|
|
|
“Okay,” my mother said as I was tying my sneakers this morning, “let’s go over the words you’re not going to say at Ivy’s house."
“Fuck,” I said. “Shit.”
“Good.” My mother nodded and put a sandwich in my backpack.
“Asshole. Piss-brain.”
“Excellent, sweetie.” She took a lumpy, hand-rolled cigarette from her shirt pocket and held it in the air--her baton.
Seeing the yellow school bus swirl dust up the road, I rattled off the rest of the words in a hurry, my mother beating time with the yellow cigarette to each one. Then she brushed my cheek with her hand. “Nicely done, Marnie.”
For dinner at Ivy’s house--we’re eating a dish her mother calls Chicken Divan--I don’t let slip a single one of the words. Ivy’s brother Randall makes car engine sounds as he forks up green beans mixed with red things--pimentos, Ivy tells me.
After we’ve cleared the table, we go upstairs to Ivy’s mother’s private bathroom, where Ivy gives me a makeover. I sit on a white-cushioned stool while she plugs in a curling wand and hot rollers.
“Okay, first mousse.” She shakes a silver canister, and as she does, she squinches her mouth and eyes into an expression of disgust. Into her palm she squirts a white mound of foam that puffs out like a frog’s bulging throat. Ivy’s read magazines. She’s studied these things. She wears her hair a different way every day. She has barrettes and clips that part and twist its shining black mass, making waves, ridges.
Later, in Ivy’s bed, she fans my hair out on a silky pink pillowcase. “All right,” she says, “you be Wade Brooker for a minute and I’ll show you. I’ll show you how it’s done.” Ivy leans her face close to me. Her hair brushes my cheek. “Just. Like. This.” She puts her lips on mine.
My eyes are open, but Ivy’s are closed. She’s off in a long-gone dream of Wade Brooker in which some entirely other version of me plays the starring role. She snuggles closer and presses harder against my mouth.
My hand pats her shoulder. I’ve done this kissing thing before so I’m less susceptible. And besides, I know how it’s supposed to go.
Gently, sweetly, I push Ivy away. “Quit it, Ivy.”
“All right, you be me then, and I’ll be Brooker.” She lies on her side and smiles at me happily. “Okay, Marnie?”
“No.” I cross my arms on my chest. “This is stupid.”
Ivy flops onto her back, sighs heavily.
“He’ll never love you in a million years,” I say and pull the covers up to my chin. It’s such a pressure on my patience to be sweet all the time.
“Okay,” my mother said as I was tying my sneakers this morning, “let’s go over the words you’re not going to say at Ivy’s house."
“Fuck,” I said. “Shit.”
“Good.” My mother nodded and put a sandwich in my backpack.
“Asshole. Piss-brain.”
“Excellent, sweetie.” She took a lumpy, hand-rolled cigarette from her shirt pocket and held it in the air--her baton.
Seeing the yellow school bus swirl dust up the road, I rattled off the rest of the words in a hurry, my mother beating time with the yellow cigarette to each one. Then she brushed my cheek with her hand. “Nicely done, Marnie.”
For dinner at Ivy’s house--we’re eating a dish her mother calls Chicken Divan--I don’t let slip a single one of the words. Ivy’s brother Randall makes car engine sounds as he forks up green beans mixed with red things--pimentos, Ivy tells me.
After we’ve cleared the table, we go upstairs to Ivy’s mother’s private bathroom, where Ivy gives me a makeover. I sit on a white-cushioned stool while she plugs in a curling wand and hot rollers.
“Okay, first mousse.” She shakes a silver canister, and as she does, she squinches her mouth and eyes into an expression of disgust. Into her palm she squirts a white mound of foam that puffs out like a frog’s bulging throat. Ivy’s read magazines. She’s studied these things. She wears her hair a different way every day. She has barrettes and clips that part and twist its shining black mass, making waves, ridges.
Later, in Ivy’s bed, she fans my hair out on a silky pink pillowcase. “All right,” she says, “you be Wade Brooker for a minute and I’ll show you. I’ll show you how it’s done.” Ivy leans her face close to me. Her hair brushes my cheek. “Just. Like. This.” She puts her lips on mine.
My eyes are open, but Ivy’s are closed. She’s off in a long-gone dream of Wade Brooker in which some entirely other version of me plays the starring role. She snuggles closer and presses harder against my mouth.
My hand pats her shoulder. I’ve done this kissing thing before so I’m less susceptible. And besides, I know how it’s supposed to go.
Gently, sweetly, I push Ivy away. “Quit it, Ivy.”
“All right, you be me then, and I’ll be Brooker.” She lies on her side and smiles at me happily. “Okay, Marnie?”
“No.” I cross my arms on my chest. “This is stupid.”
Ivy flops onto her back, sighs heavily.
“He’ll never love you in a million years,” I say and pull the covers up to my chin. It’s such a pressure on my patience to be sweet all the time.
|
|
|
