Also Known as Elvis Read online

  My dad left a little over two years ago, when I was in the fifth grade. Megan was in the second grade and Jessie was just three. I guess you could say I saw it coming, but it’s kind of like hurricane warnings. You think, “Yeah, the rain’s getting kind of heavy, but a hurricane? Not going to happen here.” And then it hits.

  It had been raining pretty hard. By which I mean, they’d been fighting a lot. About my dad being a bum, because he wanted to spend more time on his Harley than with his family—or working, for that matter. And my mom wanting to go back and finish college so she could get a decent job, but she couldn’t because we needed the money from whatever jobs she managed to get. She wanted to be a nurse, but what she’s been doing for a few years now is work in a doctor’s office, answering phones and fighting with insurance companies. And now she’s got this second job out at Stewart’s, which makes me really nervous because it’s one of those places people pull into to fill up with gas and she’s alone there at night sometimes. When I think of her working there, I think:

  1. I hate my dad for leaving us and making my mom have to work there, and

  2. I hate me for even thinking I shouldn’t get a job and help her out.

  Anyways, I don’t guess my dad was ever cut out to be a dad, even though he could be fun sometimes, like out at the lake or running around the backyard. My mom took lots of pictures at times like those, which was totally crazy because those pictures made us look like one big, happy family. And my dad looked like one happy dude. Or dad. But when he left, he didn’t take one picture with him. Not one picture to remember us by. And my mom took all the pictures that had him in them off the walls and left the nails sticking out. Nice, right? I’d get really mad at her about that and she’d say, “Don’t displace your anger, Skeezie. It’s your dad you’re mad at, not me.”

  That was her therapy talking. Yeah, she went to see a therapist for a while after he left. So did I, for about ten minutes. It was all on account of my dad’s leather jacket. But that’s a whole other story. And anyways, I don’t think I was displacing anything, I think I was mad at my mom for leaving those ugly nails there, making our wall look as torn up as our lives.

  A lot of things changed after my dad left.

  1. All of a sudden, I was the only guy in the house. We had a couple of goldfish, but they looked too pretty to be guys. Addie and Joe would call me a sexist for that one, but it doesn’t matter whether they were guys or not, because they died about three days later since nobody bothered to feed them.

  2. Being the only guy, I had to put up with my mom saying, “You’re the man of the family now, Skeezie.” Which when you’re ten years old is not something you want to hear.

  3. The house became a pigsty. It was never the neatest house in the world, but my mom got so depressed she didn’t have the energy to yell at us kids to pick up our stuff. She’s not so depressed anymore, but now when she yells at us, I can tell that her heart really isn’t in it.

  4. The yard became a dump. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. I still cut the grass and all, but my mom had these beautiful gardens in the front and around back that she loved. She let them go, and since nobody but her is a gardener around here, now we have weeds where there used to be roses.

  5. Megan started acting tough, like she didn’t care our dad had left. She’d call him bad names, which my mom would tell her not to do until Megan wore her down and then instead of saying, “Don’t talk about your father that way,” she’d go, “You got that right, girl!”

  6. Jessie started crying a lot, including in her sleep, which she didn’t remember doing even when Megan would say the next morning, “How am I supposed to get my beauty sleep when my dumb sister wakes me up with her dumb crying?” Mom and me, we’d tell her not to say that about her sister, but nobody addressed the question of a seven-year-old needing beauty sleep.

  7. I started wearing my dad’s leather jacket that he left hanging in the closet. I nabbed it right before my mom was going to toss it in the trash. She hated that I wore that jacket, and when I say I wore it, I mean I wore it all the time, didn’t matter how hot it was or how ridiculous I might have looked. I still do. It’s my jacket now. It’s what I have left of my dad, other than a bunch of stupid nails sticking out of a stupid wall.

  How I Find My Summer Job

  The next morning I ride my bike out to Carlson’s Nursery to talk to Bobby. Okay, really it’s to see if I can get a job. But Bobby’s my go-to guy for most everything, so I figure he’s a good place to start.

