Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [107]
Our other best friend tosses her banana peel down and says, “Ready, Betty.”
Of course she is. She already went over to the rectory to set up what she needs. She found a better concrete block, one that she won’t fall off of this time, and carried it to Father Mickey’s office window. She also hid her Brownie camera in the bushes. Artie doesn’t have anything to do tonight except be a lookout and stick close to Mary Lane to remind her to stay on point. If she starts chowing down, she might forget all about the plan. (Fish fry Friday is her favorite night of the week and she can get carried away.) Artie’s much bigger part will kick in later after all is said and done.
When we round the corner of 58th Street and the church comes into sight, Mary Lane throws down a challenge. “Last one there’s gotta sit next to B.O. Montanazza at church this Sunday.”
Of course, I get there first, but it’s my sister who holds the side door of the school open for us. She says, “Age before beauty,” and gives me a goose when we head down the steps to the cafeteria, which is even louder than usual with gossip and complaints about the weather and more gossip. I hear someone say, “The radio reported there might be rain on the way. Somebody else says, “Did you hear about Jilly Wilton? She got caught in the boathouse with Joe Riordan without her blouse,” and the whole place reeks of just-waxed floors and steam and so many perfumes and sweat.
When it’s our turn to pry apart the sticky trays, the same lunch ladies as always slap limp fish sticks on our plates and a scoop of coleslaw that runs into the rye bread and for dessert there is always fruit cocktail. We’d usually try to find a place at the crowded cafeteria tables, but the cashier told us to go out to the playground. “The janitors set up out there tonight. The heat, ya know,” she says, handing back my change.
When the four of us come out of the cafeteria doors, I can see everybody spread across the playground.
“Thally O’Malley!” Like always, Wendy spots me when we get close to the Latours’ long, long table. After Artie takes a seat on the end next to his sister, she grins up at me with coleslaw lips and gives me one of her super-duper hugs around my waist. Even though I’m standing right next to her, she yells, “Hi. Hi. Hi. Thit. Now,” and tries to pull me down to her lap.
“I can’t, Wendy.” I’m trying to balance my tray so it doesn’t tip over onto her tiara-wearing head. “I gotta go be with my family the same way you’re with yours.”
Letting loose one of her strong arms, she points over to the set on the playground and says, “Thwing. Now. Thally.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll push you later, okay?” I don’t like to fib to her, but I’m sure she’ll forget because of her bad memory and she’s not so good at telling time. Sometimes she shows up in her Sunday clothes on Wednesdays and sometimes she goes to the playground in the middle of the night.
Wendy says, “Yeth, Thally, later,” but Artie’s got to tell her, “Tapioca,” three times before she’ll let the rest of me go.
From behind me, Mary Lane says, “I’ll be over there,” and weaves through the crowd to the table where her family’s camped out.
Across the playground, tall Dave is standing up and whistling with his fingers to make sure Troo and me know that he’s waiting for us with saved seats, but I don’t budge. Because of our mental telepathy, Troo knows I’m petrified in place and that I want to back out of the plan the same way I do every single time I climb the steps up to the high dive over at the pool.
She says, “Geronimo,” and bumps me in the back of the knees to get me unfrozen.
When we set our trays down at the table, Granny in her yellow-and-pink muu-muu is quibbling with Mother about something to do with the wedding, so they only give us quick nods.
Uncle Paulie doesn’t lift his mouth up from his plate. He’s shoveling in his food so he’s not late for his job up at Jerbak’s.
Smiling Peggy Sure is on her mother’s hip. Nell looks a lot like the fish fry. Her hair is flat