Sweet Tooth

by Shena Crane

Original artwork by Lauren Felvus

At thirteen, Margo didn’t know much about cars, but she immediately loved her Uncle George’s new 1983 Chevy Malibu Sport Coupe with midnight blue paint and tan leather bucket seats. Unlike Margo, it was cool.

She and George, together in the Chevy for the first time, were on their last Saturday morning errand, a quick drop-off at the shoe repair, and on track to get home before the noon Dodgers game on TV. George, an avid fan who wore a Dodgers cap over his crew cut year round, never missed a televised game.

Margo was holding the tube of lip gloss her mother had finally allowed, ready to dab the pink goo on her lips, when George abruptly stopped for a red light, causing he and Margo to lurch forward in their seats.

“You okay?” George asked.

“Yes,” Margo said, then realized she no longer held the lip gloss.

“I got to remember this baby’s brakes are a little touchy,” George said, patting the dashboard. “We’re still getting to know each other.”

Margo barely nodded. She’d found the lip gloss between her knees, right next to the bright gooey spot it made on the car’s previously pristine seat. She drew in a panicked breath. I’ve ruined George’s baby.

“Honey, something’s on your chin,” George said as he carefully stopped at the next red light. “Your lip stuff, I think.”

Oh no. Margo pulled down the visor mirror to inspect herself and removed the goo with a tissue from her purse. Then, with George’s eyes back on the road, she dabbed at the spot on her seat, only to turn it into a larger smear. Her stomach knotted.

“What’cha doing over there?”

“Just checking my hair.” Every morning she teased her blonde hair high and shellacked it with Aquanet Super Hold Hairspray, but it invariably frizzed and fell. “My hair’s a disaster. Could we roll up the windows, please?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t. If she was going to ask George for anything, it should be forgiveness, but she couldn’t imagine how to tell him she’d stained his beloved new car.

“For you, anything,” George said, then laughed. “You girls with your hair and cars. I had a red Thunderbird convertible when I met your Aunt Esther, but driving with the top down messed up her hairdo. Had to switch to a hardtop.”

“So she and I do have something in common,” Margo said rather snidely, momentarily forgetting her dilemma.

“Definitely,” George said, laughing again. Margo never took to her aunt even though she and her mother had lived with George and Esther, who were childless, since Margo’s father died five years ago. Esther was pretty rather than nice, and forever watching her waistline, which meant no treats in the house. George and Margo, though, soon discovered they were both chocolate fiends and quickly became tight buddies who liked running errands together so they could secretly indulge. Margo loved hanging out with George, but often wondered if they were close only because he didn’t have a real daughter of his own.

“So, I gave this car a name,” Margo said, then mentally slapped herself for drawing George’s attention back to the car.

“The car’s a her. Cars are female. Like boats.”

“Really? That’s cool. I named her Glee.”

“Why Glee?”

“Because you’ve been so happy since you brought her home.”

“You know, you’re all right, kiddo,” George said.

“Thanks. Except I’m a teenager now, not a kid.”

“Gotta remember that.”

A minute later, they arrived at Gemco, a huge discount store in the San Fernando Valley. “Damn parking lot’s almost full,” George said. “Hope we’re outta here in time.”

“There’s a space,” Margo said, pointing. George turned in and Margo automatically pulled down the visor mirror again to take one last look at herself. Why bother, she thought, with her usual angst. Lip gloss couldn’t hide the braces crammed in her mouth, hooked together with tiny rubber bands, and her new glasses were all wrong. Inspired by Madonna, she’d insisted on cat-eye frames, studded with iridescent rhinestones. Big mistake. Now she was a sparkling unattractive girl.

She couldn’t even think about her body. She ate everything but was still too skinny. In her shirt and shorts, her thighs looked as narrow as her knees, and her tiny breasts barely filled her training bra. Sighing, she got out of the car.

