Such a Pretty Girl (5 page)

N
igel and Gilly peel off in one direction and I go in the other.

I head back with the comfort of knowing that Nigel will watch out for me until I disappear around the bend. Once I do, I’m no more than a Hail Mary pass from home.

I glance at my watch. The witching hour has come and gone. My father should be livid by now. I swing my hair forward, anticipating the confrontation.

It feels good to be back to the original plan.

I am going to drive him out of here and away from me.

Be everything he hates. Use every tool I have.

I round the bend and see my parents perched like oversize vultures on the front porch. They snap to attention as I pass beneath a streetlight. I slip my hands into my overall pockets and feel my thighs flexing beneath my palms. My knees have lost their rubbery feeling and I think of Andy as I left him tonight; eyes closed and fists striking his own lifeless legs, calling for the Virgin’s mercy, asking the Mystical Rose, Mother undefiled, Mirror of justice, Comforter of the afflicted to intercede and relay his plea to her Son. Begging her to ask Him, in the name of love, for restoration.

So Andy hides and prays while I trudge back into the fire, leaking flammable memories.

God, what a mess.

I cross the warm macadam, hoping I look scornful and bored. Step onto my neatly edged, postage-stamp front lawn and amble up to the porch where they wait.

“Meredith,” my father says, rising.

His summons almost stops me, but I make myself sweep past him and up the steps. “You guys are nutty for sitting out here. The mosquitoes are brutal.”

“We’ve been waiting for
you.”
His voice is tight. “You look like hell. Where have you been?”

“Out.” My hand closes around the doorknob.

“ ‘Out’ where?” he says.

The door opens and I shrug as I pass through it. “Just out.” I walk inside and give it a shove after me.

My father blocks it and follows me in. My mother is his shadow. “Please don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you, Meredith.”

I exhale a hearty sigh and stop. “What?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says. “Where were you tonight?”

“Out,” I say.

“ ‘Out’ is not an acceptable answer,” he snaps.

“It was until today,” I drawl.

“Well, it’s not anymore,” he says, giving my flushed mother an accusing look. “You can’t just disappear without telling us where you’re going or who you’re going to be with and you can’t come wandering in at all hours of the night looking like you’ve been—”

“Raped?” The foyer is too small for the ringing silence. “Not to worry. Estertown’s been safe for three years now,
Dad.”
I push past them both.

No one speaks.

I go into my room and lock the door. Look in the mirror for a long time until the trembling stops, until I hear the front door slam and the deadbolt slide home.

Watch from the window as my father strides down the road toward his condo.

I wait, but my mother doesn’t come to me.

Miserable, I undress and crawl into bed.

I
wake up Saturday morning with the dogged hope that my father has somehow died overnight, that a bulging aneurysm has popped and bled him out or that his heart simply stopped beating.

There are other ways for him to die, of course, but these two absolve me of everything but hope and a person can’t be jailed for hoping. At least that’s what my old therapist said when she told me my anger was normal and should be voiced. She would have told me more, I’m sure, but my mother stopped our visits after my second “unpleasant venting.”

I ease out of bed, cross the carpeted floor, and listen at the door.

The condo is quiet. A hint of coffee lingers but it’s faint and not fresh.

Nothing. No TV, no voices, no blathering morning radio.

I slip across the hall to the bathroom. Pee and flush. Rinse my face in hot water. The countertop gets splattered with the runoff from my elbows and I give it a cursory swipe with my mother’s scarlet guest towel. The lace is scratchy and not absorbent.

I tuck back my hair and head for the kitchen. Freeze in the entranceway.

“Good morning,” my father says, glancing up from the newspaper spread out across the table. “I hope I didn’t startle you.” His gaze scans my thigh-high sleep T. “There’s orange juice in the fridge—”

“Where’s my mother?” Panic sharpens my voice.

“She ran to the deli to get bagels,” he says, leaning back in the chair. “We thought we’d all have breakfast together and discuss that little stunt you pulled last night. Why don’t you have a seat?”

“No thanks,” I mutter and turn to leave.

The air crackles.

My father explodes from the chair, and the shriek of wood against tile stuns me for the millisecond it takes him to cross the room. He jerks me around to face him. “I don’t think you get it,” he says in a low voice. “I’m not
asking
you, I’m
telling
you. I’ve had about enough of this—”

“Let me go.” Somehow my voice comes out louder than my thundering heart. “You’re not even supposed to be here without another adult present!”

