an indian childhood

At nearly 12 yrs old she asks, "Would you like to see a menu or do you know what you want to order?"

Coyly she slips me my ancient U of U staff ID so I have a card to pay with when this is all done. 

I set the book I am reading aside. 

"No, I need a menu please." I answer.  

She hands me a binder with pictures of food in it that she has cut from magazines and written prices beside in red marker.
  
"On special is our Dan tacos salad..." [I am pretty sure she hasn't tasted a taco salad in real life but there is a gym joke that goes along with it which means the salad in this particular case is actually make from thumb tacks] "...and all of our burgers." [she has never had a hamburger either]

"Okay, I will have this turkey burger." I say pointing to a burger on the page. "And do you have pizza?" 

"Ah let me check with the kitchen- we might be all out." 

She ducks out of sight behind the sofa then returns smiling. 

"We do have pizza. Would you like one?" 

"Yes please."

"Terrific," she twangs, "I will be right back with your order."

I'm tired. Sundays are always the hardest days to be alone and this particular weekend hasn't gone so well.

But it won't last forever. 

Beach is skating on the thin edge of her childhood. I can see it in the photographs she is taking; hear it in the complexities of her stories. 

So when I finished my meal I signal my waitress. 

"Yes, I would like to order some dessert now. Can you tell me about your specials?"