A part of me had hoped Martinelli’s would be closed. I’d dragged Billy onto the bus without stopping to think about what I was doing. On the ride over, I had time to process it. So what if the guy’s face was familiar? That could just be because we used to eat at his place a lot. So what if I maybe looked a little Italian? I could also pass for Greek or even Hispanic from some angles.
By the time we got to the stop, it was Billy dragging me off the bus. He’d gotten all pumped up when I’d explained to him where we were going.
“Like a stakeout?”
“Sure, like a stakeout.”
I thought again about what kind of lame crime shows Billy must watch on TV. Then I thought about how lame this whole trip was and tried to turn around, but Billy had taken the reins. He even offered to buy the pizza with the credit card his mom had given him for emergencies. The rumble in my stomach agreed with Billy, so it was two against one, and now here we were, sitting at one of those ugly checkered tablecloths, trying to be discreet.
Well, I was trying to be discreet. Billy was craning his neck around like some spineless bird, trying to see over the back of the booth into the open kitchen.
“Sit down,” I barked.
Billy sat. And bounced.
“Dude, relax. You’re making me nervous.”
Billy leaned across the table. “Do you see him?”
I pulled my water glass out of the way before he could knock it over. “No, I don’t see him. Sit back. Don’t make a scene.”
“Stop telling me what to do.” Billy pouted. But he sat back and buried his face in an oversize menu. “Can we get pepperoni?”
“Whatever. I don’t care.”
I hadn’t touched my own menu. I was too busy scanning the kitchen myself. I just didn’t have to wiggle around like a jellyfish to do it.
Finally, I saw him. He wasn’t dressed in the ugly red-and-white uniform everyone else was wearing. He had on jeans and a T-shirt and work boots—just like the ones I wore. I swallowed hard.
He walked from table to table, asking the guests if they liked their food, whether they had a good weekend, and what else he could do for them. When he approached our booth, my hand twitched right into the glass I’d moved away from Billy. Water and ice skated across the slick plastic tablecloth. I watched the flow speed to the end of the table, where it spilled right off the edge and onto the man’s boots.
“Whoops!” The man—Vince Martinelli—laughed and shook a cube of ice off his toe.
“I’m sorry—shit—I mean, shoot—damn, I’m sorry. Sorry.” I scrabbled for a napkin and sort of wadded it up and threw it down at his boot.
Billy just stared at me, openmouthed. His expression proved I looked as crazy as I felt.
“No problem, no problem.” The man pulled a rag from the back pocket of his jeans and pressed it onto the table to stop the waterfall. “We’ve got more H-2-O where that came from.” He motioned to a waitress to bring a fresh glass of water. Then he turned back to us—to me—and squinted. “Do I know you?”
I don’t know if he asked because he recognized me or because of the psychotic way I was staring at him. I coughed to cover up my speechlessness.
“He’s Dane Washington,” Billy said.
I turned my stare to the traitor across the table.
“Don’t think I know … oh my God.” The change in his voice forced me to look up. “Are you Jenny Washington’s kid?”
Whatever anger and fear had been controlling my face and making me mute melted away to something almost like excitement. My heart was pounding. I might have started bouncing like Billy.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s my mom! Jennifer Washington.”
Ugh. What an eager little puppy dog I was. When I spoke again, I tried to sound only half interested. “You know her?”
“Oh yeah, I know her.”
My leg jumped like a jackhammer—the puppy wagging its tail.
The man pulled a chair up to the end of our booth and sat, leaning forward with an elbow on the wet table and a smile on his face. “Know you, too.”
Pet me! Pet me!
“You do?” I faked a yawn.
“Sure. Your mom and I dated for a long time after I got back from college—almost a year. You were pretty little—just started kindergarten, I think—so you probably don’t remember, but we had some fun, you and me.”
I knew I should return his smile, to make some encouraging expression, but I could feel all the hope sliding off my face. The flashes of memories joined the hope, snaking down to my stomach, where anxiety unraveled and melted along with everything else. All of it slid down my body and settled in my shoes—into my boots, which looked just like this guy’s … apparently the only thing we had in common.
