The Music of What Happens - Bill Konigsberg Page 0,3
everything up, and I don’t deserve you. I really, really don’t. What would I do without you?”
I blush for Jordan just as he says, “Mom!” and she launches into this kind of funny, mock-official voice: “Sorry. Sorry. Ignore, fine people of the Gilbert Farmers’ Market. Ignore. Nothing to see here.” Then she hugs Jordan and drops the voice. She says to him, “Oh God. Public meltdown. Sorry, sweetheart. I know this is not cute. The worst. Ugh.”
Things get quiet, and most of the dozen onlookers go on their ways. I should too. I know it. Mom is probably wondering where I wandered off to. But I stay, because, well, I feel for Jordan. Tough draw in the mom department.
He and his mom end their embrace, and she sees me standing there. “Sorry. No sample. I’m hopeless on the grill. Vinny used to —” She covers her face with her hands and I’m like, Please don’t. Please don’t pull me more into this. I’m just trying to be a good dude.
And I am a good dude. Obviously. Because I say, without thinking too much, “Can I help?”
She looks up from her tears. “Can you grill?”
I laugh. “Um. Yeah. I’m all right.”
She wipes her tears away. “Need a job? If you know anything about food, you’ve got it.”
I’m like, Um. I wish you hit me up an hour ago, because that’s when Mom gave me the news. The Summer of Max was over before it began, she explained. Full-time at State Farm until senior year starts up. Doing data entry. Which will kill my soul.
But then I think: Maybe Mom would let me go if I actually got another job? So I ask, “Are you serious?”
“Am I serious,” she deadpans. “Have you seen me in action? I’m a YouTube viral video waiting to happen. This is clearly not happening with me in charge.”
“What would I do?” I ask. I look to Jordan, and I can’t quite tell from his expression if this is good or not. And then I remember the homeless comment, so I figure it’s probably not a bad thing I’m doing from his way of thinking.
“I mean … run the truck. You and Jordan. Figure out how to make this thing work.”
Hearing it put like that is all I need. Because, hell yeah. I almost don’t care what they pay me. It’s like the perfect job. Take a food truck, make it work, save a family and their home. Failure not an option, which is when I’m at my best. I’d be like a superhero, really.
In a world where a family’s last hope is a food truck with a limited menu, Max Morrison isn’t just a Good Samaritan, he’s a Great one. He’ll save the day, as he always does.
And a superhero not working at State Farm, so. Yeah.
“I’m in,” I say, and Jordan doesn’t react, and his mom lets out a dramatic sigh.
“Thank God!” she says, and we make plans for me and Jordan to meet up the next day, as I have to get back to my mom and tell her the news.
“You’re my savior,” Lydia says, and I think, How hard can this be? To save a food truck?
When we get home Mom goes back out almost immediately, thank Goddess, and I head straight for my notebook.
I sit at my desk, push aside a lava lamp, and start writing whatever comes to me.
I shut my journal, amble over to my waterbed, flop down on my stomach, and as the waves undulate, I wonder what would happen if I stuffed my face into my pillow until I couldn’t breathe anymore. Would I stop myself?
That makes me roll my eyes.
I don’t want to die. I just. I don’t want it to be my responsibility, I guess, whether or not we’re going to be homeless.
In what world am I going to know enough about how to operate a grill to successfully run a food truck? In the summer, when it’s a hundred and ten out every day? I was already dreading that when Mom talked me into it, but now it’s totally on me and a virtual stranger my age? How’s that gonna work?
What’s a shelter like? Do we wind up in a shelter?
Should I learn to sell my body?
That one makes me laugh. Yeah, right. Like anyone’s buying this.
I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t do this.
I want my dad.
My dad. Yes. I really need to talk to him. Even if he can’t answer.