  When I get there, I spot him right away, watering the hanging baskets out front. It’s funny, I never thought of Bobby as an outdoor kind of person, maybe because he’s on the heavy side and doesn’t look like he gets a lot of exercise. Or maybe it’s because I’m not an outdoor kind of person myself, so I figure how could any of my best friends be. But there he is, getting tan after only a few days of working here and I swear already looking thinner. And he’s going camping with his dad next month. Camping.

  “Hey, Skeezie!” he calls out when he sees me. I drop my bike and follow after him as he goes to turn off the hose. “What are you doing out here? Isn’t it hot in that jacket?”

  “Kind of,” I say. “So how’s it going?”

  “Great. Mrs. Carlson—Nancy—is really nice. I haven’t even been here a week and she’s taught me so much already. She says by the end of the summer I’ll know enough to open my own nursery!”

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  Bobby laughs. “No, I want to go into the eighth grade and survive it. But maybe I can convince my dad to start his own business. And I could help out.”

  “That would be cool.”

  “A lot cooler than selling ties at Awkworth & Ames,” he says, and I think he’s got that right. Bobby’s last job—and his boss, Mr. Kellerman—gave me the creeps.

  Just then, his dad shows up pushing a wheelbarrow full of stinky-smelling dirt.

  “Skeezie!” he shouts as if the dirt is a loud noise he needs to be heard over. I don’t know about that, but it sure is making my eyes water.

  “Hey, Mike,” I go. “What’s up with that dirt? It smells like, well . . .”

  He laughs. “That’s because that’s what it is. It’s fertilizer. So what brings you out here? I don’t imagine you came all this way to smell this. Hey, you want to help out?”

  I shrug. “Maybe,” I say. “Kind of.”

  How do you ask for a job? I have no idea.

  Bobby has been my friend for most of my life, so he’s pretty good at reading my mind. “Are you looking for a summer job?” he asks.

  I nod sheepishly, like his question is embarrassing, which it kind of is but I don’t know why. “My mom says I have to,” I tell him.

  Mike says, “Your mom works harder than anybody I know. If she says you have to, she must really need the help. Stay here. I’ll see what I can do.”

  And just like that, he leaves us with the wheelbarrow full of stinky dirt and goes off into the office.

  Bobby turns to me with this big smile on his face. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could work together this summer?”

  “Totally,” I say.

  We bump fists and start talking about what it will be like working together and what we’ll bring for lunch every day and how much money we’ll make. And then Mike comes back, his head down, and breaks it to me that they told him they can’t afford to hire anybody else right now.

  “I’m sorry, Skeezie,” he says.

  “That’s okay.” I can see from his face that he wanted to give me better news. Mike, like Bobby, is a good guy. “Thanks for asking anyways.”

  He suggests I try the stores in town and I tell him I will, although we agree I should steer clear of Awkworth & Ames.

  As I’m getting back on my bike, I hear Mike call Bobby “Skip” and Bobby call his dad “Hammer,” their at-home nicknames for each other. I look back over my shoulder and see Mike throw his arm around Bobby’s shoulders, and I think maybe it’s not so bad I didn’t get a job here. Bobby and Mike are the only family they’ve got, so they’re real close. I’m not sure where I would fit in.

  • • •

  Three days go by, and I’ve gone to all the stores in town, but nobody’s hiring. One good thing: Addie’s dad told me this morning he’d pay me to mow their lawn, which is really nice of him, because I once heard him say that mowing the lawn is his favorite form of meditation.

  Okay, that’s just plain weird, but Addie’s parents are not exactly what you’d call normal and Addie has inherited their genes, so what can I say? Weirdness abounds.

  Anyways, the point is that it was really nice of him to offer and I said I’d do it, but I still need a job. A few bucks once a week from mowing a lawn isn’t going to get the toilet fixed.

  So after my third morning of trying to convince people they should hire a thirteen-year-old with greasy hair and no skills over an unemployed college graduate, I stop at the Candy Kitchen to lift my downhearted spirits with a frosty Dr P. I’m wishing I had enough cash for some of those sweet potato fries, but that’s going to have to wait until after I’ve mowed Addie’s lawn next week.

