Authors: Beth Ann Bauman
“Sure,” I say. He lights two small candles and flips off the light, and the overall mood is definitely improved. We fool around, but it’s not exactly an adventure.
• • •
After I get home I can’t sleep, so I wander over to the House for a snack. It’s almost two a.m., and TB’s in the kitchen baking a pie. I wave.
“My insomniac friend. Hello there. Couldn’t sleep?”
I shake my head.
“I’m making comfort food. Even your mom’s not feeling well. And poor Mossy. The kid’s been upchucking.”
“Bart, no one says
upchuck
.” I roll a piece of leftover piecrust in my hand.
“What do you kids say? Barf?”
“How about
blow chunks
. Poor Mossy.”
“He’ll be okay.” He sweeps apple peels into the garbage. “So your mother likes this banker, it seems.”
“As much as she likes anyone.”
He smiles a knowing smile.
“My mother’s not gonna change, I don’t think,” I tell him. “Don’t you want something more, Bart?”
He sighs. “I’m a dummy, I know.”
“Aw, Bart.” I rub his back, and his eyes fill with tears.
“That pie’s going to be done in twenty minutes. Have yourself a hot slice with a scoop of ice cream.”
“It smells amazing.”
He lies on the couch under a quilt, and I head upstairs to check on everyone. Mom’s buried under the covers, Mossy’s flat on his back breathing through his nose and making fluty noises, and Mimi’s in a little heap on a nest of pillows. She flutters her eyes.
In the bathroom I look in the mirror, and there I am. Sleepy Mimi shuffles toward me and leans in the doorway with a drippy nose. She climbs up on the sink and wraps her arms around me as we gaze into the mirror. She’s still inside a dream, her hair rumpled and her face smooth and still. Everything is yet to happen to her. I’m jealous.
A few nights later, my bedroom light snaps on. “So it was stupid,” Cork says, sitting on the edge of my mattress.
“What! Get out!” I shield my eyes from the light.
“I have to tell you.”
I’m tired these days and must have left the back door unlocked, because he is where I least want him: sitting on my mattress. Now the light is shining in my eyes and he’s shaking my arm. “Please,” he says.
“Get off.” I shove him and pull the covers up to my chin.
He makes himself comfortable on the floor. “Just listen. She was kinda wasted. Happy wasted. She’s sipping a mojito, dancing around the kitchen to Aretha Franklin. The back door’s open, and I ask if I can have a snack. ‘Eat up,’ she says. I take a beer from the fridge and she’s cool with that, I guess. To help her out, I follow her around the living room with a trash bag while she grabs up the dirty plates and napkins. She’s funny, your mom.”
“I’m warning you,” I say.
“It just kinda happened.”
“Not another word.”
“You have to admit it’s kinda funny.” I scramble to the edge of the bed and kick him in the chest. He lets himself fall back onto the rug and a slow smile spreads over his face. “I was just thinking how no one wants to make out with my mom. Or Inggy’s mom. Or most anyone’s mom. But your mom is …”
“Ass-wipe! She’s my
mother
.”
“I have a theory—”
“Tell me and I’ll have to kill you.”
“Okay. I’ll stop. But it wasn’t like kissing a mom.”
“I swear—”
He sits up, and his face becomes serious. “That’s why I came to say sorry. I feel like I cheated on you.”
“You totally did,” I say. “That and more.”
“Can we forget it? I don’t want your mother. Obviously. I want to go back to how it was.”
I shake my head, but he climbs on the bed and puts his arms around me and his warm lips against my forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“No.” I duck under his arm and push him off.
“It was just a kiss, Angel. Come on.”
“What about Inggy?”
“What about her?”
“Who else have you been with?”
“Who else have
you
been with?”
I shrug. “I’m free.”
“I love Inggy.” He picks up my sneaker and whips it around in a circle by the shoelace. “There’s something I want to tell you.”
“Make it good.”
“See, I like that answer. That’s why I like you.”
“Let me tell
you
something. I feel like I don’t know you anymore.…”
“Are you gonna let me talk?”
“You’ve been with other girls, right? Tell the truth.”
He sighs.
“Tell me, Cork.”
“You know what? Inggy doesn’t have secrets yet. I used to think it’s not in her DNA, but I was wrong. She just hasn’t done anything
yet
. She will. And there may have been a minor episode with a turd named Jeffrey. She may have kissed the turd. I don’t know. Anyway, my point is everybody does something at some point.”
