I'm eight-years-old, kneeling on the back seat of Jimmy’s car looking out the window. Don't know why I'm praying, but I am.
Jimmy is my mother’s boyfriend. He’s driving me and her through urban neighborhoods looking at houses.
Boys and girls are playing ball in the middle of the street. They move to the side when we pass. I wave and slide down in my seat.
With my hands folded in my lap, I stare at the back of Jimmy's head. I don't like grey hair.
Jimmy glances in the rearview mirror. "Hey, Sweet Pea, how'd you like to live here?"
I hate it when he calls me Sweet Pea. "No," I say, tired of looking at white picket fences. “I want to go home.”
My mother reaches over and touches Jimmy’s arm. She's smiling at him. That makes me mad! She never smiled like that at my father. Well, maybe once, when he gave her a blue rhinestone necklace after they had a big fight.
It scared me when they argued. I'd cover my ears with my hands. Sometimes I’d hide.
Again, Jimmy is looking in the rearview mirror. "Sweet Pea, do you think we've looked at enough houses?"
"Yes." I keep staring at his head. Maybe 'cos it's sooooo big.
"How would you like to go out to dinner?"
"I guess so." I shrug and gaze out the side window.
Jimmy parks at the curb in front of a restaurant called Mike's Place.
He runs around the front of the car and opens my door. I step onto the sidewalk. He takes my hand and escorts me inside. My mother follows.
I get to order anything I want. I look at the menu, don't understand it, never read one like this before.
After a few minutes, Jimmy says, "Sweet Pea, would you like me to order for you?"
“Yes," I say.
He calls over a waitress. "Bring the young lady a dinner salad, shrimp, and fries."
I frown at the mention of salad. Jimmy pretends not to notice, though I see him smile.
A few minutes later the woman brings a salad. She puts it in front of me: Cut-up lettuce with a slice of beet, thousand island dressing, and tiny pieces of toast. I pick up a napkin and stuff it into the neck of my dress.
I taste it. It's better than nice, I love this. Especially the stuff on the top. I think they're called croutons.
Maybe, like the salad, if I give Jimmy a chance, I'll love him, too.
That would make my mother happy.
I still wish he’d stop calling me ‘Sweet Pea.’ Hmmm... I'll call him 'Shrimpy.'
