Testimony from Your Perfect Girl Read online

  “It worked with Sammy,” I say.

  A few flakes of snow drift by. I look up, and the clouds are still brewing. I love that snow starts like this, a passing whisper, and then when more comes down, it sounds the same. I’ve never seen something so powerful be so quiet.

  “You can teach me all the tricks,” Nicole says.

  I look for sadness in her eyes, that a little item from the drugstore didn’t change her life today when she wanted it to. Nothing to fill her bank, just an invisible, not-really-a-loss loss.

  “School starts soon.”

  “Right,” she says. I’m about to put the flower child back when Nicole says, “So, I know at this time in your life, you have desires.” I keep my eyes on the baby in the nook of my arm. “I get it. I’ve been there before.”

  I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She has her hands on her waist like she’s really considering something there on the ground.

  “It’s good to feel and desire and . . . feel, before it all goes numb down there. Wait, strike that.”

  I look up, but she’s looking away, up to the mountain.

  “It’s natural to . . . have urges. But you have to be careful.”

  I mumble some noise to show my acceptance. This lecture is so abrupt. I’m wearing tights and have a finger in a strange baby’s mouth. I take it out, feeling suddenly lurid. Fortunately she doesn’t cry.

  “You’re new in town,” Nicole says. “It’s flattering, I know. So many guys, you get pounced—god, I remember that—but um, take it easy, you don’t need to go all the way. You don’t want to be one of those . . . And even if you don’t . . . do it, like, do it, do it, that doesn’t make everything else okay. I mean it’s okay, but you’re young, and you have to watch your reputation. God. I just said that. I’m a feminist, so part of me wants to say—have at it! Strike that again.”

  Oh my god. I really want to put this baby down and run out of here. Or walk. Or get a ride. I’d really like a ride and some water and a onesie.

  “It’s just that I saw this thing on 20/20 where all these young girls are . . .”

  She makes the tongue-in-cheek sign for a blow job, and I think my face may look either drained of all color or stained red like a rooster’s wattle.

  “I mean, they think that’s innocent, and that’s not good either. Without love. Or not love, necessarily. It’s never really an act of love. But girls think because it’s not sex, that it’s fine. And it is, but . . . um . . . at such a young age, or any age, you want respect. And reciprocation. Oh god.” She lets out a big sigh.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard,” I say. “My friend kind of said the same thing.” My face flushes again. “I just wanted to try it, I mean, try . . . stuff.”

  I catch her smile, but she quickly does away with it. She looks on the verge of saying something, but seems to think better of it.

  “Why stay away from Brose?” I ask. “He seems like a nice guy to me.”

  “He’s very nice,” she says, almost thoughtful. “But he’s in college, and . . . you guys have different lives.”

  I give her the baby, whose face is morphing into discontentment, and now Nicole’s attention is on this child and not me.

  “What do I do?” she says as the baby starts to make pre-cries, thank god. Cry us out, please. Drown us.

  “Rock her a bit,” I say. “Remember the five S’s. Swing, put on side, shush, suck, swaddle.”

  She rocks the baby on its side.

  “Now go, ‘Shhh, shhh, shhh,’ right into her ear. It’s supposed to be like being in the womb.” Just the three S’s are working now, and she looks up at me, full of embarrassed pride.

  “We have some good monitors if you want them,” I say. “For when . . . you’re ready.”

  “What?” she says. It’s so cute, her confident gaze at the baby, watching her give in to joy.

  “Baby monitors,” I say. “I noticed some in my room. Or, the room I’m using. We have some better ones.”

  “Oh god,” she says. “Yeah, those were a gift. I miscarried last year; that’s why I have them. It’s also why I have these—” She looks around then whispers, “Sucky mom friends—god they’re horrible. They talk about what their babies eat, like, all the time! What they eat, what they’ve done. They clapped their hands! They can sit up! I mean, big deal. And look at this outfit.” She holds the baby upright, and the baby smiles, all gums. “I would never demean my baby this way.”

  She puts her back in the stroller, and the baby looks very alert and happy. “Anyway, I joined this moms group when I thought I was going to be a mom, but I’m not a mom. And I still have the monitors. So stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid,” I say. The wind hits my sweaty back. It feels nice to be outside. I actually feel like I could run again. “I’m going to be so sore,” I say. “I haven’t moved like this in a long time.”

