Free Stuck in the 70's by Debra Garfinkle Page B

voice.
    “Good!” Shay exclaims.
    Across the table, Evie shakes her head. “You hated shop class. You said those two enormous wrestlers kept threatening to stuff you in a wood chipper.”
    Shay pours out a handful of M&Ms. “I loved shop class.”
    “A girl taking shop class? What school let you do that?” Evie asks. “You mean you worked with saws and welding equipment and such?”
    “Don’t say and such . Dweeb City,” Shay tells her.
    “Hey, foxy lady.”
    Ugh. The Dick has arrived. I can’t help stretching my neck up and around so I can glare at him. He’s snuck up behind us, mashing himself against Shay’s back like a sex-crazed dog while his arms dangle near her breasts.
    Instead of taking mace out of her purse and dousing him with it, like any sane, self-respecting girl would do, she turns her head and grins. “Hi, handsome.”
    “What are you doing at the dork table?”
    “Don’t say that,” Shay says weakly before putting more of my M&Ms in her mouth.
    Sensible person that I am, who knows the minuscule odds of winning a fight against someone (1) taller, (2) heavier, and (3) meaner than me, I look the other way.
    “Let’s blow this Popsicle joint,” The Dick says.
    “What?” Shay asks.
    “Come with me.”
    I assume he’s asking Shay, not me or Evie. Behind me, he’s making some kind of kissing or sucking noise. He must be doing something to Shay’s neck.
    What is he doing exactly? Slurping it? I mime sticking a finger down my throat.
    Evie mumbles, “Dickhead.”
    “Say what?” The Dick stops the vacuum action long enough to ask.
    I clear my throat. “Shay is my friend. Treat her with respect.”
    The Dick claps his huge hand on my shoulder, like a jungle cat swatting a paw at its prey. I hope that after I’m gone, Shay will appreciate me sacrificing my life for her honor.
    He takes his hand off my shoulder and into my bag of M&Ms. “Of course I respect your friend, man.”
    “Rick, let’s take that walk.” Shay fishes out another handful of candy.
    After they leave, with The Dick’s massive arm around Shay’s thin shoulders, I can’t finish my lunch. Not even my one remaining M&M.
     
     
     
    Rick steers me toward the popular table and introduces me around. There’s Laura, Lori, Lisa, Debby with a y, Debbie P., and Debbie M., along with John, Jeff, Jack, and Mike.
    Despite their feathered hair, supersized collars, and love affair with the word “bitchin’,” the girls are a lot like my 2006 friends. They giggle, flip their hair, and suck in their stomachs. The boys have girly, b low-d ried locks and big combs which jut out of their back pockets like penis symbols. But they seem familiar too. They still stare at the girls’ chests and talk about football and parties. No one’s defending their parents’ crappy marriage, or asking me to study physics, or giving me books to read.
    I play with Rick’s chest hairs. “Thanks for letting me meet your friends.”
    “Thanks for sitting with me.” He puts his big hand on my knee. “John’s having a bitchin’ party Saturday night. Everyone’s going. You want to come?”
    “Yes,” I tell him. “Yes, I totally want to come.”

    After lunch I have over two hours to kill. I grab the best book I have, The Great Gatsby, and walk to the diner I saw out the school bus window. It’s a few blocks away and it looks like a dive, but I’m dying for coffee.
    Krasno’s Diner is just as dirty on the inside as on the outside, and that’s saying a lot. The cheap paintings on the walls need dusting, the floors need washing, the fake plants need a trip to the Dumpster, half the booths need bussing, and the counter needs wiping down.
    I walk to the back of the diner and sit on faded, cracked vinyl in a booth that smells like mildew. I wait a long time until a fat guy waddles in from the kitchen.
    “Do you serve lattes here, by any chance?”
    He scowls. “What? We serve anyone with a shirt, shoes, and cash.”
    “Never mind. A cup of