  Steffi is wiping down the counter when I open the door so hard it knocks over an umbrella stand. If there were any customers in the place, they’d probably yell at me or something. But Steffi’s the only one that I can see, and she doesn’t even look up.

  “Hey, Elvis,” she goes.

  “How did you know it was me?” I answer. “Am I the only one who knocks over this stinkin’ umbrella stand? And what’s up with an umbrella stand? I mean, who puts their umbrellas in umbrella stands? Who has umbrellas?”

  Steffi stops wiping and looks up at me. “You have a lot to say on the subject of umbrellas,” she says. “Are you
that interested or do you just like the sound of the word?” She brushes a strand of hair off her forehead, and I get this funny feeling like I’m going to tip over or something.

  Okay. Up to now, I am the only one of the Gang of Five—that’s what Addie and Bobby and Joe and me call ourselves even though there are only four of us; it’s kind of an inside joke—anyways, I’m the only one who doesn’t have a girlfriend or something. Don’t ask, it’s like their hormones are on steroids, because all three of them have girlfriends or boyfriends. Or had. Joe broke up with his boyfriend Colin a while back, and Addie and her boyfriend DuShawn broke up a month ago. But Bobby and his girlfriend Kelsey are still going strong.

  Where was I?

  Oh yeah, right. Steffi. So I’m standing here looking at her in her tight LIFE IS GOOD T-shirt with her HELLO MY NAME IS STEFFI badge right over the word good, watching her brush this strand of hair off her forehead, and I suddenly think I’m going to tip over and crash into the door and knock down the umbrella stand all over again, and it’s so weird because, I mean, what is that about? How come I’m staring at somebody brushing stupid hair off their face, mumbling, “How should I know why I’m talking about umbrellas?” and “Yeah, umbrella’s a pretty cool word,” and waiting for a big hand to come down out of the sky and stamp 100% IDIOT on my forehead? Luckily, Steffi rescues me with, “You look like the heat’s getting to you, Big E. How about a Dr Pepper? On the house.”

  “Really?” I can’t believe it. If Steffi treats me to a Dr P, I’ll have almost enough money for an order of sweet potato fries.

  “Can I get half an order of sweet potato fries?” I ask.

  “I’ll give you a whole order for the price of half if you share,” she says.

  “Is that allowed?” I ask, like I’m running for president and trying to avoid a scandal.

  “I have an in with the cook,” she tells me. “He happens to be the boss. He also happens to be my cousin.”

  “Cool,” I say. I’m not sure what’s cool about it, but it seems like the right thing to say.

  Steffi gets me a Dr P and I straddle a stool, while she goes off to the kitchen and gets us our sweet potato fries. I’m thinkin’ how whack it is that I’m thinking Steffi is cool, and, yeah, she looks pretty good, but she’s six years older than me. And then I remember how Bobby once told me how he had this big crush on Joe’s aunt Pam, who is in her twenties, for cryin’ out loud. I guess hormones don’t worry about stuff like if somebody’s your friend’s aunt or could have been your babysitter just a few years before.

  When Steffi returns and slides the basket in front of me, I notice that it’s, like, a supersize portion. I pull out the measly single I have stuffed in my jacket pocket, along with a handful of change.

  “Keep your money,” she says. “I’m taking a break and can have anything I want.”

  I’m not sure she’s telling the truth, because while she’s eating the fries she keeps doing stuff like cleaning the milk shake machine and refilling saltshakers. That doesn’t look like a break to me, but I’m not about to argue with free fries.

  While I watch her work I notice two things: the way she moves her body to the music that’s playing, which is a very nice thing to notice, and how whiny the singer is, which is not.

  “This music sucks,” I say, by way of making conversation.

  Steffi spins around, slaps the damp rag on the counter, and grabs the basket of fries. “That’s it!” she says. “No more fries for you!”

  “What? What’d I say?”

  “That is Patsy Cline!”

  “Yeah, so?” I motion for her to return the fries, which she says she’ll do after I wipe the ketchup off my face. What is she all of a sudden, my mother?

  “Patsy Cline was one of the greatest country singers of all time,” she informs me, putting the basket down about a foot away from where it had been before, in case she needs to grab it away in a hurry again, I guess. “Maybe the greatest. She’s classic, like Elvis. And this song? This song is a classic.”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” I tell her.