The man said we could call him Vinnie and told some long story about how he was young when he dated my mom and didn’t want to settle down. His eyes were sad and far away, so I didn’t have to worry about my face showing any appropriate reactions. I barely even listened. Mom had had lots of boyfriends over the years, and none of them ever felt significant—to either one of us. So this guy was just one of those—nobody special.
“Well, anyway.” Vinnie cleared his throat. “It sure is good to see you, Dane. You tell your mom I said hi.” He started to stand up.
“I remember you, too,” I blurted.
Vinnie sat down slowly. “You sure? You were pretty little.”
“Um—just like—this place,” I fumbled. “And ice cream and little stuff like that.”
Vinnie smiled, sharing my memories, but then he raised an eyebrow at me. “That why you’re here? Something I should know?”
I was about to say no and let Vinnie get back to work when Billy opened his trap.
“Dane is looking for his dad.”
I kicked him under the table.
Vinnie let out a long whistle. “Wow. And you thought …”
“No, I didn’t. And I’m not looking for anybody. I just thought … I mean … It’s not like that. Look, don’t tell my mom—”
“Whoa whoa whoa.” Vinnie held up a hand to silence me, then lowered it to my shoulder. “I’m not telling anybody’s mom anything, okay? I haven’t talked to Jenny Washington in a long time, and I won’t be tracking her down to tattle on you. But can I give you some advice?”
No, you’re not my dad.
“Maybe you should talk to her about this.”
I shook off Vinnie’s hand. “Okay. Thanks.”
He stood up, folding his dishrag. “Well, you boys want a couple slices? On the house, anything you want.”
“We’re not hungry,” I said.
I stood up from the table and glanced down for a second at Vinnie’s boots next to my own matching pair. Same size.
I spun and headed for the exit without another word. A bell jangled loudly over the door as I pushed it open. Faintly, over the racket of the bell, I heard Billy’s voice behind me.
“Can I have pepperoni?”
• • • X • • •
I waited until we were back on the bus to lay into Billy.
His face was a mess of tomato sauce as he crammed two slices of pizza, stacked on top of each other, into his mouth.
“This is your fault,” I said.
Directly across the aisle from me, Billy lowered the pizza sandwich, but his mouth stayed open. I could see half a slice of mashed-up pepperoni on his tongue and a string of cheese stuck to his lower lip.
I sneered at the disgusting sight, letting it fuel my words. “Making me look at that stupid yearbook—making me go to that restaurant—”
“I didn’t make you—”
“Making me get caught up for a second—making me think I might want to look for … for …” My voice cracked, and I balled my hands into fists. I was almost willing my palms to itch. Then, at least, I would know I was angry. But my hands were calm. Not even a tingle. The emotions clutching my chest and stomach were something much more frightening, more powerful, than rage. I didn’t trust myself to say anything else, so I stayed silent and kept my fists clenched, hoping they would make Billy think I was mad and nothing more.
“I’m sorry Vinnie’s not your dad,” Billy said.
I turned away from him, toward the bus window, and squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could close them as tight as I could close my fists.
“I don’t care,” I said.
We swayed back and forth a little with the motion of the bus.
“We can find some of the other—” Billy started, but I held up a hand.
“I don’t want to see that yearbook ever again.” I looked hard at Billy so he would know I was serious. “I mean it. If you put that thing in my face again, I will kick your ass.”
“Okay.”
“This is why I didn’t want to go looking for anything in the first place. Every road is a dead end or a disappointment or a waste of time!”
“Okay.”
“You can’t find someone who doesn’t want to be found!”
Billy fell silent at that.
Shit.
“I didn’t mean your dad,” I said. “That’s different. I’m sure he wants to be found.”
Billy nodded and dropped his uneaten pizza crusts into the brown paper bag they’d come in. He fished a used napkin from the bottom of the bag and cleaned off his face, avoiding my eyes.
I pointed at Billy’s backpack, where I knew the yearbook was hiding. “Just get rid of it.”