“What’s in your hand?” Mom asks from the driver’s seat when I settle myself into the backseat and toss my backpack beside me.
“A gold coin I won from Scott.” I open my fisted left hand, revealing a glinting yellow coin. “We bet about whether Ms. Callum would give us a spelling quiz and I bet yes. I was right.”
“Not good to bet. You should give it back,” Mom mutters absent-mindedly as she checks the rear-view mirror and pulls our car out of the long student pick-up line and onto the road. “Good thing you came out early, so I don’t have to wait too long. We’re going to stop by Greg's Groceries first.”
Oh, right, today is Thursday, our grocery shopping day. Each Thursday, Greg’s Groceries start their new weekly deals. The key to securing the best deals is to get to the store as early as possible. Although the sale is supposed to last for the whole week, some goods on sale are gone on the first day. Last year, Mom missed a buy-one-get-one-free deal for baby back ribs when she shopped on Friday instead of Thursday. I still remember the frustrated expression she wore that entire night. Since then, we have always shopped on Thursday, the first thing after school.
I have never enjoyed grocery shopping, but today I feel a tiny rush of excitement in the car. Not from the expectation of shopping, but from the coin that glimmers and weighs in my palm. Scott is from a rich family and often shows off his gold coins that bling and clink. Now, one of those coins belongs to me.
Should I sell this coin on eBay or somewhere else online? I stare at the coin and slide it into my sweatshirt pocket, thumbing its smooth surface.
Our blue sedan cruises into Crescent Plaza, which boasts Greg’s Groceries and several small restaurants. The parking lot is almost full, mostly occupied by grocery shoppers.
When we step out of the car, Mom fetches out a couple of crumpled canvas bags from the trunk and digs out a folded weekly ad flyer from a bag. Without wasting another minute, we stride toward the auto sliding doors of Greg’s Groceries.
“Go get a cart.” Mom gestures toward the stack of shopping carts at the entrance. She spreads out the flyer, on which she has already circled a bunch of items with a thick black marker. Now we just need to sail between aisles to hunt for those items.
We first stop at the long rows of fruits and vegetables shining with bright colors under the ceiling lights. Mom sets two bundles of asparagus and a sack of tangerines in the cart, and then hastens to the rack of berries.
“Sam, follow me closely!” She raises her voice as I shuffle behind her with arms resting lazily on the cart handle.
“Look at that. The strawberries are two dollars off. What a deal!” She beams and clutches two plastic boxes of strawberries. “These are organic strawberries,” she adds, placing an extra emphasis on “organic.”
Like a proficient scout, Mom deftly locates all the items marked on the flyer. The cart is filling up—five cans of baked beans she saved a dollar on with a coupon, a bag of russet potatoes labeled “Weekly Special,” a value pack of ground beef, and other goods all deemed cheaper than usual.
Our grocery shopping is quick and efficient. Heading toward our car, Mom studies her receipt, which is as long as a gift wrap ribbon. “Do you know how much we saved? Thirty-eight dollars!” Her voice is so loud and proud that an old couple strolling by shoot us an amused look.
On our way home, Mom taps her fingers on the steering wheel and hums a jaunty tune as if she has just won a lottery.
I suddenly remember something. “Oh, Mom?” “Hm… yes?”
“My class is holding a fundraising dinner tonight at Serrano Grill. For new school computers or something.” After making sure Mom’s listening, I continue. “Scott told me his mom said we should come tonight. We’re one of the only people in the class who haven’t been to a fundraising dinner yet, apparently.”
This catches Mom’s attention. She stops her humming and finger-tapping. “Really?
Scott’s mom said that?”
Scott’s mom, Mrs. Benson, is the president of the school PTA. Her influence goes far beyond our school.
“What’s the restaurant again?”
I repeat its name, realizing Mom has never heard of it before.
“Maybe we should go this time,” says Mom. “Let’s put down the groceries at home first.
I need to get the meat into the fridge.”
Mom asks me to place all the groceries in the pantry and fridge while she goes upstairs to change.
As I putter around the kitchen and stow groceries, I try to recall the last time we went to a decent restaurant, which must have been quite long ago, before my parents’ divorce. Ever since they separated, Mom and I have been living on her salary as a receptionist of a physical therapy clinic, and we rarely eat out.
Mom reappears in a burgundy polka-dot dress, her hair tied up with a French barrette, a handbag with Louis Vuitton logos dangling on her exposed right shoulder. I recognize that bag. It is a fake one that costs only one-fifth the price of a real one. Mom bought it through a friend who told her the handbag appears and smells exactly like the real one. But I can see the uneven stitching on the edge and a thin fray on the corner.
We are sitting in buttery soft leather chairs around a clothed table where sparkling utensils and wine glasses settle. Brass chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling cast a soft, merry glow over Serrano Grill’s huge dining hall. The air is spiced with the smell of savory food, making my mouth water. I glance around and see some classmates and their families eating, drinking, and mingling.
