The Music of What Happens - Bill Konigsberg Page 0,22
doesn’t have.
I want to say that Downward-Facing Dog should be called Upward-Facing Ass, but Max and his mom probably wouldn’t find that half as funny as Kayla and Pam would.
As we walk in, the second thing I notice is that Max basically lives in my house, only reversed. Their sunken living room is to the right when we walk in instead of the left, there’s a dining room straight ahead, and while our open family room and kitchen combination is straight ahead and to the right, theirs is to the left. The biggest difference is that where we have a dining table, his mom has a little yoga area, with one mat she is currently hovering over and several comfy-looking pillows next to her, two rolled-up mats against the wall. And whereas our kitchen is stuffed to the hilt with boxed treats — on every counter, stacked on the refrigerator — their counters are neat and clean.
“You should be at work, Maximo,” his mom calls from the other room as Max opens the fridge. It is stacked. Vegetables, fruit. Dairy. I almost take a picture to send to my mom, so she can see what a real refrigerator looks like.
“That’s my mom,” he says to me, and then he yells out, “Raiding the fridge for the truck.”
“The hell you are,” his mom yells, and I hear her footsteps approaching. “Oh … hi.”
Max’s mom is wearing a red Diamondbacks T-shirt. She’s short — like half Max’s height — and her black hair hangs long down her neck, a bit frizzy. Sweat has beaded on her forehead and she wears a cream-colored clip on top of her head to keep the hair out of her eyes. She smiles, and I see where Guy Smiley got it from. Same exact smile, which almost cracks me up because on her, it looks gigantic.
“Is this your coworker?” she asks, and she sticks her hand out at me.
“Hi,” I say, and I shake her hand. “Jordan.”
“Ms. Gutierrez,” she says. “Now what’s this mistaken idea you have about you two raiding my refrigerator for food truck ingredients?”
Max points into the fridge. “We have no money and just about nothing to cook.”
She winces. “No money and nothing to cook?” She looks me over like she’s sizing me up and I cross my arms in front of my chest. Then she walks over to the couch, which faces the fireplace we never use in our house. Instead of a fireplace, they have an entertainment center, with a huge TV hanging in the middle of the wall. Ours is against the far wall instead. They have a love seat in that spot.
“Sit,” she says. “Gotta get ready for work but first let’s have a chat.”
I tentatively sit on the love seat, and Max sits next to his mom. I’m not so sure I’m ready to be reprimanded by my coworker’s mom.
“So talk to me,” she says. “Sounds like your truck is not going so good.”
I look down at my skinny knees. “No, ma’am. It was my dad’s. He died a few years ago. My mom got the idea to take it out finally and we did on Saturday for the first time. My mom freaked, she hired Max to take her place, and we’re just … doing our best, I guess. I honestly have no idea what I’m doing.”
She studies me for a bit. Finally, she says, “Ah. And is this legal? You guys being out on a food truck together with no experience?”
I say, “Um. Well, the truck is legal.”
“Do you need a food handler’s permit?”
I study the Native American rug under my feet. It’s turquoise and tan.
“Do you?” she asks again.
I shrug.
“Did your mother have one?”
I shrug again.
Ms. Gutierrez frowns. It’s a powerful frown too. Like it makes me want to get up, walk out of this house, and never turn around again.
“Jesus,” she says. “This is illegal, Maximo. I won’t let you do this. I can’t.”
“Mom,” he says. “Stop.”
“Stop what? I know I told you to stick with it, but from what I hear, you’re not legally working on that truck. You could get fined or arrested. This isn’t right.”
“Mom!” Max stands and walks into the yoga area, and he motions for her to come. “Please.”
She follows him, looking back at me like I’m a piece of dirt, which is basically what I feel like. I sit there wondering what the hell I’m going to do when she forbids Max from working with me. I can’t blame