“What?” I said.
“Your T-shirt. The masks. Comedy and tragedy. Classic symbols, thousands of years old.”
I looked down. “Um, this is a Mötley Crüe concert shirt. Theatre of Pain. ‘Home Sweet Home’? Mötley Crüe is a band.”
“Those masks represent tragedy and comedy. Been around a lot longer than your assorted crew. Look it up. You’re smarter than you realize, Ms. Kane. You don’t have to pretend. Do you like Hemingway?”
I shrugged, but inside I was pissed about the “smarter than you realize” comment. He didn’t know me. And he sure as hell didn’t have the right to talk to me like this—like he was my father or something. It was bullshit.
Mr. Vernon said, “Do you find him sexist? I mean, Papa was a bit of a pig when it came to women, but goddamn could he write. Do you agree?”
I just stared up at Mr. Vernon.
No teacher had ever talked to me like that.
“You don’t know what to do with me, do you?” He laughed. “You don’t like me yet either. Yet. But you will. I can look into all of your eyes on the first day and know which of you will get my class. You will get it, Ms. Kane. I can tell. You’re free to go now.”
I grabbed my backpack and left as quickly as I could.
When I was far enough down the hall, I whispered, “Freak.”
But in my heart, I didn’t mean it.
I went to the library during lunch and looked up Pavlov, learned about the conditioned reflex, and how you could make dogs salivate when they heard a bell ring even when there was no food in the room, if only you’d rung it enough times previously while the dog was eating.
I sort of got what Mr. Vernon was saying about us.
I didn’t want to be anyone’s dog.
Maybe I had been conditioned.
That night when my head hit the pillow I caught myself smiling and realized I was doing as Mr. Vernon had instructed—I was thinking about him and his class. I wondered what the rest of the school year would be like, and if any of the other kids in my class were also thinking about Mr. Vernon before they drifted off to sleep. I bet they were. And then I wondered if he was doing to us what Pavlov had done to his dog. Would I think about Mr. Vernon every time my head hit the pillow for the rest of my life?
Back in the Crystal Lake Diner, Danielle says, “One with whipped and one without,” as she plops plates of waffles down in front of Mom and me.
“I’m invisible,” Mom whispers.
I blink a few times, and Danielle says, “You okay, Portia?”
“What happened to Mr. Vernon?”
“Here,” Danielle says, and then slips me a piece of paper. “Enjoy your meal.”
I unfold the paper and read it.
Can’t talk here. Boss is a Nazi. Off at 6 pm. Dinner? Call at 6:20?
Her phone number is underneath.
“Mom,” I say.
“Invisible.”
“You haven’t heard anything bad about a teacher at Haddon Township High School, have you? Mr. Vernon? My senior-year English teacher? Anything at all? It could have been a few years ago?”
“Can we leave yet?” Mom says, covering her eyes with her right hand and then gritting her teeth convincingly enough to make me believe she is really truly suffering through this.
I look down at my plate—at the four-inch-high pile of waffles and the additional three-inch fluffy white pyramid of whipped cream on top—and I actually start to feel sick.
“You’re not going to eat a bite, are you?” I ask Mom.
“I’m invisible. Can we leave yet?”
“Okay, Mom. You win.”
I flag down Danielle, ask for take-home containers, explain that my mother is not feeling well, and let her know I’ll call later. I leave a hundred percent tip on the table, thinking of little Tommy at home, who doesn’t yet work on the docks but may someday, since his mother already works the diner by day, and also remembering my own waitressing days. I pay the cashier, and then walk Mom home hand-in-hand.
As soon as we’re in the door, she asks if she can eat her waffles, and I say, “Sure.”
She grabs a fork and eats lustily out of the white Styrofoam box. She’s seated in her pink recliner among the towers of junk and lurking dust-bunny filth.
“Yum,” she says. “Aren’t you going to have any, Portia?”
“You got what you wanted, didn’t you, Mom? This is what you want.”
“Waffles with whipped cream!” she says, which is when I realize that she’s eating my waffles.
“Enjoy,” I say. “I’m going to my space now.”
“Your room is yours. I haven’t touched a thing!” she says, flashing a mouth full of half-chewed waffles, white whipped cream, and sticky brown syrup. “It’s yours!”
I turn and approach the steps, which are only half as wide as they should be. Mom’s stacked sundry boxes of crap two feet high along the left side, where there is no railing. She needs the railing on the right side to make it to the upstairs bathroom, which is the only thing she uses up there, since the halls, closets, and her entire bedroom are stocked floor to ceiling with what-have-you.
She’s been sleeping on the pink recliner for decades.
I stand at the bottom of the steps, wondering if it’s safe to climb, or if there is so much stuff up there that my added weight could bring the second floor crashing down. But then I remember that my mother outweighs me by an entire person, so I begin to climb, trying not to look at the six hundred or so rolls of toilet paper stacked eight feet tall and four feet wide, the bathroom door trapped behind them so that it’s no longer possible to shut it while sitting on the toilet or taking a shower.