“Wait a sec,” George said, pulling his handkerchief from his back pocket. Margo’s heart thudded: George must see the spot. But he just smiled and wiped her fingerprints off Glee’s passenger door. “Now she’s perfect,” he said, and Margo thought, oh God, am I in trouble.

Once inside Gemco, George and Margo hurried to the shoe repair shop—a booth tucked into a nook near the store’s entrance, across from the tall aisles of goods. Inside the booth sat Scottie, who worked at a scarred wooden workbench behind the counter, cutting, stitching, hammering, polishing, and buffing. Scottie wore a canvas cobbler apron that outlined a slight paunch and a thick gold chain around his neck. He was balding but dyed his remaining hair an unnatural bright auburn. He sported an ever present smile, and was a talker who always liked to chat with George.

This morning, Scottie’s smile widened as Margo and George walked up with two pairs of George’s shoes needing new soles. “Looks like you guys are here for more than a chocolate run,” he said, taking the shoes. “Did you drive the new Chevy?”

“Sure did,” George said. “But can’t show her off today. Gotta get home before the Dodgers game starts.”

“Wish I could. I’m not off till five,” Scottie said. “But glad you got the car.”

“Me too,” George said, and turned to Margo. “Let’s get going.”

“We can’t,” Margo said. “Aunt Esther’s washing clothes. Remember, she told you to get a box of that Fels-Naptha laundry powder.”

George sighed and looked across at the store aisles—they were packed with shoppers and carts. “Crap, it’s crowded in there,” he said. “But I better get the damn soap.” He turned to Scottie and Margo. “You two okay if Margo stays here? We’ll lose each other in that mob.”

Scottie and Margo each said “sure.” Margo was secretly relieved. Besides avoiding the Fels-Natha that always smelled like soapy vomit to her, she now had time to figure out how to tell George about the stain. An enthusiastic reader, she’d pretend to browse the paperback bookstand near Scottie’s booth while she thought up a plan. “Go,” she said to George, “I’ll be fine with the books.” He nodded and disappeared into the maze of aisles.

Thinking didn’t work.

Sure, Margo told herself, George had never gotten mad at her, but she’d never ruined something he loved. The stain would change everything.

The bookstand was stocked with action-hero thrillers and bodice-ripping romances. The first category didn’t interest Margo, and her mother prohibited the second, but her mother wasn’t there. Margo knew only the basics about sex—giggled and groaned over with her girlfriends—and nothing about romantic love. She plucked a romance novel from the stand. By the third page, the heroine was having sex with a man she barely knew. It wasn’t like anything Margo imagined. It sounded tortuous, went on for two more pages, and no one mentioned love. Embarrassed, Margo shelved the book and selected another. It was worse. The hero’s actions seemed violent, but the heroine didn’t mind, and neither spoke of love.

Maybe sex without romance—whatever that was—would seem better when she was older. For the first time, she was glad the boys at school never paid attention to her.

Unsettled,Margo wished she’d gone with George. So what if the store was crowded? She wasn’t a little kid who’d get lost.

“You don’t look happy,” a voice said. “Maybe we can fix that.” Startled, Margo looked around, then realized Scottie was talking to her from behind his workbench.

“I’m all right,” she said.

“I got something new I can show you,” Scottie said, smiling. He slipped his apron off.

“Okay,” Margo said, but felt awkward. She and Scottie usually exchanged little more than pleasantries. George and Scottie always did the talking.

Scottie lifted the booth latch. “Come in here, it’ll be easier to show you.”

Margo shook her head. “I can see from here.”

“Sure thing.” His smile sagged for a second, then he bent his head to the side and fussed with his ear.

Suddenly, Margo figured it out and relaxed a little. “Wow, you got an earring,” she said as Scottie removed a small stud set with what looked like a diamond. “I like it.”

“Thanks. Here, you can hold it and get a better look.”

“That’s okay,” Margo said, not wanting to touch something that’d been in Scottie’s ear.

