2. “American Pie”
Chapter 2
“American Pie”
Taz - Age 5, 1975
T he dinner table is quiet, except for my dad’s deep voice breaking through the stillness. He asks, “Aren’t you hungry?”
I look at my cheeseburger and shrug my shoulders, not wanting to admit I’m tired of McDonald’s almost every night. The smell of greasy fast food makes my stomach feel sick. I want something homemade, like Gram’s famous meatloaf and mashed potatoes, but she hasn’t been here for the past few days.
Dad’s not a good cook. He sticks to the basics—spaghetti, hot dogs, and macaroni and cheese. Sometimes, he tries to experiment. One night, it was tuna helper with crushed Cheez-It crackers on top. I should be happy tonight’s meal is not one of those experiments.
I miss Gram.
Her house is in a small town an hour away. She lives with us sometimes and at her house sometimes, depending on what she needs to do. This afternoon, she had to return home for appointments and check on her golden retriever, Farrah Pawcett.
Sometimes, when she stays with us longer, she brings Farrah, which makes me so happy. Farrah always gives me wet kisses that make me giggle, and at night, she curls up next to me—her soft, golden fur helping me fall asleep.
When Gram is here, everything feels different. She brings happiness and love with her, like sunshine on a rainy day. I wish she could live with us all the time. Even though she’s not my mom, she takes care of me like I am her own. She always makes me lunch for school and picks me up. She never forgets. I know that if I ever need her, Gram will always be there for me.
My mom isn’t here anymore. I keep hoping she will come home one day, but Brian says she won’t. He says she was unhappy with my dad, so she left to go on tour with a band.
I think about her a lot, but my memories of her are starting to fade. I do remember she smelled like roses and had a beautiful voice. She used to sing us lullabies, but that was a long time ago.
My dad doesn’t talk much about her, but I know he’s sad. He stays out late with friends and drinks too many adult drinks—at least, that’s what Gram says.He tries, but I think he’s lonely. It’s hard for him to take care of my brother and me, and most times, we are the ones who take care of him.
He doesn’t go to work every day like some parents. He sleeps a lot, and when he’s awake, he never feels good until he smokes some cigarettes and drinks a bunch of coffee.
I look around our small family table and sigh. It’s quiet; no one is trying to talk to each other. As I bite my cheeseburger, something catches my eye—my Happy Meal toy. It’s a yo-yo, just like the one I got yesterday, but it’s purple instead of the bright pink from before. I can’t wait to show Sascha; she’ll love it. Purple and blue are her favorite colors. We can have a yo-yo battle.
I quickly snatch it up and scurry over to my backpack, carefully placing it inside for safekeeping until tomorrow. The bag is bursting with all my other treasured possessions, like figurines and Army men, but I manage to cram it in amongst the jumbled mess.
After dinner, Dad excuses himself to go outside, leaving my older brother Brian and me to clean up. But instead of helping, Brian turns to me with a grin and says, “You heard him, Buttmunch. Clean this up.” Then he heads to his room, slamming the door behind him as a loud rock song starts blasting from behind the door.
With another heavy sigh, I grab all the greasy food wrappers and throw them in the trash. After finishing the clean-up, I grab my paper from my backpack, ready to tackle the challenge of learning how to write my letters. We’re working on capital letters right now.Tracing the curves and loops of the letters, I work especially hard on B, F, J, M, N, and S—all of which are difficult for me. Some are in my name, so I need to get them right.
If Gram comes this weekend, she can help me. Thoughts of Gram teaching me how to write my letters while Farrah lays at my feet make me smile, but that smile doesn’t last long when the music coming from Brian’s room gets even louder.
He hardly ever talks to me anymore. He’s busy with his new football friends, and he’s been a jerk lately, even more than usual. He spends most of his time in his room blasting Led Zeppelin from his record player. He’s in fifth grade and likes to tell me he knows more than me since he’s eleven, and I’m only six. I’m not trying to get punched, so I don’t argue.
The following day, we arrive at the bus stop on time even though my Dad is still asleep. I’m tired and grumpy. After coloring last night, I tried to go to sleep, but between Brian and my dad, it was loud in the house. I could hear some of Dad’s friends in the living room for most of the night.
