He’s not my father, Miri thought. He doesn’t even know me.
Her body was telling her to flee. “Excuse me,” she said, pushing back her chair and running, coming this close to colliding with a waitress delivering ice cream sundaes to some happy family. Another waitress pointed her in the direction of the ladies’ room. Inside were little girls, teenage girls, their mothers, their grandmothers. She splashed her face with water at the sink. Someone asked, “Are you all right, dear? Do you need help?”
She waved her away. No, she didn’t need help. And no, she wasn’t all right. But she was going to pretend she was. She was not going to throw up in a stall in the ladies’ room of Gruning’s on the Hill, with all these fancy mothers and daughters watching and listening. She breathed through her nose the way Natalie did when she felt nauseous, which was often. That was better. She applied Pixie Pink lipstick. She patted down her hair, then fluffed it back up. She hated her new haircut. She’d already decided to grow it out and Mason hadn’t even seen it.
The door to the ladies’ room opened. “Hi,” Frekki said to her. “Everything okay?”
“You planned this,” Miri said. “You tricked me.”
Two women blotting their lipstick glanced over at them.
Frekki gave them a weak smile. Miri knew she could make a big scene and embarrass Frekki. Maybe she would.
“I planned the meeting here, yes.”
Miri raised her voice. “The whole day was a lie!” What did she care? There was nobody here who knew her or her family but there might be somebody who knew the great Frekki Strasser or her doctor husband.
Frekki shepherded her away from the sinks. “I wish you wouldn’t look at it that way.”
“How should I look at it?”
“As an opportunity. I thought you should meet your father and that he should meet you.”
That stopped Miri for a moment. Then she turned and marched out of the ladies’ room, shoulders back, head high, as if she were the Queen of Posture, and back to the table. Back to Mike Monsky. Her so-called father.
She took her seat at the table. The waitress asked what she’d like. “A dish of plain vanilla, please. One scoop.”
“Hot fudge, nuts, whipped cream, Maraschino cherry?” The waitress held her pencil at the ready.
“Plain, please.”
“Okay, just a single scoop of vanilla in a dish.”
Isn’t that what I said the first time you asked? Miri thought. But instead of screaming, throwing a temper tantrum, yelling at the waitress, who wore red-framed cat’s-eye glasses turned up at the tops with tiny rhinestones in the corners, Miri said, “Yes, thank you.” Saying it like that, with such authority, made her feel calm, in charge of her feelings.
Mike Monsky said, “This is awkward for both of us.”
She knew he was looking at her but she refused to meet his gaze. “Maybe for you,” she said. “But it’s not awkward for me. I couldn’t care less.”
By the time Frekki came back to the table their ice cream had been served. “Are you two getting to know each other?”
Mike Monsky smiled a small, wry smile. “You might say that.” Then he turned to Miri. “How’s your ice cream?”
She hadn’t tasted it yet. She lifted her spoon, dipped her tongue into it and said, “It’s fine.”
“How’s Rusty?” he asked.
“She’s fine.” She was wondering if he was going to go through the whole family.
“I’m glad to hear that.” He swirled his ice cream around, blending the scoop of chocolate with the scoop of vanilla like a little kid with a Dixie Cup at a birthday party. “So, you’re fifteen now?”
“Why, did you forget when you shtupped my mother?”
Frekki sucked in her breath.
Shtupped, a word she’d never said aloud until then. A vulgar word, Irene would say.
“What’d you do for your birthday?” he asked, ignoring her question.
“Had a pizza party with my girlfriends. My grandmother baked the birthday cake.”
“Aah, Irene,” he said. “She was a great baker.”
So, he knew Irene well enough to have tasted her cakes?
“My mother gave me this.” She held up her wrist to show off her birthstone bracelet.
“Very nice,” he said.
“Uncle Henry picked up the pizza at Spirito’s. He’s a famous reporter now.”
“So I’ve heard.”
He better not ask if she had a boyfriend. She’d throw her ice cream at him if he did. Because she had the power, she realized. She could do whatever she damn well pleased. And if he thought she couldn’t because he was her father—ha!