Testimony from Your Perfect Girl Page 13

  “Is that beer for me?” Jay asks.

  Skip looks at the beers as if forgetting he’s holding them. “No,” he says. “The second one’s just . . . in my queue. But you may as well have it. Have a case! I’ve failed the parenting exam.”

  He really does look like he’s failed something he was really working hard at. I almost want to comfort him. But I’m naked. And I’m about to get lectured.

  “Where’s Aunt Nicole?” Jay asks.

  “She’s at GNO, girls’ night out, or moms’ night out, which means she’s probably drunk, because she hates GNO. I told her I have it under control. I have you guys under control. Wrong!” He looks up, the dazed look hardening. “Look at you kids. The dynamic duo. I’m at a loss.”

  Jay and I look at one another.

  “Damn it!” Skip says. “Brose. Damn punk. I did him a favor, and . . . Jesus, Nicole’s going to annihilate me. Don’t tell her anything. Not yet. Okay?” He exhales violently. “I need a sec. Annie, get dressed. Meet outside in the shed. I need to move around or something. Goddamn it.” He walks out, shaking his head.

  “So busted,” Jay says.

  * * *

  • • •

  I walk outside fully dressed with my ski coat and a blanket wrapped around me. Skip’s in the shed, sawing something. When I get closer, I see a blueprint of a crib tacked to the wall.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He stops sawing, takes a drink of his Pabst, and looks back.

  “Hey,” he says. Then he looks behind me, and I turn to see Jay loafing up with his hands in his pockets.

  “Jesus, you don’t need to be here,” I say.

  Jay shrugs. “I want to be here.”

  I let it go, thinking it might be less awkward this way.

  The shed smells like sawdust, which always gives me a good feeling, like something’s on the verge of being. Skip sits on a tree stump. I see some more along the wall and figure I should pull up a stump, too. I grab one, but it doesn’t budge, so I just sit on it where it is. Jay is looking at the picture of the crib.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Skip says. “We need to address this, but I really don’t know how to go about it.”

  “Yeah,” I say, not knowing what else I can add. My body feels different. It’s reminding me that something has happened to it. I almost feel like it’s another person that I’m trying to hide.

  “I hope you know to be safe,” Skip says. “You know—to use protection, not just for pregnancy but, I don’t know, warts and such.”

  Jay and I exchange looks and cringe.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not there yet.”

  I feel good about this lie. He looks so incredibly relieved.

  “Good,” he says. “Okay. Okay. It’s not bad. It’s just . . . There’s a sweet phase. Don’t go too fast.”

  He’s addressing the floor, so he can’t see our bewildered faces. “Don’t bypass the sweet phase. You’re young. There’s this innocent exploration. But then . . . well, it kind of ends, and—” Now he looks up. “I’m responsible for you, Annie. I don’t want you to get hurt. This goes for both of you.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry.” And I truly am. To hear him say he’s responsible for us warms me up inside. I can’t imagine my father saying something like that, or working in a shed with a beer and sawdust. It’s so peaceful here, a place where even though you’re alone, you probably don’t feel alone.

  “I know I’m not covering this completely,” he says. “Again, I’m kind of new at this. But Brose shouldn’t be here when adults aren’t here. You shouldn’t have boys over.” He looks at Jay, unsure if this is a practical rule, and then he seems to give up.

  “I know you’re smart,” he says to me. “And I’m sure your parents have already gone over all of this.”

  Nope. Never. The only thing my mom said about puberty was that I should try to stay thin so I wouldn’t get my period too early and stop growing. Mira helped me when I actually got my period, and the rest was covered in school.

  “Hell, maybe this is just fine and dandy, then,” he says, getting no response from us. “But in my house, I don’t want boys over without my knowledge. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  He picks up the jigsaw—at least that’s what I think it is. “And don’t tell Nicole about this either,” he says, gesturing to the crib. “She’ll think I’m jinxing it.”