One of them was still here this morning, asleep on the couch. Brian scoffed and went about his business. At least before we left for school, he took a moment to help me pack a small lunch—which is not what he usually does.
Grams had done some grocery shopping before she left, so Brian made us peanut butter, banana, and marshmallow fluff sandwiches. That’s always been one of my favorites. I wonder if Sascha will like it .
As I bounce in my seat on the big, yellow bus, I gaze out the window and take in the familiar surroundings of our neighborhood. I think about how much I like going to school and look forward to it every day. I like my teacher and the fun things we do in class. But most of all, I like Sascha.
“What is that?” she asks, sitting across from me at the lunch table.
“It’s delicious,” I say. “You have to try it.”
Her face is untrusting as she questions, “What is the white stuff?”
“It’s marshmallow fluff,” I reply.
She bursts into laughter. “Marshmallow fluff? What even is that?”
I shrug. “Just a bunch of mashed-up marshmallows.”
“Hhm,” she says, still unconvinced.
“Are you too scared to try it?” I tease, knowing this will get a rise out of her. “Sounds like you’re chicken.”
“I am not! Give me that silly sandwich.” She picks it up and inspects it before taking a sniff. Her curiosity gets the best of her, and she takes a big bite. After a moment, her eyes light up with delight. “This is fantastic!” she gushes.
“I told you so!” I laugh knowingly. “Now give it back.”
Sascha grins mischievously and declares, “I think I’ll keep this for myself.”
“Sascha!” I yelp, but it’s already too late.
She takes off in a run across the playground, sandwich in hand, while I chase her. Despite my best efforts, Sascha’s longer legs make her faster, and soon, she’s out of my reach.
Eventually, I’m able to trap her over by the swings. She looks at me, smiles, and takes another bite of the sandwich as I dive toward her. We tumble into the sandbox, her holding her arm in the air to keep sand from ruining her new favorite food.
We’re still giggling as we sit up, and she hands me my sandwich. “We can share,” I offer.
“Okay,” she replies with a smile. “Will you push me on the swing?”
“Sure.” And I push Sascha on the swing while we sing and share my sandwich.
After lunch, we have some arts and crafts before reading and math. The classroom is filled with colorful paints, glitter, and construction paper. Today, Mrs. Jones tells us to make something important to us.
Sascha lowers her head, her pencil moving confidently across the paper. She outlines a figure of a person, and I’m amazed at how good it looks. I can tell that it’s her mother, and she draws herself standing next to the woman, holding her hand. As Sascha continues to work, I sit silently, unsure what to do, until she looks up at me with curious eyes.
“Why aren’t you drawing?” she asks.
“I don’t know what to draw,” I confess.
“What’s important to you?”
I shrug my shoulders, stumped by her question. It’s not like I can draw my mom like most kids. How do I put something so personal into a drawing? But then she suggests something unexpected.
“What about your favorite sport?” she asks.
A smile lights up my face as I think of playing hockey.“I love hockey,” I tell her excitedly. “I’m hoping to sign up to play this year.”
“We can draw that,” Sascha says with a grin. “I’ll help you. Just add some gray streaks to my mom’s hair first.” We both burst into laughter at her playful comment.
We work on our drawings together, and Sascha helps me. By the end, I have a cool drawing of me playing hockey. I bet Gram will love it. Maybe she will put it on her refrigerator.
Afterwards, it’s nap time. I always place my mat next to Sascha’s to talk and be silly. But today, our game of keep away at lunch must have caught up to her as she quickly dozes off, her head resting gently on her folded hands.
It’s strange to watch my best friend sleep, but it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, like when you come in from the snow and drink hot chocolate. Sascha is so fun to be around. She’s smarter than me, better at art, reading, and almost everything else. But she’s so nice and kind as well. Unless she sees someone being mistreated, then she’s very protective. There are so many things I admire about her.
My eyes get heavy as I take in her face and the slow rhythm of her breathing. The last thing I remember thinking before I fall asleep is that I’m so lucky to have a best friend like Sascha.