A server donning an elegant black and white uniform stops at our table and offers two hardcover menus.
“Would you like anything to drink?”
“Water, please.” Mom gives a polite smile.
The server bows and leaves. Mom opens the menu to the first page, and her eyes nearly bulge out. “These prices are ridiculous,” she mutters. “Thirty-eight dollars for a burger?”
As she flips to the next page, she is even more startled. “Fifty dollars for a piece of steak?
What is this? A New York Strip…”
She skips the pages of seafood and chef recommendations and stops at the salads page. “Here, Sam, choose one of these salads. They’re still awfully overpriced, but they’re the cheapest on the menu,” she whispers to me, her uneven breath tingling my cheek.
Her index finger roves the glossy page with the salad pictures and clicks on the chicken garden salad when a high-pitched voice comes from behind. “Oh my, is that you, Sharon?” Mrs. Benson is pacing toward us, carrying the sting of strong perfume, her sky-blue midi dress swishing with each step she takes. Scott follows her, winking at me with a sly grin.
“My, my, it is so good to see you! It’s been such a long time.” Mrs. Benson leans over and gives Mom a hug with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You’ve missed several fund-raising dinners. But I’m glad you could come today. Serrano’s is one of my favorites. Their steaks and seafood are absolutely exquisite.” Mrs. Benson glances down at the menu that Mom is holding, which is open to the salads page. “Don’t tell me—you’re only going to order a salad?” An incredulous note creeps into her voice.
Mom closes the menu with a nervous laugh. “Of course not! Why would we come here just to eat a salad?” Another nervous laugh.
“Wonderful.” Mrs. Benson beams. “A couple pieces of lettuce aren’t good enough for you and a growing boy like Sam. Trust me, order the steak in Oscar style. No regrets. Also— their seared scallop is a must-try!”
A waiter approaches Mrs. Benson and tells her that her table is ready. Mrs. Benson pats Mom’s shoulder lightly with her pink-nailed fingers and says, “I will come and check on you
later.”
Before she leaves, her eyes are caught by Mom’s handbag on a vacant chair. “Gorgeous purse, by the way. I have two like that!”
“Ah, yes. A nice bag.” Mom runs her fingers across its leather surface and straightens her
back.
Mrs. Benson leaves our table with a finger wave, her blonde curled hair bouncing behind
her. Scott follows her like a tail, quietly. I’m glad he didn’t mention the gold coin in front of his mom. I wonder what would happen if his mom found out.
Mom turns to the steak page, then the seafood page. “Sam, an eight-ounce New York Strip for you. I’ll have the scallops. How’s that?”
“But Mom, look at the prices!” I almost scream the words out.
“It’s fine. Mrs. Benson recommended those.” Mom takes a sip of ice water. She motions for the server to come and orders the two entrées.
“Excellent choices,” remarks the server, gathering the menus.
The dishes come in dainty white oval plates with the restaurant name carved in gold lettering on the rim. The air becomes thick with the smoky scent of a sizzling steak and the briny aroma of scallops dressed in lemon caper sauce and butter.
With the presence of food, I feel the intense rumbling from my stomach. I’m really hungry now. I slice a big chunk of steak and stuff it in my mouth, chewing eagerly. The juicy meat brings me a joyful warmth.
From the corner of my eyes, I notice Mom using a fork to stir around the creamy sauce surrounding a crown of scallops.
“This is quite a small size,” she murmurs under her breath. When Mom sees me glancing at her, she presses a smile on her lips. “Enjoy your food, Sam. The steak looks…nice.”
She turns around and peers over her shoulder. Following her eyes, I see Mrs. Benson holding a wine glass, strolling and chatting around her nearby tables with occasional ripples of laughter.
Mom and I spend the rest of the dinner time by ourselves in silence. The aromatic air feels stifling. The steak is delicious, but each swallow feels heavier than the last.
When we get out of the restaurant, the sky is already dark with a faint, moaning wind rustling the trees along the sidewalk.
Our car drones down the street lined with sporadic lighting.
“What a night,” Mom breaks the silence in a light tone that sounds unnatural. “How many more fundraising dinners does your school have?”
“Uh... two or three, I guess.” I want to tell Mom that we don’t need to go to those dinners, but my throat is too tight for more words.
Mom doesn’t say anything else, her eyes locked on the dim-lit street ahead of us.
A sense of unease settles in me. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt. A round flat metal meets my fingers. The gold coin, the one I won from Scott. For some reason, it reminds me of Mrs. Benson’s pungent perfume, her simpering smiles, the glamorous dishes, and the heavy check holder. I hold the coin tightly in my hand, my thumbnail anxiously grazing and scratching its surface, as if that can help me escape from the discomforting thoughts swarming my mind.
The car glides to a stop at a red light. I take out the coin and set it in the center of my sweaty palm. Under the glaring red traffic light, I see the golden coating of the coin peeling up from where I scratched, revealing the gray plastic underneath.