  “Soreness is key,” Nicole says. “Proof.”

  “Yeah, I feel kind of good.” I look behind me and then ahead. We covered a lot, and there’s still so much more to go. We stand together in this field of ice and dead grass, my aunt and I. I’m relieved that the baby—some sort of flower—didn’t cry when she was put back into her stroller. I hope Nicole felt that she accomplished something.

  19

  That night I go to work with a feeling of peace. It’s like I’m a confidante, an adult, someone to be trusted and taken seriously. It’s a strange sensation. Even though I’ve kind of gotten in trouble here, I guess it feels good to be looked at.

  The kitchen is slow and quiet, which is disappointing. Brose isn’t here, and no one’s doing shots or playing music. Even Skip isn’t here, which is odd. I’m anxious, like not enough is happening. When you have crazy nights, it feels like a letdown when the others aren’t so crazy. I have nothing to do after and can’t imagine just sitting at home, especially after last night. It’s like I need to be with him.

  “What’s going on tonight?” I ask Rickie when she drops off a load of dishes. I scrape all the food off. Meat, potatoes, salad, crab legs.

  “That would have made some cold hobo really happy,” she says. “I don’t know what’s going on. I think some people are going to cruise at Corboy’s later. I need to go home, though. Tomorrow’s the Snow Sculpture first showing. My parents get all into it.”

  “That’s cute,” I say, wondering what it would be like to have parents like that, parents who made ice sculptures together for the town contest. I mean, that is innocence.

  “I have to remember that it’s cute,” she says, and looks around the kitchen. “It’s so classic that Skip basically put Brose on a time-out. He grounded Brose.”

  “So that’s why he’s not here?”

  “Yeah, Skip told him to not come in.”

  I look down. I told her what happened, and I’m not sure what she thinks.

  “You’re like Romeo and Juliet,” she says. “Broseo and Anniette. Banned from one another.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and it kind of does feel like that. Both Skip and Nicole told me to stay away from him, but it’s not like he’s that much older than me. Do they not want me around him because they know it would upset my parents? Would Nat—asshole, but rich and the right kind of boy—make the cut? Would I be allowed to see him? The thought makes me furious.

  “You’re welcome to come over and just chill,” Rickie says.

  “I think I’m grounded,” I say, “but I guess girls don’t count.”

  Rickie rolls her eyes, but smiles. “Yeah, girls are sweet and innocent. We have no interest in sex.” She winks, and I bite my lower lip, thinking that maybe I would be allowed over to Rickie’s. She isn’t Brose. She can’t get me pregnant. This makes me smile to myself, but then I see Tamara walk in, and she looks at me smiling and cringes like I have bird shit on my face.

  I load the rest of the dishes, help Pablo clean up, t
hen I clock out. I walk outside with Rickie. The air is sharp and clear, making me more alert and not ready to go home. I ask Rickie for Brose’s number. I gave mine to him and am surprised he hasn’t been in touch yet. I plug his number into my phone, prepared to be reckless like Juliet and meet him, but Rickie nudges me.

  “Look,” she says. “It’s your foster mom.”

  “Damn it.”

  Nicole is walking through the lot unsteadily. What is she doing? Her hair looks pretty, flowing out of a white beanie.

  “Hey there, Aunt Nicole,” I say.

  “Niece Annie!” she says, walking toward us, then coming to an abrupt stop. “What’s up, girlies? What the hell is going on?!”

  Rickie and I exchange looks.

  “You heading home?” she asks. “I think so, right? Since you’re not supposed to go out.” For some reason this is amusing to her. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Guess I’m going home,” I say to Rickie, and feel caught and anxious, not quite ready to accept this. There must be a way for me to meet him tonight. “Good luck tomorrow.” I imagine Rickie and her family creating something so cold and solid together.

  “Good luck.” She takes my hand, gives it a little shake. I feel her fingers glide against my own, and then she lets go.

  Inside the car, Nicole fumbles through her purse. “My keys are always lost, always.”

