That makes me think about the curse, which is something I really don’t want to think about right now. So I ask Paloma, “Is there a story behind your name?”
“Paloma means ‘dove’ in Spanish,” she says. “It’s what my abuelita Marisol always called me.”
“I didn’t know that,” Farrah says. “That’s sweet. I thought you named yourself after Paloma Picasso.”
“Who?” says Paloma.
Farrah lowers her eyelids. “Really? And you call yourself a fashion queen? Look it up.”
“Has anyone in your families ever seen you perform?” I ask them both, trying to head off another squabble.
Paloma shakes her head. “My brothers think I work a night shift washing dishes,” she says. “My parents are still in Mexico.”
“Mine know, but we don’t talk about it,” says Farrah. “As long as I show up to sing in the choir come Sunday, we don’t have a problem.”
I try to picture Hank, Starletta, and Clodine standing in front of the stage at the Shangri-La, watching me perform. Oddly enough, I don’t have any trouble imagining it. I think they’d actually probably enjoy themselves. But I’m not ready to tell them about this part of myself. Not yet.
I stick around while Paloma and Farrah finish getting ready. But I leave earlier than usual. I haven’t talked to Tom Swift since our tubing adventure, and I want to call him. It would be easier if he had a cell phone, but his parents took it away when they sent him here for the summer. He says it’s so his grandparents can monitor who he talks to.
When I get home, I talk to the Grands for a few minutes before heading up to my room. I dial Tom Swift’s number, but it just rings and rings, with no answer. It’s not that late, but I worry that maybe his grandparents go to bed early. I don’t want to wake them up and get him in trouble, so I decide to try him in the morning.
I lie there for a while, thinking about the stories I heard earlier at the Shangri-La. And I think about what Farrah said, about all of us having tragedy in our lives. My family certainly does. The Grands have all lost their husbands. My father has lost his wife. I’ve lost my mother.
Suddenly, I need to see my dad. I go downstairs and tell the Grands I’ll be back in a little while. Then I get in my truck and drive to the Eezy-Freezy. It’s really busy, and a bunch of people wave and talk to me. But I need to get inside. For some reason, I have this horrible feeling that when I open the door, my father won’t be there.
But he is. He’s standing in his usual spot by the stove. He’s got six burgers going at once. Sweat is running down his forehead, and his apron is covered in grease. He’s tapping the spatula against the grill, playing the drum part to Lita Ford’s “Kiss Me Deadly,” which blasts from the radio. He looks tired and totally happy.
“Hey,” he says when he sees me watching him. “What’s up? Everything okay at home?”
For a moment, I think I might start crying. I don’t even know why. “Yeah,” I say. “I just drove by and saw you were slammed, so I thought you and Becky might like some help.”
He smiles. “That would be great,” he says. “Want to work the window or help me put together burgers?”
I take an apron from the hook on the wall. “I think I’ll stay back here with you,” I tell him. “If that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay,” he says. He turns the radio up even louder. “You’re just in time. The guitar solo is coming up.”
Six
On Sunday, Tom Swift spends the night at my house.
I wasn’t planning on asking him to come over, but when I call him earlier in the day, he tells me that his grandparents have friends coming to visit. He’s not looking forward to it, so I suggest a sleepover. I think we’re both surprised when his grandparents say yes, but they agree to bring him to the Eezy-Freezy that evening so that he can ride home with me.
I don’t get to meet them. Tom is sitting at one of the picnic tables when I finish up and go outside. He has a backpack with him.
When we get to my house, I take a shower while Tom hangs out in my room. I put record number four on the stereo before I leave. It’s Dusty Springfield’s Dusty in Memphis, from 1969. The songs are short, and by the time I get back, side 1 is almost over.
“I’ve never heard anything like that,” Tom tells me. “Her voice is really . . . I don’t know how to describe it.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s something else, isn’t it?”
I haven’t told him yet about my mother, who said that Dusty Springfield’s voice sounds like what a heart feels like when it breaks. I take the note she left for me inside the album sleeve of Dusty in Memphis, but before I can start reading it, Tom says, “I’m going to the movie at the VFW with Anna-Lynn on Wednesday.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I went grocery shopping with my grandmother on Friday, and I ran into Anna-Lynn at the Bi-Rite. She works as a checker there.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t Lynn-Anna?” I joke.
“Pretty sure,” Tom replies. “I didn’t have a baseball, but I kind of let an apple roll toward her, and she picked it up with her left hand. Besides, she was wearing a name tag.”
We both laugh, but I have a question. “Did you ask her out in front of your grandmother?”
Tom snorts. “Are you nuts?” he says. “I pretended I’d forgotten to buy a pack of gum, and went back inside while she was getting in the car.”
I have another question, a bigger one, but I don’t know how to ask it, so I don’t. Instead I say, “Good for you.”
Tom shrugs. “I guess,” he says. “I’ve never asked a girl out before.”
“This is a big deal,” I tell him. “Your first date. We should celebrate. Let’s go get some Cokes.”
We go downstairs to the kitchen. I’m surprised that the Grands aren’t in there. Then I hear their voices coming from outside. I look out the screen door, and they’re wandering around in the yard with flashlights.
“How many do you have?” Starletta calls out.
“Three,” Hank answers.
“Six,” says Clodine. “I’m going inside.”
“Wait a minute,” Starletta says. “Let me see those.”
I see one of the flashlights cross the lawn. Then Starletta says, “Ma, that’s a tomato from the garden. And that’s a zucchini. Those aren’t flowers.”
“The fruit grows from the flower,” Clodine argues. “I say they count.”
“It won’t work unless they’re flowers,” says Starletta. “You know that.”
“What are they doing?” Tom asks me.
“I have no idea,” I tell him. “Let’s find out.”
We go outside. “What’s going on?”
Three flashlight beams blind me. I hold my hand up in front of my eyes, and the Grands lower their lights.
“Just a little midsummer magic,” Hank tells me. “You gather six different kinds of flowers and put them under your pillow. Whatever you dream about comes true.”