  “That’s sweet, man,” Jay says. “This is cool.” Jay walks over to the frame and runs his hand along it. “A father’s gift made with his hands. That’s something.”

  His voice is serious, and I know we’re both thinking of Dad, trying to remember him making anything. There was that time when he made wine at one of his company retreats.

  “Your dad’s given you some pretty good stuff, too, I bet,” Skip says.

  True. He’s given us more than most kids will ever have, and yet nothing like this sweet crib, a place to sleep and dream.

  Jay and I don’t say anything.

  “What would he do?” Skip says. “Your dad.”

  “About what?” I ask.

  “About you,” he says. His eyes are kind, searching. I want to help him make this crib. I want to be good to him.

  “He’d ground her,” Jay says, not meanly. “He’d have Mom deal with it.”

  I shrug. He’s right.

  “What would he do if it was you?” Skip asks Jay. “What if he caught you with a girl?”

  “I don’t know,” Jay says. “I mean—he gave me condoms once.”

  “Okay, then,” Skip says, and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Annie, you’re not grounded, but we need to go over some house rules—I might think of more things, so this isn’t over, and I think we’ll need to talk more about sex.”

  He yells this last word as if forcing it off his tongue and then goes back to sawing wood. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. I’ll come up with some . . . guidelines. And I’ll need to share this with Nicole.”

  He saws harder, and it seems he’s done with us. Jay tilts his head toward the house and heads across the yard. I get up, mumble a good-night.

  “Annie?” Skip says, but doesn’t turn to face me.

  “Yeah?” I say, and then add, “Yes?” to be more polite.

  “Brose isn’t . . . He’s not right for you.”

  A tinge of defensiveness tints the remorse I was just feeling. “Because he’s in college?” I ask. Or because he’s hardworking, moral, from an uncorrupted family.

  “Yes,” Skip says. “And he’s . . . he’s got stuff going on.”

  “I know,” I say, kind of smugly. I’m sure I know way more about it than he ever will, but it’s hard to take a tone with Skip. He’s such a good guy. I’m sure he’s just looking out for both of us.

  “He told me his dad lost his job and doesn’t know that Brose is taking time off Boulder to work.”

  Skip nods, starts to speak, then holds back. He takes a sip of his beer. “I’ve known his family a long time,” he says. “Besides, you’re not here for much longer. You wouldn’t want to, you know, get attached.”

  “Right,” I say. “Good night, then.” I walk back to the house.

  I get into bed. I keep hearing Brose’s voice, how he told Skip that I’m giving and that I’m different. I pull up the covers and close my eyes. I think about the secret crib, and I can’t believe I was ever so small or that there was a time when my parents didn’t know who I was or who I’d be: a woman. I think about Skip saying I’d be leaving soon and how that gave me a surprising punch of sadness; how Skip asked Jay what my dad would do if it were him getting caught with a girl. For the first time in my life, I was treated the same as my brother.

  18

  The next morning, everything changes, or everything is about to change. I can tell when I get hom
e and walk through the front door that Nicole was waiting for me and she’s angry, which makes me defensive and angry too.

  “Where were you?” she asks.

  I close the door, then hold up my two bags of groceries. “King Soopers. I wanted to make eggs Benedict.”

  “You need to tell us where you’re going.” She looks tired, and there’s a snarl in her hair on the side of her head that looks like a little cactus. I can’t believe she’s my mom’s sister. Right now she looks like someone who’d be eligible for an ambush makeover.

  I put my bags on the counter. “Okay. I’ll tell you where I’m going.”

  She looks in a bag as if she doesn’t believe I went to the store. “And I think you shouldn’t go anywhere. Skip told me you had a visitor last night.”

  “Yeah, and he said I wasn’t grounded.” I take out the spinach and wash it in the sink.

  “That was before talking to me.” She starts emptying the dishwasher, so we’re standing side by side. She reaches up to the cabinets to put the mugs away. I have the urge to grab her skinny arms and squeeze them.