“Everybody?” I say.
“Everybody.” He lies on the rug and puts his arms behind his head, satisfied.
Maybe that’s right, but I don’t know. I just don’t know. I think of my dad, Joey, Inggy, my grandma, old Mrs. B who works in the sub shop.…
Cork stretches out and yawns. “We’ve already dirtied it up, Angel.”
“What does that mean?”
He reaches an arm out to me. “I really like you. I miss you.”
“You’re such an ass-wipe, kissing my mother.” I take his hand and let him pull me off the bed.
“Okay, we can stop,” he whispers. “If you want to, we’ll stop.”
“Let’s stop.”
He kisses me nicely on the lips and smooths his hands over my hair. I let my eyes close for a sec. “And what do you mean you don’t know me anymore?” he says. “What would Inggy think of you if she knew?”
“Okay, shut up.”
“Why the attitude with me?” he whispers. “Huh? Aren’t we in this together?”
“You made out with my mom, idiot!”
“I’m a total idiot.” He hugs me, presses his lips against my ear, and I feel him smile. “But you could just give me a blow job for old times’ sake.”
I shove him. “Yeah, because I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.” I mean, really.
“Kidding, sorry.” He stands and lifts me to my feet. We hug and sway from side to side. “I don’t want to miss you, Angel.”
“Tough.”
“You smell delicious.”
“Oh I do, do I?”
“Spicy. You smell spicy.” He puts his lips on my neck.
“And warm.” He gives me a tiny lick. “And wet.” He runs his hands over my ass in my nightie. “You are the sexiest girl I know. Why are you so sexy?”
“I can’t help it.” I let him put a hand under my nightie. Once more, just once or twice more.
It’s been raining for days, and the wintry sky hangs low over the town. I ride my bike through the streets, which are empty and slick with puddles, and stare at the posters of four smiling girls in the store windows. There we are—me, Inggy, Carmella, and Alyssa—Miss Merry Christmas nominees—next to pizzas, subs, postage stamps, and interest rates, waiting for the town to crown a winner. I park under a streetlamp and stare at the picture of me next to the
20% OFF
sign in Stanley’s Casuals. It’s pretty decent, not like I must look now—a girl in the rain with her hair plastered to her head.
I know it’s dumb and it embarrasses me to admit it, but I really want to win, want to see what winning might do for me. I picture myself riding on top of the float, waving my hand, wearing the crown …
And here it begins
.
But as I look at the picture of Inggy, I know she’ll win. She seems destined. She’s not looking at the camera and
has a soft smile, the wind gently lifting her white hair. Her eyes are very blue.
But still. Anything is possible, and it’s not just about the pictures. I stare at us a little longer, the light rain soaking me good. Carmella is dark and glossy, a bit mysterious, with her head cocked flirtatiously and a no-teeth smile. Alyssa looks sweet, a tiny dark star of a girl with full lips. Me—I have a full-on smile, my curls falling beneath my shoulders, my eyes sparkling like I’m thinking of something good.
When I get back to the House, I towel myself off and snuggle on the couch with Mimi, who’s doing long division problems. She chucks her notebook to the floor and whispers, “You’re going to be Miss Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“You’re the prettiest.” Her teeth are small and white, her eyes all dark pupils. She lays her head in the crook of my arm and motions for me to bring my ear close. I lean down and she tells me how she and some of her older friends, girls in the fifth and sixth grades, have gone to every store on the strip and voted for me, filling out a white slip and dropping it into the box beneath our pictures. “I disguised my handwriting,” she says. “Don’t worry.”
A little later I dash over in the cold to my house. Someone rounds the corner by the back steps. Sherry.
“Hey,” she calls. “Good timing.”
“What’s up?” I hug myself.
“Oh, nothing.” We go inside and plop down on the couch. I’m a little worried about Cork showing up, but that’s easy enough to explain, really. Mostly I’m wondering what she wants. I feel uncomfortable around her, even though I know I shouldn’t. She looks at me with big eyes like she’s expecting
me
to say something. “You have a Coke or something?”
“Sure.” I get it, hoping she’s not planning on staying long enough to drink the whole can. She pops it open, takes a sip, and sort of smiles at me. “You all right?” I ask. She’s almost back to normal except for her face, which still looks a bit dazed, like she’s trying to listen to two conversations at once.
