Food Freak Page 4

  “Yeah, we could go there. Or the library.”

  “The library,” he says. “That’s perfect.”

  “Okay,” I say. I pull out my social-studies folder. “We’ve got a few minutes right now. Maybe we can finish that outline.”

  “Are you always this much of a nerd?” he says.

  “Speak for yourself!” I give him a little shove.

  He laughs, then shoves me right back. “I always speak for myself. Too many people say what they think other people want to hear.”

  “Hmm, the world needs more of you,” I say, then feel embarrassed.

  “Correction,” he says. “The world needs more of us.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but it can’t do anything except smile.

  We work, then talk, then work again. We discuss PlayStation verses Xbox and why people never look at each other on buses or in elevators. Whether dogs are awesome or disgusting. Why you always wake up before you die in a dream.

  I get a little twitchy when the bus nears an intersection where Papa sometimes trolls.

  I look out the window.

  Of course he had to be there today.

  Papa is standing on the wide concrete corner beside the light standard, wearing a sign I haven’t seen before. At the top is a drawing of an open hand, then the words GIVE PALM OIL THE FINGER! Down at the bottom of the sign is a picture of a raised middle finger. When Papa turns, I see the back of the sign. RAINFOREST DESTRUCTION FOR YOUR MARGARINE AND LIPSTICK. AND HOW ABOUT HEART DISEASE WHILE WE’RE AT IT?

  Wow. He’s broadening out now. He’s not just talking about food anymore. Now he’s tackling the environment.

  Fantastic. That topic is endless. I might as well forget about him ever putting down his signs.

  At the bus stop about twenty-five yards away, a couple of kids are goofing around and making fun of him. One of them pretends to hold up a sign. He turns this way and that, wagging his finger at the passing cars as though lecturing them. His friend gives him the finger, and they dissolve into laughter. It makes my blood boil. What do they know? If they had any idea why Papa has gone so crazy, maybe they wouldn’t make fun.

  This thought is followed by my own shame and embarrassment. If Papa didn’t act so crazy, nobody would make fun.

  “I’ve seen that guy around,” Gregor says, following my gaze.

  “Oh?” I say, and then my throat closes up. I fake a yawn, pretending I hardly even noticed him. Please, please, please don’t say anything mean about the weird guy standing on the street corner.

  “Yeah,” Gregor says. He takes a breath, but before he can say anything else I ask him about his favorite kind of pizza. His eyes light up, and the conversation pivots. I breathe the deepest possible sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

  The bus rumbles on. I participate in the conversation, but my mind is consumed with going over and over the scene at the corner. Seeing people laugh at my father makes me ache.

  Eventually I realize that I have to get off at the same stop as the last time Gregor was on my bus. I let the bus roar past my usual stop as we talk about pizza toppings. After two more stops, I pull the cord. “Well, this is me,” I say, pulling on my cap and tucking my frizzies in.

  Gregor stands, scrambling his books and papers into his backpack. “I’ll walk you home.”

  Hot panic seizes me. “No!” I bleat.

  He looks up. I can see the question in his eyes before he even opens his mouth.

  “No!” I say again. “No, I have to, uh, I have to clean up all the shingles that blew off my house in the windstorm. They’re everywhere.” I fling my arms wide to show him just how far they went.

  He shrugs. “That’s okay. I can help.”

  “No!” I say. The bus slows, and my panic careens from orange zone into red zone. “My dad’s really grumpy! I told you, remember? If you come over and if he comes home from work, he’ll be really mad.” I’m babbling now, but I’ve got to stop Gregor from seeing where I live.

  And seeing Papa.

  His brows furrow a little. “Okay,” he says, confused. “No worries. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

  Relief rushes into my veins and crashes around inside my body. “Yes!” I sing. I can feel that my eyes are too wide, my grin is too big and my head is nodding too fast. “Tomorrow! I can’t wait! Bye!”

  The bus comes to a full stop. As the doors open, I leap out onto the sidewalk. I turn to wave as the bus lumbers away. A big ad is plastered across the windows, so I can’t tell if Gregor is waving back. I grin and wave like crazy, then turn toward home, my heart slamming like a washing machine with an unbalanced load.

