That Dad, he’s a terrific negotiator. That’s why Mom got the house and the van and he got to rent a condo.
“You can stay here for the summer and next school year. On a couple of conditions.”
He’s got my attention. Because I was just thinking, I get forced to move in with Mom, it could be months before I’d ever see another one of those amazing little blue and yellow marshmallows that swell up after a few minutes in milk.
“You’ve got to get off that damn computer and hit the books. B average, or you’re out of here.”
“But Dad,” I begin, thinking that I’ve got some pretty tough courses coming up next year. When I was in grade school I got hooked up with this aggressive Gifted Education program they have in Kansas. It’s called GE, which is totally confusing, because it sounds like a brand of light bulbs.
The way it works is the more kids they identify as “gifted” the more money the school gets. So the day I turned eight, which is the minimum age, I took a bunch of tests and, just like that, I was in the club. Which meant I got to start taking all these accelerated math and science courses, so that when I got to middle school I was taking half of my classes at the high school and when I got to high school I was ready to start with APs. Next year I’ve got two AP courses first semester and I have to commute down to U of Missouri-Kansas City to take math in the afternoon, since I’ve already taken every math course at high school. I’ve already got about fifteen hours of college credit.
“But nothing. B average, or you’re out of here. And this summer—no staying up until four in the morning and sleeping all day. Your mother and I are in agreement—you get a job, or you can ship out. After all, your mother has that job all lined up for you with the summer camp they run out there.”
“But what kind of job?”
Dad gives me one of those looks, like he’s dealing with some sort of moron. I’m pretty sure I’m about to hear about how he started a paper route when he was twelve and worked every week of his life since. But he just shakes his head again and says, “Give me a break. I don’t give a crap whether you flip burgers or shovel horse manure. Just get a frickin’ job before your mother drives me crazy.”
15.
The next morning, a Saturday, while unpacking my jeans I hear something crunching and I pull out my Starfare check. Everything had been so messed that I forgot to even show it to Dad. I smooth it out and take it into the kitchen. He’s standing by the sink with the newspaper and a steaming mug of coffee.
“Not bad,” he says, holding it up to the light like it might be counterfeit. “One month’s rent and utilities. Endorse it on the back and I’ll drop it in your savings account at the bank. I’ve got a bunch of errands to run. By the way, I’m out of here bright and early tomorrow—up to Des Moines, then Milwaukee and Chicago.”
On the way out the door he turns and says, “I left the paper open to the want ads. Why don’t you start by checking them out?”
Instead I plug in my laptop and punch up DT, who’s online, like usual.
We chat back and forth about some of his latest games and then I tell him that if I don’t get a job I have to move.
DTerra: OMG, a job?
ActionSeth: I know. What can I do IRL?
DTerra: my older sister worked at the movies and mom thinks I should apply there except you have to wear this costume with a black coat and a little tie
ActionSeth: they have movies in Fargo?
DTerra: stfu they even have a movie named Fargo and its pretty good 2
ActionSeth: I don’t know about working at the movies any other ideas?
DTerra: I saw this guy from my English class working at the ice cream store and I asked him if they get freebies
ActionSeth: yeah?
DTerra: what?
ActionSeth: do they get freebies?
DTerra: I don’t know…he wouldn’t answer me. I don’t think he recognized me. I sit in the back, besides you’d get pretty sick of ice cream.
DT, he’s always really positive about my gaming. Sometimes I think he just likes being the cheerleader. Because we both watch a lot of pro matches and we both know that I’m not even close to that level. The difference is that DT, he thinks it’s just a matter of time and opportunity. Sometimes I feel absolutely certain I can do it, but most of the time, I’m worried I’m just another day-dreaming kid. Just like every eight year old with a baseball mitt who says he going to be a Major Leaguer when he grows up.
When DTerra signs off I look through the want ads that Dad left but they’re all weird jobs that I don’t even recognize like comptroller and asset manager. Garrett had summer jobs, but they were always working with his high school coach at basketball camps. Too bad they don’t have computer gaming camps.
But then I remember the last time Dad and I picked up pizza at Saviano’s, this place in the strip mall a few blocks away. There might have been a sign on the door, something about help wanted. And I’m thinking, if I’m going to get freebies, I might as well get freebie pizza.
So I get out my bike and head over to Saviano’s.
16.
Sure enough, the handwritten “help wanted” sign on the door is still there, next to an old Jayhawk basketball poster. I step inside. The service counter is in the back of the store, past a dozen or so round tables with checkered black-and-white tablecloths.
Behind the counter a girl is standing with her back to me, folding take-out boxes. I make my way through the restaurant and stand by the cash register for a few minutes, watching her. She picks up a flat sheet of cardboard, does something with her hands which is just a blur, flips it over, tucks in two tabs simultaneously and throws in onto a stack.
I try making some noise with my feet, but she’s already onto another one. She’s wearing a baseball-style hat with an auburn ponytail hanging down. When I look closer I see the iPod cords. Her ponytail does a little circular dance every time she flips a box. She’s singing along softly with whatever she’s playing.
I wonder if I should make some louder noise. And how loud that might have to be to get past her current iTune. And it’s not like I’m buying something. If I clear my throat, that will be really lame, and I can’t just yell something at her. Maybe I should go back to the door and try to open it really loudly. I’m frozen with indecision when she turns, as if I had actually done one of these things.
“OMG,” she says, with a startled jump, staring at me like I had a hand inside the cash register. With a quick wave of both hands she pulls out the ear buds. “How long have you been standing there? I’m so sorry!”
I had already told myself not to look at the menu up on the wall, because then I would look like an actual customer. No problem there, because I’m staring at her, like an idiot. She looks amazing. I’m thinking I had seen her before because there is something familiar about her. Maybe she just reminds me of someone, maybe that girl who should have won American Idol.
As she takes a step towards me, wiping her hands on her sides like
