet. A slightly older girl, maybe nine, stands next to the woman. The caption says, “It’s been 19 years, but I still miss celebrating your birthday so much, Mama. #takentoosoon.” And it looks like someone else, a fourth person, has been physically cut out of the picture. If I’m correctly doing the math on this photo from last year, that means in another month, her mother will have been gone for close to 20 birthdays.
Well, I knew she lost her mom very young. And now I know she doesn’t have a relationship with whoever was cut out of that picture. How can she be so damn perky? This is rough stuff.
My phone rings while I’m staring at her tits in the flapper picture again and I’m so startled, I drop it on the floor.
“Fuck!”
I have to unbuckle to reach between my feet and pick it up. I grunt hello.
“Hi, Vince? It’s Jewel Fairhope from the school. Are you coming?”
Disney princess voice. What the hell is she asking me?
“Uh…”
She laughs. “It’s lunchtime. Are you coming to the school?”
“Oh fuck. Oh shit, sorry. I mean, yes, I’m coming.”
She snorts a laugh, not seeming at all put out that I’m late.
I hang up and peel out of the apartment complex.
Why do I feel like I’ve been caught stalking?
9
Jewel
Vince is fifteen minutes late for lunchtime.
I give him a hard time by raising my eyebrows and tapping my finger on a freckle on my wrist when he comes to our table.
“Sorry,” he says.
I chirp, “It’s totally fine, you can make it up to me by helping me with the fine arts bake sale next week!”
“Uh, I don’t know how to bake, but if you want some bowls of cereal, I’m your man,” he offers.
Was that sarcasm combined with a smile? I wouldn’t call it an outright smile. More like a narrowing of the eyes and a pursing of the lips, like he’s trying not to smile.
The phrase “I’m your man” sort of hangs in the air with a kind of unintended heat that comes from out of nowhere.
“Scoot over, kids,” he says brusquely to the gaggle of students sitting across the table from me.
Wide eyed, they look up at him and squish close together. They leave a gap so he can sit across from me and Max, who, when Vince finally has a seat, starts to wolf down his food.
“So,” I say. “Cereal, huh?”
Vince takes a bite of his grilled chicken breast and chews, politely finishing before speaking. “Yeah, it’s taken years of study. I’m kind of a connoisseur of cereal. You’ve got your dessert-based cereals, such as Cookie Crisp, and you’ve got your healthier things like Kix and Corn Flakes. And then you’ve got the hippie-dippy shit—I mean cereal—like shredded wheat and muesli. What you don’t want to do is double down with the really sweet. See, Cookie Crisp tastes better when you combine it with something healthier like Frosted Flakes.”
Does he realize he is surrounded by wide-eyed kindergarteners right now who are staring at him like he’s a rock star? It’s pretty damn cute.
He takes another bite of his chicken breast and looks positively proud of himself, his eyebrows raised at me, waiting for a response. Well, he should be proud for using so many words. So, he can form a complete sentence after all. This is very exciting to me. “Frosted Flakes are healthy?”
“Absofuck—sorry, absofrigginlutely.”
I glance around and it doesn’t appear that any of the kids registered any bad language on their radars. I really wish he would stop that. I’m not offended, but you never know what kids will repeat to their uptight parents after school.
