Bright One

“My sister has one of those.” The waitress with burnt yellow hair and veiny arms maneuvers a steaming plate between two heads and lands it in front of the father. She pulls crayons out of her apron and rolls them in front of the teenager with the skinny blue braid tucked behind her ear who is scratching zigzags into her place mat. The waitress shimmies a steaming plate past the face of a young boy sitting at the head of the table. The mother snatches half of the plate with both hands to guide it down.

“I’m sorry. One of what,” the father asks with a curious smile.

“Oh, uh, a kid like yours. I mean, I get how hard that must be for you guys. Trust me. My sister’s always complainin’ about how much time it takes up.”

The mother and father, paralyzed, stare at her as they replay the words in their minds, convincing themselves that they did not mis-hear.

“Anyway, he’s a charmer, ain’t ya sweetheart?” She caresses the son’s cheek then whisks off to the kitchen.

Eveline scoffs and shakes her head. Bill rubs her knee and whispers, “It’s alright. What does she know?” He kisses her temple, and Eveline looks up at her son. Andrew smiles and reaches for her hair.

“Ma-- I put cake-- in your hair.” Andrew snickers then planks in his wheelchair, eyes wide in anticipation.

“I know, buddy. Bill, look at all this frosting in my hair. What a mess!” Eveline tugs invisible frosting through strands of her hair then throws up her hands in defeat. Andrew laughs harder at learning the damage. He laughs until he snorts then laughs so hard the only sound is huffing.

“Are you kidding me? You’re just going to let her say that?” The teenager, Madelaine, rolls her eyes without looking up from her artwork.

“Let it go, Maddie. Don’t upset your brother,” Bill says in a low, stern tone.

“You’re so--”

“I wouldn’t.” He pauses to let her know he means it. “Answer your mother’s question.”

“I already told you.” She glances at Andrew then shifts her eyes back to the place mat.

“Maddie, it just doesn’t make sense. You’re smarter than that.” Eveline takes up Maddie’s hand that is tracing the scored zigzags with a black crayon. “I’m just saying, maybe you bit off more than you can chew this year. Piano. Track. Now, tennis--”

Maddie pulls her hand away and tucks both hands under her legs.

“Kiddo, you’re making this hard for your mother and me. It doesn’t add up. Emma and Olivia are Honor Roll kids. You had their papers--”

“I already told you. They copied me. I was helping them by proofreading their essays. I gave them my essay too, so they could see what I was talking about.”

“You know, I’ve had it. You need to cut back. That’s all. You just started tennis anyway--”

“Alright, Ev.” Bill puts his hand up to halt Eveline from continuing. “Why would they do that, Maddie? Mrs. Jarvis said--”

“Mrs. Jarvis is an ass--”

“Hey--” Eveline cuts in. Andrew giggles.

“I’m serious, though! Just because they get As and kiss her ass, and I get Bs and Cs and won’t help her pass stuff out, she believes them and won’t even listen to me.”

“Kiss--” Andrew is huffing already and straightening up in his chair. “Kiss her-- ass.”

“Alright, Andrew. Sit down. C’mon, buddy. Finish your pasta.” Eveline lifts another spoonful to his mouth.

“Ma-- I got-- pasta--” Andrew is nearly standing in his chair.

“I know, buddy.” Eveline intercepts his hand before he grabs hold of her hair. He is still grinning about his last statement. “C’mon. Fold your hands nice. Here you go.” She feeds him a large spoonful of ziti.

“Madelaine, your mother’s right. I want you to tell the tennis coach tomorrow. You need to get your act together. You’re a sophomore and haven’t even started looking at colleges.”

“Do you really think you’re getting into any good schools, at this point, with your grades-- or that any teacher will give you a recommendation if you keep acting like this?”

“Mom, it’s fine. I’ll go to a State school. I don’t even know what I want to major in.”

“What, you don’t want to do Early Childhood Development now?” Eveline stares at Maddie and doesn’t notice the glob of ziti that Andrew pushes out of his mouth onto the floor.

Andrew snickers and whispers, “I dropped it.” Maddie sighs and mops the splattered pasta up with her napkin. She sits up, places a new napkin under Andrews chin, and lifts a plastic cup of iced tea to his mouth.

“I don’t know. Maybe? I still want to think about my music. Did you know what you wanted to be when you were fifteen? Just because you like that field--”

“Oh, get serious, Madelaine. Music’s not going to get you any--”

“Sorry for the delay, sweetheart,” the waitress cuts across the table past Andrew’s face and arabesques the plate down in front of Maddie. “The chef got the order all wrong. We’re all runnin’ around with our heads cut off back there, tryin’ to get back to normal.”

“I ordered the patty melt. This is a pastrami--”

“Britt-un?” Bill squints at the name tag. He puts his hand on Briton’s wrist before she can pull it away from Maddie’s plate.

“Oh, my name is Bright-uhn, sweetie” the waitress manages through a nervous laugh and pulls her hand into her pocket. “You know, like bright one?” She looks around the table. Eveline is digging for something deep in her over-sized tote, Maddie is shading the rest of the place mat black, Andrew is wide-eyed, serious, and Bill-- Bill is not smiling. “You know, like bright one?”

“I don’t give a damn what your name is, sweetie. Go get your manager, so I can tell him what a terrible waitress he has working for him.”

“What? I don’t understand. Did you not like the food?”

“Oh, it’s not the food. You nearly gave my wife, son, and daughter second-degree burns. We didn’t get what we ordered. You have no God-damned respect for children with special--”

“Okay, Bill,” Eveline mumbles while nudging him with one hand and rubbing Andrew’s arm with the other.

“You know what? Fine. Forget it. Just bring the check. We’re done here.” Bill edges to get out of the booth forcing Eveline to stand up. He throws cash onto the table and eyes Briton a few inches from her face as he slides past.

“Ma--” Andrew is upright in his chair. “Bright-- un--” He whoops, and he waves his arms up and down as if preparing for take-off. Andrew is hyperventilating now. Tears stripe his cheeks. “Ma-- bright-un’s a-- ass.”

Copyright (c) 2011, 2013, 2015, 2020 by Lindsey Vernon

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