“It’s not a real diamond, but it looks good, right?”

“It’s cool,” Margo said with real enthusiasm. “I’d wear it if my ears were pierced. My mom says I’m too young.” Margo heard herself and wanted to stop talking, but Scottie was looking at her like he was truly interested. Like George did. Feeling on familiar ground, Margo said, “I think it’d help my looks.”

Scottie frowned. “What’s wrong with your looks?”

Margo wanted to die. She should shut up, but instead said, “This, this, and this,” pointing to her braces, glasses, and frizzed hair.

“Margo, that’s all nothing. Your teeth will be perfect, you’ll get contact lenses, you can straighten your hair.” He paused for a second, then said, “Listen, I want to tell you something important. Especially after what you just told me.” His voice deepened and he half shut his eyes. “Come closer. This is just between us.”

All at once, everything about Scottie chilled Margo, but before she could move away, he reached across the counter, caught her shirtsleeve, and pulled her toward him till their faces were only inches apart. She could see his yellow teeth and smell his failing deodorant.

“You’re going to be a gorgeous young woman in a couple years. A real beauty,” Scottie said, releasing her sleeve to grab her hand, his grip sweaty.

Margo’s body froze, and a sensation worse than any induced by Fels-Naptha rose in her throat.

“I can’t wait for you to grow up,” he went on, flecks of saliva dotting his bottom lip. “You can’t imagine yourself yet, but I already do.” He swiped his lip with his tongue.

Margo willed herself to move and slid her hand from Scottie’s damp grasp. She wanted to scream, but was afraid Scottie would get angry. Instead, she said in a small voice, “Stop. Please.” She backed away from the booth with jittery steps.

“No need to be rude, Margo. You should be thanking me,” Scottie said, his lips curling into a sneer. “I paid you a compliment. You’ll like that pretty soon, and you’ll remember I told you first.”

Margo turned away from Scottie, her body trembling. She should leave the store. George could find her outside. Her eyes focused on the exit doors just as George reappeared holding a Gemco bag.

“I got the soap. We can leave,” he said. “Where are you going?”

Margo couldn’t tell George what happened. “I got bored with the books,” she said.

“So let’s get outta here,” George said. He turned to Scottie, who’d been watching them. “We’ll show you the Chevy when we pick up the shoes. Hell, if you’ve got time, we can take her around the block.”

Margo’s nausea returned. She didn’t want Scottie near Glee.

“I’ll make time. I saw an ad. She’s a real beauty.” Scottie winked at Margo who suppressed a shudder.

“She’s a looker, all right,” George said.

As George and Margo walked toward the exit, Scottie called out, “See you, George. Enjoy the game. Bye, Margo. Very nice talking to you.”

Neither replied, but once they crossed the parking lot and reached Glee, George said, “What did you and Scottie talk about?”

Margo’s stomach roiled. “Scottie showed me his new earring.”

“He got his ear pierced? Jeez. You know, Scottie’s a little nutty. Dyed hair, gold chain, now an earring? But hell, the man’s a Dodgers fan, loves cars, and always has a smile. Makes him okay in my book. Don’t you think?”

“I guess.” Margo had a friend who threw up when she got really upset. Margo never understood that until this moment. “He’s just a shoe guy.”

“Ouch, that’s not like you. You okay?”

“Fine.”

Once they were back in Glee, George said, “Got something for us,” and took a Hershey’s bar out of the Gemco bag. Margo looked at him, astonished. Were they snacking in Glee like they had in his old car?

“We can’t break our chocolate tradition,” George said as if reading Margo’s mind. “We’ve never dropped any. We won’t mess up Glee.”

Margo wanted to die for the second time that day. “I’m not hungry.”

“Oh, c’mon,” George said, unwrapping the bar and handing her half. “It’ll cheer you up.”

Reluctantly, Margo took her piece.

