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first. “I’m Peter, but my stage name is Pam,” she said in one breath as if the entire string of words was her name. “Most people just call me Peter Pam, though. It’s less confusing. But on my day off,” she continued, “I don’t care what you call me, just don’t call me early!” She guffawed, tossed her head back with a flourish, and when she brushed the hair off her shoulder, her wig rotated. She moved it casually back into place as if it were an integral part of the gesture.
    â€œAnyway, what can I get you ladies?” She tapped her pencil on her pad, all ready for the order.
    My mother was lost in the menu. Her eyes widened and my stomach ached as we scanned the pictures of food—pink and runny burgers, crispy golden french fries, mouth-watering, moist-looking turkey with gravy. I smacked my lips. When I saw the chicken “Fried to a Crisp in Top Secret Batter!” I moaned.
    Then, abruptly, my mother snapped the menu closed, looked up at the waitress, and proclaimed, “We’re going to split a blueberry muffin.” I glanced at her pleadingly. It wasn’t nearly enough. But I could tell by the way she looked back at me that right now it was all we were getting.
    â€œThat’s it?” Peter Pam said. “That’s easy. I don’t even have to write that down.” She stuffed the pad and pencil into her apron, turned in her yacht-size mules, and walked off.
    When she came back, Peter Pam put the plate down with the bill next to it. Then from her apron pocket she pulled out a bag of chips, tore it open, and ate them standing up in front of us, chatting through each bite.
    â€œMy biggest dream is to play Agnes in Agnes of God on Broadway,” she said, sticking a chip in her mouth.
    â€œOh my God,” I said, “did you see Meg Tilly in the movie?”
    â€œOh my God,” she shrieked. “She was brilliant. She should have won the Oscar. Don’t you think?”
    She shifted her weight to one hip, then absentmindedly handed me a chip.
    My mother was watching me. She had no idea what we were talking about, I could tell, and she hated when this happened. Her lips twisted disapprovingly.
    â€œCome on, Ruthie.” She glared at me and slapped two bills down on the table and got up. “We’re going.” With her purse trailing behind her, she pushed the door open and walked out.
    Peter Pam looked dumbfounded.
    â€œIt’s not you,” I said, sliding out of the booth. “She has her period.”
    â€œOhhhh, that explains it.” She nodded as if this were a tediously familiar problem.

    â€œI suppose you think that waitress cares about you?” my mother hissed as I slid into the car. She really didn’t like me striking up conversations with strangers, and being broke gave her mood swings. Anything could set her off.
    She was finally fixing her makeup in the visor mirror. “Well, let me tell you something,” she said, snapping the visor up. Sheturned halfway around and started rummaging through the backseat. “She couldn’t give two shits about you. Take this.” She handed me a sweatshirt. “Put it on. The gas station is open. You know what to do.”
    â€œNot here,” I pleaded.
    â€œOh, don’t be such a baby.”
    I hated it when she called me that, and to prove I wasn’t, I grabbed the sweatshirt, got out, and slammed the door.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Hunger
    M y mother pulled the car up to the gas pump marked full service. I walked into the station. The same guy who had told the waitress to let us in was sitting behind the register. He was wearing a baseball cap and glasses attached to a cord around his neck. He took them off when he saw me.
    He gave me the key to the bathroom when I asked for it and told me to leave it on the counter when I was done. I went around the building and waited.
    When he went out to pump our gas, I walked back in and looked