  That was way too close.

  Chapter Ten

  I’m wrestling my curls into a fresh ponytail when there’s a knock on the door.

  I look through the peephole and see that it’s Gregor. I panic again. I crack the door open several inches. “What are you doing here?”

  “Your doorbell doesn’t work,” he says.

  Of course it doesn’t. The doorbell hasn’t worked in a year.

  “Why are you here?” I demand.

  He holds out Watership Down. “You left this on the bus. This is a common habit for you, I see. Leaving things behind.” He grins.

  “You followed me?”

  He shrugs. “It wasn’t all that hard. I got off at the next stop, then backtracked. Although I am trying to figure out why you walked in the opposite direction yesterday.”

  Oh. Of course. In my panic earlier, I got off the bus and headed directly home. I should have gone the opposite way, like I did yesterday.

  I snatch the book from his hands. “You could have just brought it to school tomorrow.” I open the door wider and peer beyond the porch, looking down the street in both directions. I know I’m being paranoid. Papa rarely comes home before five. He likes to catch the dinnertime shoppers.

  “I wanted to see where you live,” Gregor is saying.

  “Well, now you’ve seen it,” I say. I step back inside the doorway but don’t invite him to come in.

  Gregor pauses uncertainly. “Okay,” he says. “Do you want some help picking up those shingles?” He looks at the lawn, where there are exactly zero shingles.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Okay,” he says again. He looks back at me. “Why do you get off the bus so far away? That stop is much closer to your house.” He points over his shoulder with his thumb.

  I steal another glance around. A tall dark figure turns the corner onto our street. His long strides carry him quickly in the direction of our house.

  What? Oh no. This cannot happen.

  I look at Gregor. “Why do you have to ask so many questions?” I hiss. “I have to go. I have a lot to do.”

  Gregor blinks, looking totally confused. I should feel awful for being so mean, but I’m much more frightened by the train wreck that’s fast approaching. I have to get Gregor out of here.

  “Just GO!” I shout, and he jumps.

  “Okay, okay.” He turns, but by then it’s too late.

  Helpless to stop anything, I watch the whole terrible scene unfold before me, like a slow-motion car accident. Gregor descends the steps and walks down the walkway slowly, his head down. I want to go inside and hide my eyes or maybe gouge them out. But I stay rooted to the spot as my nightmare takes shape.

  At end of our driveway, Gregor turns toward the bus stop. He goes about twenty paces before he looks up and sees Papa coming in his direction. Papa is oblivious to Gregor. He sails past, his sandwich board flapping as he walks. He carries his tall sign by his side.

  Gregor’s gaze follows Papa as he passes. I close my eyes. When I open them, Gregor is still standing in the same place. He watches Papa turn the corner at our hedge and start up our driveway.

  I go inside and close the door before Gregor can see my face.

  Chapter Eleven

  At supper, my thoughts bubble. What is Gregor going to say tomorrow? Will he say anything? Or will he ignore m
e and pretend he never even knew me?

  For sure he’s never going to take my bus again.

  Jordan Rigby’s costume swims up in my mind. I can see Peyton laughing.

  I watch Papa eat his basil-and-red onion pizza on whole-grain crust. His beard bobs as he chews, his eyes locked on a spot on the table six inches in front of him. He’s probably concocting a message to paint on his next sign. A thread of cheese dangles from the side of his mustache.

  I hate him.

  I manage to keep my temper until we get through the salad and the pizza. But once I’m up and clearing the dishes, I can’t stand it any longer.

  I set the dirty plates down on the counter with a crash. “You know, maybe you should see someone.”

  Papa doesn’t even look up from the newspaper. “Hah?” he asks absently.

  “You know. Someone you can talk to. A psychologist or a grief counselor or something like that.”

  “I talk to someone.” He licks his finger and turns the page, then continues reading.

  “You do? Who?”

  “I don’t need to tell you that.”

  “It’s not enough to talk to yourself, Papa,” I say.