George backed out of their parking space and headed toward the freeway, saying, “We’ll be home before the game starts.”

“Great,” Margo said, her voice flat. She wanted to shout at George: Scottie’s not okay, he’s a creep. No. Worse than that. He’s something I can’t even name.

But she was afraid.

What if George didn’t believe her and said she was making it up? Or worse, that it was her fault? Or the very worst, that Scottie hadn’t done anything wrong? The heroes in the romance novels would never condemn Scottie’s actions.

Margo sat stiffly in silent anguish as George munched and drove

“Hey,” he said, glancing at her. “You’re not eating your chocolate.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You’re not okay, are you?”

Margo shook her head.

George cut across three lanes of freeway traffic, ignoring the honking cars, and exited at the nearest off ramp. He parked Glee on the first street they came to, turned toward Margo, and leaned forward to touch her hand. “What’s going on?” he said.

Margo jerked her hand away and started to cry.

“Shit,” George said, moving back. “You hate crying in front of anyone. Talk to me.”

This was it, Margo knew, and forced herself to take the risk. “In the store, right after you left, Scottie got really weird.”

George frowned. “Weird how?”

She repeated Scottie’s ugly compliments, her voice breaking with each revelation.

When Margo had told everything, and wiped her eyes, George hit the steering wheel with his fist, his face red. “Goddamn that bastard,” he said, his voice shaking. “I’m a stupid schmuck for leaving you with him.”

Margo said nothing.

“Honey, why didn’t you tell me right away?” George asked.

“I thought you’d be mad at me.”

“For what? It’s Scottie who did a terrible thing.”

“But you said he’s an okay guy. He’s getting a ride in Glee next week.”

“Not anymore. I was very wrong about Scottie. He’s never coming near Glee. Or you. Especially you. You’re what’s important. You’re what I care about.”

Margo’s face flushed. She didn’t know what to say. She and George never spoke about their relationship being more than uncle, niece, and fellow chocolate fiends. Was George saying she was more than that to him? She didn’t know how to ask.

“Listen, honey,” George said. “I’m taking you home. Then I’m going back to Gemco to get Scottie fired.”

“You can’t go back. My mom and Aunt Esther will want to know why. Mom will never let me go anywhere with you.”

“Damn, you’re right.” He thought for a moment, then said, “I’ll tell them I forgot my wallet.”

“But you’ll miss the Dodgers game.”

“Fuck the game.”

Margo sat straight up, her eyes wide. George never said the F-word.

“Sorry,” George said. “I’m just so mad at myself for leaving you with Scottie. I let you down big time.”

“No. It was my fault that—” Margo started to say, but George cut her off.

“Nothing’s your fault. You’re perfect. Always have been. I’m damn lucky to have you.”

Once again, Margo couldn’t find the right words to say, but in a good way. She basked in the feeling, but it faded almost immediately. The stain. She hadn’t shown George the stain. “I need to tell you something else. Not about Scottie,” she said when George grimaced. “About me. I did a horrible thing. I ruined Glee. With my stupid lip gloss. Look.” She revealed the stain on the seat.

“Margo, honey. Fuck the stain, too. Glee’s a car. How could you think a car’s more important than you? You being in my life is what matters. Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“Yes.” Margo bit her lip to keep from crying. “We’ve just never talked about it.”

“But now we have,” George said, smiling. He pointed to her chocolate. “So eat. Please?”

Margo’s narrow shoulders relaxed as she took a careful bite. It tasted good, but different. Bittersweet.

About the Author

Shena Crane’s fiction has appeared in Epiphany, the Rappahannock Review, and Please See Me, and her nonfiction in The Wall Street Journal, Glamour, Men’s Fitness, and elsewhere. Her book, What Do I Do Now?: Making Sense of Today’s Changing Workplace, was featured on The Today Show and translated into braille by the National Federation of the Blind. You can find her on Facebook and Instagram — @shena.crane5 and on X — @ShenaCrane.