How to Party With an Infant by Kaui Hart Hemmings Page B

this where I go?” she asks, turning in to the narrow passage.
    “Yes, Mom. You look at the menu? Then order?”
    She used to go to drive-throughs all the time, but it seems so different now.
    “Just order me a cheeseburger, fries, and a shake,” he says.
    “Could I order a cheeseburger?” she says to the neon sign.
    “Not here!” he yells. “You need to pull up, God!”
    She pulls up toward the window.
    “Stop!” he yells.
    She slams on the brakes and sees a metal box. Someone says something out of the box.
    “Hello? Okay. Well, my son says he would like—”
    “Don’t introduce it,” Chris says. “Just say the order. Just say it!”
    “Oh, well. We would like a cheeseburger, fries, and a shake.”
    “What kind of shake?” the voice asks.
    “Whatever,” Chris says.
    Her face burns. “Well, I don’t know.”
    “Just pick one,” Chris says.
    “Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry,” the voice says.
    “Which one would you like?” she asks Chris.
    “It doesn’t matter! Just pick one!”
    “I suppose the chocolate then. Or could you do a Neapolitan?”
    “A what?” the voice says.
    “Nothing. Chocolate. Chocolate’s fine.” She glances around, feeling as though a lot of people are laughing at her or waiting for her to parallel-park.
    “Anything else?” the voice asks.
    “I don’t think—I suppose a Coke or something. Or maybe I’ll have a chocolate shake, too.”
    Silence.
    “You need to say ‘I’d like a chocolate shake,’ ” Chris says. “Not ‘maybe I’ll have one.’ She takes orders, not wonders.”
    “I’ll have a shake then,” she says. “Chocolate. Okay. That’s that.”
    “Anything to eat?”
    “Well, maybe—”
    “Just double the order!” Chris yells, leaning over her. “Two of everything!” He goes back to his side. “God!” he says. “Sometimes you can just, like, kill events. You make things so unnecessarily difficult.” He flicks his hand forward. “Pull up.”
    Georgia does as she’s told.
    *  *  *
    Driving on 280 she feels protected by the rolling hills and the silence of the cool night. With the light of the moon on the hills the ride feels almost romantic.
    “If you’re having any trouble you can tell me, you know.”
    “I’m not having any trouble,” Chris says.
    “But I just picked you up in jail.”
    “All I did was get a goddamn jacket, then I’m in some ghetto holding cell stripping in front of a guard who could have butt-raped me if he wanted to.”
    “I still think something is going on—”
    “I just explained!”
    “You’re not . . . you’re not in a gang or anything, are you? I’ve heard about these initiations—”
    “With the artichokes! Oh my God, that is so messed up. Where did they even come up with that?”
    “So you’re not—”
    “No, I’m not psychotic! That’s like Clockwork Orange shit. Scary.” He looks back at Zoë with what seems like concern.
    “Well,you do get detention a lot,” she continues. “That’s trouble.”
    “That’s nothing, too. Just a bunch of bullshit. I was in there last time for not running. Big deal.”
    “What do you mean?” she asks.
    He looks up at the ceiling. “In our timed mile I hid behind this blue mat. The mat people land on after they leap over a pole with a pole. What’s that called again?”
    “Pole vaulting,” she says, happy not only to know the answer but that her brain had transmitted this knowledge so quickly.
    “Why the cock do people do that?” Chris asks. “Who even came up with that? I mean, for reals. So I hid behind the pole-vaulting mat, then joined in on the last lap. Curt, a total vagina, ratted me out.”
    “Why didn’t you just run?”
    “Because it’s a ridiculous thing to do,” he says. “People need to compete all the time. Coach Ron is standing there with his clipboard. Coach Jon is recording our times. Why? What’s the point? People eat spiders and roll around in bat feces to win something. I’m not going to put on