His fingers sink deeper into my skin. “Oh really? Well, then go ahead, Chirp, tell me what else the law says I can and can’t do. Come on, you brought it up.”

He can’t do this. He can’t. “Stop it,” I croak. My hands spasm, my head bobs. Adrenaline screams fight or flight, but I can’t move. Can’t choose.

“I am your father,” he says and, with his free hand, cups my quavering chin. “I changed your diapers, I taught you how to hit a fastball and how to count and
everything,
and now the state is gonna tell me, now
you’re
gonna tell me what I can and can’t do? Bullshit.” He tugs me up against his chest where the golden baseball blinds my vision and his minty-fresh breath reams my nostrils. “You’re my daughter and I love you and nobody’s going to stop me from hugging you if that’s what I want to do, dammit.”

Close the curtain, my mind orders, but the command is small and lost.

His voice cracks. “God, Chirp, how can you be so cold? What happened to that pretty, good-natured little girl with the freckly nose? You used to think I hung the moon, and now…”

The air conditioner kicks on and the floor vent blows chilled air up between my trembling legs.

“Are you afraid I’m mad at you for testifying against me? Listen, I don’t blame you. You were just a kid, confused and manipulated, and I wasn’t there to protect you. I understand that.” He tries to tilt my chin up, to woo my gaze from his chest to his face.

I don’t give.

He sighs. Releases my arm and steps back. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be. You’re still my little girl and I’m responsible for you, body and soul.” His voice hardens. “You might want to remember that the next time you decide to break the rules.”

He saw me. He
touched
me. If I swallow, I’ll throw up.

“Now, why don’t you go get dressed before your mother comes back with breakfast?” He lays strong hands on my shoulders and turns me in the direction of my bedroom. “Go ahead, now,” he says and whacks me on the butt.

I jolt forward and scurry into my four-sided box.

“And take a shower while you’re at it,” he calls after me, sounding vaguely offended. “You smell pretty ripe.”

“Okay.” I shut the door and pace blind, helpless circles in the middle of my bedroom….

I pat bubbles onto my face in a beard. Then lower where a puff of froth gives me the hair I don’t yet have. But I’m getting there because today I go from being a baby in a bathtub to a big girl who rinses off under the shower.

I grasp the shower curtain and balance on the edge of the tub so I can see my slick, soapy body in the mirror.

The bathroom door opens. “Ready for the shower?” my father says, stopping as he catches sight of me. “What the heck are you doing?”

“Getting big,” I say, grinning at him through my sudsy beard.

He closes the door behind him. Locks it. “Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up, okay? You’re perfect the way you are.” He is shirtless and the baseball gleams like treasure in his chest hair.

I reach to touch it and slip.

Instantly, his hands cup my armpits. “Careful there.” He nudges my nose with his and comes away with a puff of soap clinging to his lip. “Uh-oh, old timer, your beard’s falling off! Time to get wet!” He leans into the tub toward the faucet.

“No!” I shriek, laughing and clinging to him like a monkey, wrapping my arms around his neck and my spindly legs around his waist. “Don’t drop me, Daddy!”

“Never happen,” he promises, pulling me in even closer….

The memory slams me back into myself. I glance around my room, find what I need, and walk to the bathroom. Turn on the exhaust fan and the shower.

I go back out to the hall linen closet, closing the bathroom door behind me to contain the billowing steam, and as I open the closet I call, “Hey Dad, will you make me a fresh pot of coffee, please?” I pause, listening to his silence. Is he suspicious of my sudden capitulation or will his ego chalk it up to a wooing well done?

“Sure,” he calls back, sounding pleased. The newspaper pages swish and his chair grates away from the table.

“Thanks!” I dart into my bedroom instead of the bathroom, closing and locking the door, praying his task and the steadily drumming shower will blunt the stealthy sounds I’m about to make.

Because I’m leaving. Not for good, but for now. I need to get a grip and rethink my original plan. Being older and obnoxious isn’t going to drive him away and I hadn’t counted on my mother disregarding the supervised visit guidelines so quickly. I can’t be caught unprepared like this again.