She nods. “Nobody ever talks about it, Angel. Isn’t that weird?”
I pat her hand. “No one wants to make you feel bad, probably.”
“Well …,” she says, picking at the stitching on the couch pillow. “Your picture looks nice. I saw it in the window of Sundae Times.” She takes an elastic out of her bag and sloppily pulls her hair back. “Inggy’ll probably win, but I really think you have a shot, you know.”
I shrug. “Thanks.”
She pulls her bag close and rummages through it and takes out a tiny photo. “This is me when I was like a couple hours old. Well, it’s either me or my brother, because
apparently we were exactly alike.” It’s faded, but a small face and nose and sweep of hair are there.
“Oh,” I say, not wanting to take it, but she hands it to me.
“So, um, was she a freak?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“You can tell me.”
“She wasn’t a freak.”
“She had like ten fingers and toes? A regular head and everything?”
“Totally regular.”
“But don’t you turn a weird color when you croak?”
“She was, you know, normal color.”
“Oh,” Sherry says, and my heart starts beating fast. “So, regular, you would say?”
I nod.
There’s a knock on the back door. “Come in,” I shout. Christ, Cork. But it’s Kipper. His eyes bounce from me to Sherry.
“Kipper,” Sherry says. She looks at me, surprised.
“We’ve been dancing,” I say. “The fox-trot. We practice.”
“Angel’s pretty good,” he jumps in.
Sherry takes the photo out of my hand and looks at it.
“How’s it going, Sherry?” he asks.
“That’s nice of you to ask,” she says stiffly. “Because nobody does. Nobody wants to remember about my baby.…”
“I’m sorry,” Kipper squeaks. “It’s just—”
“It wouldn’t kill anybody to remember,” she says, standing. “So I guess you’re gonna dance, huh?” She picks up her bag and looks at me, wanting to say something else, I think, but I’m kinda glad she doesn’t.
“Here, take the Coke.” I fix her ponytail and give her a pat on the back.
When I close the door behind her, Kipper says, “Weird.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Well.” He blushes. “I just wanted to see you and tell you I voted for you.”
“You can’t just come over.”
“I know. I won’t.” Honestly, he looks a bit crushed.
“But thanks.” I touch his arm. “For the vote.”
“I just wish sometimes I could get to decide when we can … be together.”
“We can’t be together.”
He stares at me unhappily.
“It was just that one time. Those two times.”
He keeps staring at me, looking unhappy and super-skinny, I have to say. “You’re not very nice to me, you know.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I think I’m very nice to you, Kipper. You wanted to get laid, and I helped you out.”
“I know. But I like you. A lot.”
“Well, I like you too.”
“Yeah, yeah, you like me.…”
“Come here. Let’s dance.”
“No, I’ll go.” He walks to the door and turns back. “Sherry’s kind of nutty, isn’t she? I mean, who can forget.…”
“I know!”
“You okay?” Kipper asks. I nod. He steps out into the cold and zips his jacket all the way to his chin. “Just know,” he says as the wind lifts his hair, “that out here in the universe is a boy who adores you. Lest you forget.”
“Bye,” I say. I lean against the door, trying to think things through. What must it be like for Sherry? Roaming the halls of school, her huge stomach now a small pudge, back to normal more or less, but babyless, so maybe not so normal after all. And that little faded picture. Oh! Why did she come? If she wanted to know, why didn’t she look for herself? I thought I did her a favor. I thought I did Kipper a favor too. So much for helping out!
Maybe Sherry should have looked. It was her baby. Her flesh and blood …
There’s a tap on the door. Oh my God, not Kipper again. I swing around but it’s Cork, hood up, looking at me. I let him in.
I’m staring into the little mirror in my locker, putting on lip gloss, when Sherry comes up. “So,” she says. “She was totally regular?”
“Yeah.” I finger off the goo below my lip line.
“Well … how come if she was like totally regular you told me not to look?”
“I … I don’t know.” I sneak a look at her.
“She wasn’t a freak?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“So why didn’t you think I should look?”
I shut my locker and the metal click echoes down the hall. “She was dead!” I whisper. “It would have been so hard for you.”
She nods and stares off into space. “I’m glad she wasn’t botched up, you know. Like a little freak. That’s what I thought. The nurse goes to me, ‘She’s beautiful,’ but you know they probably think little freaks are beautiful. They’re very scientific about the whole thing.”