The Honey Bus - Meredith May Page 0,38

fruit that they peeled from cellophane. Hallie showed me how to twist her Oreo cookies apart and lick the frosting first. It tasted marvelous, like ice cream that didn’t need to be kept frozen. But no matter how much I wheedled inside the Safeway store every Saturday morning, Granny refused to buy such ridiculous things. Not only did she not understand what they were, they were outrageously expensive. Mom’s lack of income meant I was entitled to free government lunch at school. In the court of Granny, there was no arguing against free.

But sometimes free comes with a price. In the cafeteria I stood in the special lunch line, which everyone knew was for the kids whose families didn’t have enough money for groceries. I envied the students with their Mom-made sack lunches, and listened to the daily frenzy of their bartering as they swapped gummy bears and peanut butter saltines, and sandwiches on white pillowy bread with the crusts cut off. Every day I got a hot meal in an aluminum tray sealed with foil, and no matter what was inside, it always smelled like boiled potatoes and was completely leached of flavor. No one wanted to trade for gray broccoli and limp fish sticks, so I started spending lunch and the recess period that followed inside the classroom with my smelly food, flipping through Dick and Jane books. My teacher urged me to play outside, but I refused so often that eventually she stopped trying. She and I ate together indoors, she working at her desk and me on a beanbag chair, satisfied by silence between us.

I scored low that year on the Social & Emotional Growth section of my progress report:

Works very hard in classroom; I often have to “throw her out” at recess. Complains occasionally that she is bored—both at school sometimes and after school. Have encouraged her to exchange phone numbers with classmates and get together with them.

I gave my progress report to Granny, along with her cocktail. She sipped her drink and glanced at the report, told me I was doing fine in school, then tossed the paper in the fireplace, where Grandpa was jabbing the poker into the orange flames. He made a fire at least once a week, even in warm weather. Our fireplace wasn’t only used to heat the house; it was a tool to get rid of stuff. There was no recycling program, so my grandparents tossed newspapers and milk cartons, and old rags and magazines, and Kleenex and the occasional Sears catalog into the flames. Granny looked content as she watched my report card seize in on itself and turn to ash. She raised her glass as if to make a toast. “Who needs friends? Hell is other people, if you ask me,” she said.

I didn’t exchange phone numbers with anybody. The other students didn’t invite me to their homes, but I didn’t dare invite anyone over to our house, either. There was a secret behind the closed bedroom door in our house. I didn’t want to keep Mom hidden, but I didn’t want to explain to a classmate why she wouldn’t come out of the room. I’m not sure I could give a reason, anyway. I already felt like an outsider at school for having grandparents instead of parents, and the inexplicability of Mom would only amplify my weirdness.

When I came to bed later that night, I found Mom asleep on her back, with a big red book splayed across her chest. Linda Goodman’s Sun Signs. Recently Mom had discovered astrology, and pored over books Granny fetched from the library, looking for the cosmic explanation for her divorce. I gently slid the book from under her hand, trying not to wake her. She jerked awake and her eyes flipped open. I saw her eyes register the room, then she relaxed back into the pillows and reached for me. “It’s okay, come on.”

I got under the covers and tucked my bum into her belly, and she drew up her legs and pulled me into our nightly position.

“You’re a good girl,” she said. “For an Aries.”

Mom had divided all the signs into good and bad people. I was a ram, which she explained is sort of a self-centered person, but fun to be around, and deep down, good. But a Taurus was the best, Mom said, because she, Granny and Matthew were all that one. But Grandpa was a ram, so I was happy.

“Mom?”

“Hmmmm.”

“Halloween’s coming.”

The black and orange decorations were