A Place at the Table by Susan Rebecca White Page B

until the other woman was driven out and away forever.
    I wonder why Pete and his mom don’t have any money. It seems like his mother should get a lot if his dad is rich enough to keep his mistress in a hotel suite for five years. I wonder what it would feel like to live in a cheap duplex with just your mom, your dad so far away and never coming to visit. I suddenly feel so sad for Pete that without thinking I reach out, put my hand on his forearm.
    “That really sucks,” I say.
    “Oh, don’t feel sorry for me,” says Pete, all breezy and nonchalant. “Were I still in Massachusetts I wouldn’t be enjoying this delightful little ditty.”
    I hadn’t even noticed, but the song has switched again, and now“Sweet Home Alabama” is playing at full force, the lasers creating the shape of a billowing Confederate flag. I settle on my back again. It seems the serious talk is over.
    “You’re aware they’re referring to George Wallace, right?” asks Pete.
    “Huh?”
    “In the song. That bit about how much they love the governor in Birmingham.’ ”
    “Who’s George Wallace?” I ask.
    “You’re kidding, right?”
    “Where the heck is Shawna?” I ask, trying to change the subject. Sometimes I get tired of talking with Pete about how backward the South is.
    “I keep telling her she should go see a doctor about how long it takes her.”
    “I think she dawdles just to annoy you.”
    “What kind of a word is ‘dawdles’?”
    I shrug. It’s a word my mom uses every Sunday. We have got to get to church on time, so don’t you boys dawdle over breakfast. You hear?
    “You know what we were talking about earlier?” Pete asks.
    “About your dad?”
    “No. Unexpected pop-ups.”
    I don’t say a word. I can’t.
    “I’ve got one. I just can’t help myself. I get all fired up thinking about Dixie.”
    As I roll my eyes, my gaze lands on the bulge against his shorts. And just like that, I get one, too. I can’t help it. He looks down at me and starts laughing.
    “We’ve got to get these under control before Shawna comes back,” he says. “Or she’ll insist we have a threesome or something.”
    “Sick,” I say.
    “Think about Latham’s gym shorts,” says Pete.
    “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” I say.
    At that moment Shawna appears, standing over us on the blanket, her upside-down face looming large. “What are you crazy kids doing?” she asks.
    “Just enjoying this fine cultural event,” says Pete.
    I laugh wildly, inappropriately.
    Shawna settles back on the blanket and starts digging through her backpack, pulling out a bag of Fig Newtons. “You want one?” she asks me.
    “Sure,” I say. She tosses me a cookie, which lands on my chest. Still lying down, I bring it to my mouth and bite into it, the fig seeds popping beneath my teeth. Hunter used to tell me the crunch in a Fig Newton was little dead flies that got caught inside the fig. I feel my erection start to go down.
    While Shawna was gone, Pete’s and my blanket became a float, slipping over the rope that marked protected waters, drifting beyond the lifeguard’s range. Though I wanted to be alone with Pete, I am suddenly grateful for Shawna’s presence. She makes it okay for Pete and me to be together on this blanket at all. She has pulled us back to where it is safe.
    •  •  •
    The show ends with “Southern Nights,” which the lasers illustrate with a picture of a man in overalls casting a fishing line into a pond. As soon as the song ends, a refrain from “Dixie” comes on over the speakers. A chorus of rebel yells rises from everyone around us.
    Pete leans toward me and whispers, “Uh-oh. The natives are getting frisky.”
    “What did you say?” asks Shawna, but Pete waves away her question.
    The lasers outline the carving of General Lee on horseback, and then they animate the legs of his horse so that the General isfirst walking, then trotting, then galloping toward some destination other than defeat.
    “How much