  “What are you grounding me for?” I ask calmly. “Having sex? You and Skip do that all the time, I’m sure.”

  She drops a pile of forks into the drawer. “You’re grounded for saying that about me and Skip—that is very disrespectful, and we don’t do it all the time. Jesus. On certain days we do, and it’s none of your business. And, wait, you had sex?” She slams the silverware drawer shut. I think I hear the breath coming out of her nostrils.

  “No,” I lie.

  “You’re grounded for drinking, and bringing strangers in the house, and for—I didn’t know where you were just now, so for that.”

  “I didn’t know those rules,” I say.

  “Well, now you know.” She opens the drawer again, dropping in more utensils.

  “Now you blow,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  I leave the groceries and walk toward my room.

  “Please pick up after yourself,” she calls.

  “I always pick up after myself and Jay and you.” I turn to face her.

  She has this weird expression, like she’s angry but doesn’t want me to go.

  “You never ask Jay to clean up. You never bother him when he comes home late. You just don’t like me . . . or my father, and you’re jealous of my mother.”

  “Jealous?” she says, gripping the counter. “You spoiled—you—if you only knew . . . Ow! I was biting my tongue, and I really bit my tongue!”

  “You have sharp incisors. You should get them sawed down.”

  “What is your problem?” she asks. “Where does this all come from?”

  “What is your problem?” I ask. “Where does it come from for you?”

  We both stare at one another in disbelief. It’s a good question. We’re at a standstill.

  “You said, ‘if I only knew,’” I say. “If I only knew what?”

  She takes a deep breath and puts both hands on the counter. “Where to begin. If you only knew that I’m protecting you. I think you should stay away from Brose, for one. Two, if you only knew how much I love your mother. I’d do anything for her, and I have. And I do like you. Sort of.” She looks down and smiles.

  “Are you going to tell my mom?” I ask. The thought of her knowing makes me feel a deep shame. She’d be so disgusted with me, not for being with a guy, but being with a guy like Brose. She’d only see a scruffy college dropout.

  “I’ll tell her in a heartbeat if you fuck with me,” Nicole says. She crosses her arms in front of her. She is such a fit human. She’s like a caribou.

  “You’re not technically grounded,” she says. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “But tonight I’d like you to come home.” She continues to unload the dishes. “I highly recommend it.”

  “Isn’t that being grounded?” I say.

  “No. Because I’m asking you to stay home. And today I’d like you to hang out with one of us. Skip’s way out in Sanford picking up fish. I’m going running. So I guess you’re going running, too.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “You put one foot in front of the other quickly. Get dressed.”

  “I don’t have runner clothes,” I say.

  “Uh-oh,” she sings. “You’re fucking with me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I look at myself in Nicole’s bathroom mirror. I’m wearing her clothes: running tights and a long-sleeved sweat-wicking shirt. Or so says the label. Both items are tight. Both items are yellow. I look like a short giraffe. I open her drawers, just like I’d do in my mom’s bathroom, but in there I’d slather her wrinkle cream onto my face and hands and spritz her perfume into my hair. I don’t want to use Nicole’s stuff, though. She doesn’t have nearly as much as my mom.

  I take one more look at my ridiculous self before going on this ridiculous run and then something in the garbage can catches my eye. It looks like a thermometer, but then I see the box next to it. It’s a pregnancy test. I turn to leave then pivot back to look again. I take the box out of the trash to see how to read it, then I use the box to flip the stick over. Two lines positive. One line negative. There’s one blue line.

  I imagine her in this bathroom as I am now, looking at this stick, and something—her hope—sinking, then disappearing. How many times did she check it? I wonder. How long did she stare at it? Or, knowing Nicole, I could see her looking at the results, tossing the stick, washing her hands, and putting on her running shoes, tricking herself into being okay. Knowing Nicole. I know Aunt Nicole, I realize, and something in me sinks a little too. I feel so absolutely sorry for her.

  I walk outside. The sky is wrapped up in a thick gray cloud, and it seems to heave a bit. Everything is so quiet today, as if the landscape is waiting patiently for whatever these clouds have in store for it.