  Now she grabs a squeeze bottle of ketchup and holds it up to her lips like a mike. “ ‘Crazy,’ ” she starts singing along, “ ‘crazy for loving you.’ ”

  Man. No matter where you turn, it’s all about love. Even the King, that’s what he sings about, except in my two favorites, “Hound Dog” and “Blue Suede Shoes.” Maybe that’s why they’re my favorites.

  Steffi’s singing gives me a chance to move the basket of fries closer and scarf down half my half. I’ve drained my Dr P by now, wishing I hadn’t because the salt is getting to me. The song is starting to get to me, too, in a nice way, not because I like Patsy Whiny’s voice any better, but because of the way Steffi sings. She’s got her eyes closed and she’s feeling it.

  “You got a good voice,” I tell her when the song ends and Patsy starts singing another one, something about falling to pieces or something.

  “Thanks, Elvis,” she says, looking serious and kind of sad. “You like to sing?”

  I give her half a nod. I sing all the time in the shower and sometimes for my friends, but they tell me to shut up because they’re tired of hearing “Hound Dog” and “Blue Suede Shoes,” so I stick mostly to the shower.

  Steffi gives me another Dr P without my even asking for it. She picks up a fry, sticks it in her mouth, and says, “The fries are getting cold.” We both crack up at that, because that’s supposed to be my line.

  “So what’s going on, Elvis?” she asks. “You’re usually in here with your friends. Why the solo act today?”

  I tell her about how I have to get a job and I’m having no luck. I think she’s going to say, what do I expect, I’m only thirteen; I’m lucky to have somebody’s grass to cut; I should be hanging out at the pool, driving the girls crazy. But she doesn’t say any of those things.

  Instead, she says, “I’ve been working since I was your age. Babysitting jobs first, which I still do, then helping out my mom in her shop, and then here for the past couple of years. We needed the money as far back as I can remember, and after my dad left, it was all hands on deck. Even my brother, who’s pretty limited in what he can do, he’s had to help out, too.”

  Maybe if I were older or smarter, I’d ask her about her brother ’cause it sounds like something’s wrong with him, but all I can focus on right now is that her dad left her, like mine left me. I want to say something about that, but I don’t have a clue what it should be. So I just say, “So you know what it’s like.”

  “Yep,” she goes. She leans on her elbows and looks me right in the eyes. This should make me extremely nervous, but for some reason it doesn’t. I feel like I know what she’s going to say next and I can’t believe my luck. If luck is what it is.

  “Why don’t you work here this summer?” she asks me. I was right! “We can really use the help. I’ll speak to my cousin Donny, but I know he’ll say it’s okay. You’ll have to talk to him anyway about hours and pay and all that good stuff, but what do you think? All the fries you can eat. Not a bad deal, right?”

  Not a bad deal at all. All the fries I can eat. Free Dr P’s. And Steffi to look at. If we could just do something about the music, it would be perfect.

  “I’ll take it,” I tell her.

  “Great,” she says.

  We eat the rest of the fries before they get too cold, bopping our heads to Patsy Whiny. When she sings the words, “ ‘I don’t know what’s comin’ tomorrow; maybe it’s trouble and sorrow,’ ” I think, Like the T-shirt says, life is good.

  Turns out the T-shirt’s wrong, and it’s Patsy who’s got it right.

  Look What the Cat Dragged In

  My mom’s mom, Grandma Roseanne, doesn’t talk a whole lot, and when she does she says things like, “My hip is killing me,” or, “Feels like rain” (even when the sun is shining), or “Look what the cat dragged in.” She’s not exactly what you’d call full of good cheer.

  Anyways, every time we go to visit, I walk in the door and she says, “Look what the cat dragged in.” I never really got it. She lives with my aunt Lindsay and her family and, okay, they’ve got cats—five of them, to be exact—but not one of them has ever dragged me anywhere. Then one day one of them did drag something in. Half a dead mouse. That’s when I understood what the expression means. “Look who I’m as happy to see as half a dead mouse.” At least, that’s what it sounds like every time my grandma says it.