I pull on a fresh tank top and the overalls lying in a crumpled heap where I left them. Stuff my cigarettes into the bib pocket. Grope under my pillow for my pocketknife—a fifteenth birthday gift from Nigel—and wedge it into my front pocket.

I hurry across the room. Raise the blind and grasp the bottom of the window, pressing the metal release clasps. I am about to slide it open when I see my mother’s car meandering around the blind curve.

“Crap,” I mutter and pull back out of sight. Will she notice the raised, crooked blind breaking the symmetry of all our windows as she approaches the front of the building? Of course she will.

I bite my lip, glance at the bedroom door. The lock is standard and flimsy. Once she parks and comes in, I’ll have only seconds to raise the window, bust through the screen, and climb out before she asks my father why my blind is hanging at such an odd angle. Only seconds to bolt in broad daylight from the front of my building to the back of Andy’s and get inside. I pray his mother hasn’t had milk for breakfast as she’s lactose-intolerant and becomes bathroom-bound whenever she dips into dairy.

I spot my watch on the nightstand, crawl across the bed, snag it, and slip it onto my wrist. The knife bangs against my thigh and I realize I’ll need it to slice through the screen. I open the blade just as I hear the muffled
thunk
of a car door slamming outside my window.

Her keys jingle.

My heart booms.

The front door opens.

I wrench up the window as the front door closes behind her. My hair swings in front of my eyes and I jam it behind my ears. The scent of fresh coffee fills the air. I plunge the knife into the screen and yank downward, surprised at how little resistance the mesh gives. The slicing makes a harsh, zipping sound.

“Chirp?” my father calls from the kitchen. “Get a move on. The bagels are here and they’re still hot.”

I jam my leg through the gash, wincing as the rigid frame bruises my groin, and bend myself in two trying to get out. My head collides with the metal frame and stars dance in front of my eyes. I wiggle through the jagged tear, clutch the sash, and drag my other leg through.

“Chirp?” Out in the hallway.

The drop is seven feet and I’m five foot six. The lawn slopes away from the building and I stumble backward as I touch down, then sit hard. I scramble up and cast a panicked glance at ancient, wide-eyed Grandma Calvinetti and one of her twin grandsons sitting on her front porch across from us.

She crosses herself and covers his eyes.

I take off around the blind side of my building, down the lawn in four lightning strides, across the court, behind Andy’s building, and up his back steps.

I rap the glass and press up against the door. If my father comes out our back door instead of the front he’ll spot me immediately and it’ll all be over. Feverishly, I wonder how much time the lock will buy me and know it won’t be much. Minutes? Seconds? My father is already suspicious; how long will he wait to break into my room when I don’t respond?

The answer comes almost immediately.

“What the…?” His astonished voice floats out of my bedroom window and through the morning air.

“What is it, Charles?” my mother says. “Oh my…someone broke in?”

“Not
in,
you idi—” My father stops and then, “Meredith? Meredith?”

His voice is much clearer now and I imagine him poking his head out of the torn screen, scanning the area, searching for me.

“Charles, what are you doing?” my mother asks. “I thought you said Meredith was taking a shower. Where are you going?”

“Out to find her,” he says, his voice fading.

I shrink closer to the door, hammering again with my knuckles. Come on, Ms. Mues. Come on. Come
on.
I cup my hands around my eyes and peer in through the crack in the curtains. The kitchen is empty.

Of course it is. She’s in her room packing for Iowa or in the bathroom imprisoned by cramps or—

A shadow cuts through the kitchen.

I straighten as Ms. Mues shuffles toward the door. Cast a nervous glance over my shoulder.

The curtains twitch apart. She peers out, her nonprescription glasses magnifying her perfect 20/20-vision eyes into giant boiled eggs, and her moon face creases in a smile.

“Well, good morning, Mer—” she begins, opening the door.

“Shh,” I hiss, plowing straight into her and rudely herding her backward into her own kitchen. I ease the door closed behind me, hearing, as I do, the sharp, angry crack of my front door slamming. “My father’s after me.” My composure takes a header and I’m caught in a full-body tremor. “He…he…he…”

“Not in here,” she says, wrapping her great arm around my quaking shoulders, sweeping me out of the kitchen and away from the windows. “We’ll go into Andy’s room, honey, and you can tell us both exactly what’s going on.”

We are halfway down the hallway when the knocking begins.