  Nicole and her friend wait for me on the road. Her friend has a double stroller with huge wheels.

  “You want Giraffey or Mum Mums?” she asks the babies. “Bookie?”

  One of the babies furrows her brow like she’s incredibly angry or pooping or both. “Okay, Bookie is making you upset,” she says, then shakes her head and looks up at me.

  “This is my niece, Annie,” Nicole says. “Annie, Tanya.”

  “Hi there,” Tanya says. She’s really chirpy, and her eye contact is forceful and intense.

  “Hello,” I say.

  She has black curly hair and pale, freckled skin. “These are the twins,” she says. “Lily and Rose.” She aims the stroller at me. “Can you say ‘hi,’ friends?” She does sign language to the babies, but they just stare into space, because they’re babies.

  “Cute outfits,” I say. They wear matching onesies that look like sheepskin. I wish I had one in my size. I’d put it on and watch movies all day. Maybe I’d go find a flock of sheep—see if they noticed I wasn’t truly one of them.

  Tanya says in a baby voice meant to give me the illusion that her babies are talking, “We got them at Marty’s. BOGO.”

  Nicole looks away, possibly embarrassed that this is her friend.

  “Bogo?” I ask, snapping my tight pants against my leg.

  “Buy One Get One Free!” Tanya says, again with the baby voice.

  “That’s BOGOF,” I say, and Nicole seems to stifle a laugh.

  “Should we go?” She presses something on her watch, which makes me nervous, like I’m in PE.

  “Let’s do this!” Tanya yells, and I’m startled by the sound of her sudden adult voice, squeak free and gravelly deep. And then they’re off, like—bam!—a couple of cheetahs. They don’t start with a light jog either. They basically gallop out of the gates, and I feel like a cartoon waddling after them, duck-like. I’m in shape from skating, but this is different. I don’t run. I’ve
never been a good runner. I follow them out of the neighborhood to the trail across the street. I almost turn back around, but then keep telling myself, At that rock up ahead I can stop, but then I pass the rock and think, At that shadow up ahead I can stop, and then I pass the shadow and various other landmarks and find that my legs don’t feel like they’re moving through banks of snow anymore. Still, these are old ladies I’m running with, and they’re far ahead. I see them, I see them, I see them, and then I don’t, and I’m alone with my breath and the mountain, so poised and regal alongside me.

  When I round the corner, Nicole’s there with the stroller, and she’s holding a fussy baby, who looks awkward in her arms. She holds her under the armpits, and the baby kicks in space.

  When I stop, I lean over to take a few breaths, hoping I don’t yak or keel over. I haven’t exercised in so long. It’s been wonderful.

  “Here’s your giraffe,” Nicole says to the baby. “Giraffey.”

  I look up, thinking that she’s talking about me—the giraffe has arrived—but she’s holding the baby close to her now and shaking a plastic giraffe in her face. Then she puts that down and shakes a tube of Puffs.

  “I love those things,” I say, even though they look kind of repulsive to me at this moment.

  “Did you see a pacifier?” Nicole asks. “That one dropped it.” She points at a baby.

  “I can’t breathe,” I say.

  “Tanya went to look for it on a side trail we took. This one started screaming, so I picked it up. I should have left it alone.”

  The baby starts to head butt Nicole. “She’s trying to nurse,” I say.

  Nicole looks down at her chest. “Well, she’s shit out of luck.”

  I think of the pregnancy test and wish I didn’t know about it. “Here,” I say. I hold out my arms and Nicole hands her to me. I cradle her close and put my finger into her mouth. She closes her eyes and sucks, then opens her eyes again. There’s wonderment in her eyes like I’m a gigantic gem.

  “Which one is this?” I ask. Her eyelashes are like little whiskers.

  “No idea. Some kind of flower.” Nicole walks closer to us. She touches the baby’s little fist. “Look at you. You’re good at this.”