  “Dani.” His voice carries a warning.

  “What?” I say. “You need help, Papa. You need someone to help you get over Mamma so that you can live a normal life again.”

  Papa recoils like I’ve thrown hot water on him. We never speak of Mamma. Never.

  He stares at me for a moment. I am a little scared of myself. For myself.

  “That’s enough,” he says. His voice is quiet.

  Fury flash-heats my skin. “No, it’s not enough!” I shout. I slap my hand on the counter. “Do you think it’s normal for you to wander random street corners, waving signs that tell people they’re going to die? That’s not normal.”

  “Dani.” His voice is calm, but his face is as rigid as stone. “It’s not me who needs help. It’s not me who is abnormal. It’s all the lazy people who put their lives at risk because they want convenience.” He sweeps a hand across the room, his voice rising. “It’s the manufacturers who pour vast quantities of salt and preservatives into—”

  “Stop it!” I scream. I slap the counter again, hard. My elbow knocks a fork handle. It flips off the plate, catapulting a gob of salad into the air. Spinach splats against the side of the fridge. The fork clangs to the floor. Pain roars through my palm, then dulls to a hot, sharp throbbing.

  Papa blinks.

  “You don’t need to make an idiot of yourself to tell people your opinion!” I say.

  “I am not making an idiot—”

  “Yes, you are!” I scream. A small part of me can’t believe I’m shouting these words at my own father. It feels very wrong. My father is not a man you should ever shout at.

  But I’m sick to death of him. “Why can’t you be normal?” I cry. “Why don’t you just…write letters to the editor or something? Everyone thinks you’re a weirdo. They avoid you. They stare at you. Don’t you see that?” I’m being unbelievably cruel, but I need him to understand.

  Papa folds his hands on the table in front of him. “Dani,” he says calmly. “In this day of short attention spans, I find it necessary—”

  “To what, Papa?” I shout. “To ruin my life?” I look around, my rage needing a physical outlet. I pick up an empty glass and throw it against the wall. It smashes into a million shards that scatter under the fridge and the table.

  “Daniela.” Papa stands. His voice is sharp. “That’s enough.”

  “No, Papa, I’ve had enough. I’ve told you a hundred times, but you never listen.” I storm into the living room and snatch up one of his large poster boards. PROCESSED FOODS = DEVIL SPAWN = SICKNESS & DEATH, it says. I tear it in half. “I had to change schools because everyone at Spruce Cliff was making fun of you,” I say. My voice is thick with tears. “I lost all my friends.” I tear the poster in half again. “First Mamma died.” The words hit him like a blow. Too bad. All we do is tiptoe around the fact that she isn’t with us anymore. “And now, do you know what they call you?” I rip the poster again, my eyes angry, narrow slits. “They call you the Food Freak!”

  Papa stares at me, his mouth slightly open.

  “You’re wrecking my life, Papa!” I shout. “And none of it is going to bring Mamma back!” I throw the little ripped-up pieces of paper at him, but they just flutter down onto the coffee table and the piano bench.

  I turn, shaking and sobbing, and stumble toward my room.

  Chapter Twelve

  Papa knocks, but I don’t answer. When he begins talking to me through the door, I put a pillow over my head.

  I wait until he goes away.

  I don’t go to school the next day. I go to the rec center and sit looking at the pool. Only Papa ever went into the big pool with me. We used to play on the pirate ship. Mamma always sat in the warm pool with all the babies, watching us.

  It’s been years since I’ve been swimming, I realize. I stopped when Mamma got sick.

  Everything stopped when Mamma got sick.

  I stay at the rec center all day. I buy my lunch in the cafeteria, then my dinner. I read all the free magazines in the racks by the stairs. I wander around in the bleachers above the pool, watching the swim teams practice. Through the windows overlooking the pool I can see people sweating as they run on the treadmills in the gym.

  When the rec center closes at eleven, I think about taking the bus back home. But I don’t feel like going back. I want as much distance between Papa and me as possible. And it’s not like I’ve got anyone else I can stay with.

