flashback

o n e

Super Bowling at the deli was something of a legend among us kids. I was in about sixth or seventh grade around the time, and my dream was to be invited to one of those parties, to be one of those people. There were all sorts of crazy things rumored to have gone on at those parties, and at school it was the rage. It was always "so-and-so's" Super bowl party. I wanted to go, but I never got the chance. Once, this kid named Chad bragged to the whole seventh grade that he had attended the famous Super Bowl party down at the deli. It was a lie, of course, and Old Joe's youngest son, who I remember they distinctly called CJ, beat him up bad for that. After Chad got his butt whooped, he never really said much about Old Joe and his sons, and after that, we called Chad Bull, because that's all that came out of his mouth-bull.

While the deli was a hot spot, after CJ and his brothers went away to college and Joe died, no one ever went down there again. It was far too creepy and dirty. I used to say that I could live in the deli. There were jars upon jars of candy, meat to make sandwiches, and a sliding door full of soda and juice. When my mom actually was there, she used to take me to Joe's deli. We would sit on the barstools at the counter and order the same things every time: two turkey and cheese, mayo and lettuce sandwiches, and a vanilla root beer float. Mine would have a strawberry on top, and Mom's would have one of those yucky maraschino cherries on top. When Dad came along, he ordered a giant-sized Philly cheese steak. He claimed that root beer floats were girly, so he usually ordered a Dr. Pepper. Occasionally he would try to order a beer, but Mom complained--whined that she hated the smell of beer and onions together. Besides, I usually backed Mom up; it really stunk. But truly, I would be willing to pay my life savings to smell the stench of onions and beer. It reminds me of fairly pleasant childhood memories.

My parents were good parents. They always had been. I would never say they hadn't, but after Dad claimed that-quote on quote-"Cottondale was the butt (only he didn't say butt) of the world" and he would never get 'noticed' that way, he went off to Japan and played baseball for a Japanese team. His name is Liam, and he always gets a little ticked off when they pronounce his name weird. From what I gather in our frequent phone calls, the team stinks. He'll be coming home soon. My dad was tall, towering over my mom at 6"2. He had always been slim and athletic, voted most athletic in elementary school. And high school. And college. Dad is dark skinned, and he always has a small mustache above his upper lip. He never let his curly hair get long, and doesn't smile a lot. He always looks like he has something on his mind. When does smile, though, his lips sprawl out and his straight teeth glitter and his eyes crinkle at the corners and his nostrils flare. He looks very handsome when he laughs, but my mom jokes and tells him he looks like a "deranged pig." Dad doesn't like that, and when he laughed later, I noticed him smoothen his nostrils self-consciously. He played college baseball, and they called him "Big McKenzie", and sometimes "Big Mac". Hardy har har. He was really good back then, but now he says that he thinks he's getting old-mind you, he's 37-so he thinks he wants to settle down and become an accountant. He got a degree in that, anyhow. I didn't really care what he did, as long as he came home. My mom says he should hurry up and settle down; the bills aren't going to pay themselves. My mom, Rebekka, is the polar opposite of my dad. At a whopping 5 feet tall, she knew exactly what she wanted to become at 9 years old-an adolescent lawyer, and got down to business right away. So while my dad was still figuring it out, she had the blueprints for her life done around 26 years ago. She is one year younger than my dad, and a perfectionist. She went to Harvard law school, and my Dad went to Stonybrook on a baseball scholarship, of course. I don't know how they even met, but sometimes they jokingly tell me they met at Joe's deli. I don't find it as funny as they do. Now, this is what you call a digression. Ironically, it was on Mr. Brennan's list for Most Helpful Words on the PSAT. It means a sidetrack from the main point. That was another digression. Back to the story.

So on this day, the day that would change my life, I sat down at the grimy stairwell to Joe's deli and unwrapped my uneaten grilled chicken sandwich that I hadn't touched at lunch. I usually spent my lunchtime idling in the school library or dozing in the auditorium. Lunchtime at Ruby Studebaker was too much for me to bear. Because I had no friends, lunchtime was humiliating and intimidating. Personally, I preferred to go hungry. The alley had an unpleasant, musty, damp, pungent smell, but anything was better than the cafeteria.

Ruby Studebaker High School was divided into two buildings. The building on Chester Avenue was where I went, for the sophomores and freshmen. The juniors and seniors went to school in the smaller building on Regis Street. Our school uniforms were what I like to call ridonkulous. We wore navy skirts or pants, and light blue polo shirts and v-necked gray sweaters with the RSBHS logo on them. Simply atrocious. Girls wore neckties and skirts. Some girls, to try to start a trend, wore their neckties very short and their skirts just as short. I wore my pants and a navy blue bowtie that I borrowed from my Dad everyday. Imagine, our school said they encouraged creativity among the students, and yet we had to wear what clothes they told us to. Classic. However, we were allowed to wear whichever shoes we liked, and I wore converses everyday.

I hated school. I hated the division between grades, and the division between types of people, especially at lunchtime. The jocks sat at one table, and if you weren't a jock you couldn't sit there. If you were an art major, you sat at that table over there in the left hand corner of the cafeteria everyday by the chess nuts, and if you weren't an art major, you couldn't sit there. It was the same with the math whizzes, and the skateboarders, and the cheerleaders, and all the other cliques. I currently didn't belong to any. Ruby Studebaker High School was a big school. It was the second biggest school in Cottondale, and founded by, here's a shock-a woman named Ruby Studebaker, who was born and raised in Cottondale all her life. It used to be just a school for women, who weren't considered smart enough to get an education, then. But after Ruby died, her son, Chance Studebaker, opened it up to guys as well. It had four floors, an art studio, an auditorium, a huge cafeteria, and a full basketball court-sized gymnasium. It had to be big, because it housed over 2,000 students, 95% of which I didn't even know. Not like anyone wanted to know me. The feeling was mutual, though. See, I was dyslexic. It was harder for me to read than anything in the whole universe. Words danced and mocked me when I tried to read them, and they switched some letters around to make me sound stupid all the time. My only strong subject was math, and let's just say in besides math, my grades were lacking. I wasn't failing, but I could have been doing better, especially in English. B-'s and C+'s were always in that slot for English, along with a tiny, sweet comment from the teacher, Mr. Brennan: Maybe Danyelle should consider taking a slower paced English class to suit her better. I was convinced he hated me. (That was another digression.)

I looked around the stairwell and sighed. Graffiti covered the walls, along with lots of hearts and initials inside. JA+AS, I read. Gum stuck on almost every square inch of the stairs, and bottles, glass and wrappers littered the entrance to the deli. Leaves stood in small heaps around the door. It was fall, and no one had even bothered to go down to the deli and at least brush the leaves away from the door, in sake of Old Joe. I couldn't find our rake.

I unwrapped my sandwich and sniffed it. It smelled delicious, and it was still a little warm. I was just about to take a huge bite of my sandwich when I sensed movement in the stairwell. At first, I thought it was a rat, so I continued until I saw something wave. I slowly set down my sandwich and got up from the box I was sitting down on. I peered down the stairs but couldn't make out what it was. So I tiptoed down the stairs and held my breath. Sticking out of the door from Joe's deli was a small brown hand.