On Thursdays, hot fudge sundaes are half price. I’m back at Ben Franklin watching Eva top the whipped cream with crushed Nut Goodie—a candy bar made of chocolate, peanuts, and maple nougat.
I’ve brought one of my mother’s old Mad magazines to read. Is this where she got her sense of humor from? Mom hasn’t laughed much since we got to Last Chance, but she can be pretty funny. One time Ginger and I were using Mom’s eyeliner to draw mustaches on each other when she caught us. “Maizy! Ginger! Put that down.” We froze until she said, “For mustaches, use an eye shadow pencil. It’ll go on smoother.” Then she drew one on her face to show us.
Three girls about my age are sitting at the far end of the soda fountain. One is complaining to another, “I think my eyelashes are too long.” The third girl looks bored. She’s beautiful, like YouTube-star beautiful, with long blond hair. I’ll bet she’s stuck-up.
“I heard she’s from Los Angeles.”
Huh? Are the other two girls talking about me? Do they know I can hear them, or is that the point?
“Probably thinks she’s better than us, right, Riley?”
The pretty girl doesn’t answer.
One of the Mean Girls pulls her eyelids back.
The other is laughing. “You’re too funny, Caroline!”
My face feels like it’s on fire. Why is it that they’re the ones being mean and I’m the one who feels embarrassed? Even though I’ve only just started my sundae, I get up to leave.
“Aw, she can’t even take a joke,” Caroline says.
I’m in such a hurry, I almost knock Logan over on his way in. “Hi, Maizy!”
I don’t stop to talk. I need to get out of here, fast.
Oma motions toward the dirty-dishes cart. “Start with number eight.” Every table in the restaurant has a number.
I fill the gray plastic bin as fast as I can. Using leftover tea, the way I’ve seen my mother do, I scrub the glass tabletops until they squeak. When all the dirty tables are clean, I feel better.
I go into the kitchen looking for Oma. “I love your dress,” I tell Daisy. It looks like something you’d see at a retro flea market in LA. “Did you make it?”
She blushes and points to the shelf where we store the rice. “Thanks, Maizy. I used the rice bags.”
“Where’s Mom?” I ask when I find Oma back in the office.
“She took Opa to the doctor.” My grandmother is tallying up the receipts without a calculator. “He’s got a little cough. Your mother is worried. He’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with him.”
If there’s nothing wrong with Opa, why are we still here?
I look at the photos on the wall. Customers? Friends? Relatives? I like the ones that are old and faded, like ghosts. Some have names written under them: Jack, Monty, Frank. Each person is staring straight at the camera, right at me.
“Who are all of you?” I wonder. Now every time I come to the Golden Palace I visit them, like they’re old friends. I’m about to ask Oma about the man who’s holding up a heavy rice bag when Daisy peeks in from the kitchen. “Look, Maizy, I’m cooking!” She waves two fistfuls of scallions.
Oma shakes her head. She doesn’t wear any makeup but still looks pretty with her short gray hair. Today a butterfly barrette keeps the bangs off her face. I have one just like it. I look at it a little closer—I think it is mine!
“I can’t do everything by myself.” Oma nods toward Daisy, who disappears from view. “She started when Opa first got sick. But that was before I knew her head is about as empty as a balloon.”
“I can help, too,” I tell my grandmother.
She kisses my cheek. “Maizy, you’re a good girl.”
Oma is so nice to me. Why can’t she and Mom get along?