  I root through the lost and found for a towel. At the bottom of the box I find a granola bar, its wrapper wrinkled and old. I eat it in three bites. It tastes like sawdust. I hide out in the change rooms until the lights go out. Then I creep back out onto the pool deck by the light of the emergency exits. It’s depressing to be in here all alone. Maybe I should have gone home. But it’s too late now—the buses stop running at midnight. I decide to sleep on the trampoline the dive team uses for training.

  Except I can’t really sleep. The towel is crunchy and smells stale. I haven’t brushed my teeth, and the chlorine in the air hurts my eyes.

  “I can’t handle it anymore, Mamma,” I whisper. “Papa is ruining my life. He’s chased away all my friends. And I can’t make any more.” I blink hard as the tears come. My nose starts to run. I wipe it on the towel. Ugh. This keeps getting worse.

  I wish Mamma would answer me. I wish she could be here. She would know what to do. She wouldn’t have let things get this bad. None of this would be happening if she hadn’t died.

  “What should I do, Mamma?” I beg. “Where can I go?”

  Silence.

  Maybe I can fly to Italy and live with Auntie Carlotta. But their place is really small. And things are tight for them right now. Mamma said they don’t sell as much cheese as they used to. But maybe I could help out. I wouldn’t have to be a burden. I could look after my little cousins for Auntie Carlotta, and then maybe she could go find other work and Uncle Silvio could still do the cheese. I bet Mamma would be okay with that idea.

  But then again, would Mamma want me to leave Papa? Especially after I promised to take care of him? And where would I live anyway? Carlotta and Silvio have only two bedrooms for the four of them. They rent out the rest of the house to travelers.

  I sleep poorly. When morning comes, I am exhausted. It will be the second school day I’ve skipped in a row, but I don’t care. I bet the school doesn’t care either. It feels crazy. I just ran away from home and slept in a rec center. Whose life is this?

  I splash water over my face in the change-room sink. I look like roadkill. The paper towel is rough, but it’s better than using that disgusting thing I slept under. All of a sudden it hits me that I could have used Papa’s VISA card to stay in a hotel.

  I stop drying my face for a second to think about this.

  Huh. Maybe not Italy. But I could use the car
d to buy myself a bus ticket to a different city. To a whole different life. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t drag his damn signs across the country to follow me.

  I stand there with the paper towel crunched up around my face for several long seconds as I consider the possibility of running away for real. The fantasy devours me.

  I only have a few years of school left. Maybe I could get a part-time job in a bakery, or in a restaurant kitchen as a prep cook.

  I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I hold my own gaze for a moment, asking whether I’ve actually got the guts to do this.

  But who would take care of Papa? Without me, he wouldn’t eat. He would wear the same clothes day in and day out. What would happen to him? It’s bad enough that he lost his wife. He would probably lose his mind if his own kid walked out on him.

  I close my eyes and rub them as the familiar heaviness settles back on me. I can’t leave. Papa would wither and die.

  But how do I keep myself from doing the same?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Papa’s car is still in the garage when I get home. It surprises me. I thought he’d be at work. It’s Wednesday, after all. I expected to have the house—and the day—to myself. I thought I could clean up the mess I made before he noticed.

  No way I can face school today. Not with Gregor there.

  I go in through the laundry room, hoping Papa won’t hear me. I forget about the door sensor. It pings as the door opens.

  “Dani?” Papa’s voice comes from the other end of the house.

  Crap.

  Quick footsteps approach. Papa’s face appears around the corner. “Dani,” he says. I hear the relief in his voice. In his hands he holds a dishtowel that’s been twisted into a tight coil. “Where did you go? I was terrified.” His voice cracks. He lets go of the dishtowel. It unspools sloppily as he reaches for me. “I was so frightened that you had gone.” He looks so old all of a sudden.

  Guilt surges inside me. I never expected him to react like this. Tears spring to my eyes.

  Before I can turn away or lower my head, Papa grabs me in a fierce hug. He squashes my face to his chest, and one of the buttons on his shirt digs into my cheekbone.