Mother Talk II

“You are so right,” I say.  But I don’t know whether I am a disciple or not.  And I sit and watch Adrianna and the way she shifts in her seat and exposes more skin on one side of her chest, the lace edge of her bra peeking out, and I can almost feel the heat from the gazes of both boys and girls passing by with their lunch trays as they stare too.  She seems unaware, her slit eyes track Julio, and I marvel at how swift she can be after eating nothing, how she serves up more garbage about mothers while minding Julio and some girl in the lunch line that makes goo-goo eyes at him while everyone else follows the graceful friction of her front.

“Check out my shoes,” she says.

She wears fancy red leather sandals (not flip-flops, but something straight out of one of those upscale shoe boutiques).  Then Adrianna lifts her shoe high and shows the sole and the pebble sized hole near the big toe. 

“I don’t really notice the hole,” she says.

"They're pretty.  I see why you like them."

"They were Gitt's mom's shoes."

And then we both get quiet for a moment.  I glance down at my worn out triple markdowns, a pair I keep wearing even though they are tight.  She doesn’t say anything more about Gitt or about Gitt’s mom or the shoes.  And I don’t ask her what it was like.  (I’ve been given clothes and shoes by my aunts and friends of friends before - but there are rumors about Gitt’s mom.)

“Mine was crazy,” she says.  “And you don’t know if you even have one.  We’re all motherless, fatherless too.  Hadn’t you figured that out yet?”  But as I chew on Adrianna’s ideas.  I am not sure if they fill me up like the hamburgers and fries that I first thought.  I remember my dad and that we played basketball. He taught me to dribble and slam dunk.  And I am not sure if I can pretend that he didn’t matter.

And I’m clueless about how a conversation about fathers (and I think of my father) could ever begin with Adrianna, but I start to have it inside my head when Soccer Boy cruises past.