  “They’re on your lap,” I say, and she honks out a laugh.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” She hits my leg with her fist.

  “I didn’t know that’s what you were looking for.”

  She leans back into her seat. “Maybe you should drive.”

  I blow into my hands for warmth. “I’m not good at it. And I’m not supposed to drive if it’s snowing.”

  “It’s not far,” she says. “Great. I’ve just jinxed it. Now we can’t drive.”

  “We can walk,” I say.

  “Fuck that noise. It’s cold.”

  I hold back my laughter and look over at her. She’s like a teenager. She looks to the street, and something catches her eye.

  “Horses!” she says.

  * * *

  • • •

  We sit in the horse-drawn carriage, a blanket over our laps. The whole town is quiet tonight. Ribbons decorate the lampposts. I feel like I’m in a Christmas story and want to snuggle into an older time without cars. I text Brose: You around tonight?

  “There’s nothing that will take you away from the . . . crap of life better than a horse-drawn carriage,” Nicole says. “The romantic clip-clop of hooves will transport you to a Breckenridge past, rich with adventure and gold and whores and black sheep. Clip-clop!”

  The driver looks back at her, and Nicole rolls her eyes.

  “Is that from a pamphlet?” I ask.

  “Pretty much,” she says. “Hey, why don’t you drive? Isn’t that what all teens want?”

  “My mom thinks it’s dangerous, so—”

  “That’s stupid,” she says. “Jay does it. You can too. Equality. And what about when he goes to college? Who’s going to drive you to school . . . school and the malls? What if you still live with us? I can’t drive back and forth.”

  “I won’t be,” I say. At least I think I won’t be. School starts in four days. “So, did you paint the town tonight or what?”

  “No, I went down to see Skip—was he there just now? I forgot to look.”

  “No. He never came in.”

  “Hope he’s okay. Oh my god, what if he’s hurt, or dead! Anyway, we kind of celebrate every time I get a negative pregnancy test. I got one. When I went earlier to the restaurant, he wasn’t there, so I went out alone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling weird about already knowing.

  “It’s fine,” she says.

  “You celebrate?”

  “Yes, weird, I know. We have a drink, celebrate the two of us, because it won’t always be that way. That kind of thing. God, we’ve had a lot of celebrations.”

  “That’s a good attitude,” I say. I’m lulled by the rhythm of the horse’s steps, the bounce of the carriage.

  “Well, mostly I complain the whole night—like, ‘I’m such an infertile louse’ or ‘I’ve gotten pregnant three times before, why can’t I do it again’ kind of thing.” She yawns.

  “You’ve been pregnant three times?”

  “Yeah, yeah, two miscarriages, then before, long time ago, I was twenty-two, and my egg got pregnant, not me, so I guess that doesn’t count. Kinda counts, though.”

  The driver, perhaps hearing us, starts to whistle.

  “You gave your eggs to someone?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says, yawning again, loudly. Her eyes water.

  “Like, to make money?”

  “No, no, I gave them . . . to a friend.” She looks to her side of the street, where someone is selling roasted cashews.

  “Must have been a good friend,” I say, thinking of Cee, what I would have done for her. I don’t think I would have given her my future children.

  “Yes,” Nicole says. “She was.” The way she says this makes me think that it’s no longer the case.

  “Have you done IVF?” I ask.

  She looks over, maybe surprised I know what IVF is. Oh, I know, all right. If IVF is in your family, it’s your life too.

  “No,” she says. “Too many twins. I don’t want multiples—they’re everywhere now. Like the flower girls. Tanya did it. Plus, it’s expensive.”

  She steadies herself, grabbing my wrist. “I hate when moms want to have a kid right after their first so their kid can have a buddy. There are so many people on this damn planet—I mean, they’ll have a friggin’ buddy. And so many of them just decide. They just say, ‘I’m going to have a second one now.’ And then they do.”

  Her words tumble forth. I think how jealous of my mom she must have been, having Jay, then me so quickly after.

  “Listen to me,” she says. “I don’t even like babies. I actually hate them. The twins? Gardenia and whoever? I felt nothing. And I’m supposed to, right?” She grabs my elbow as if she’s falling.

  “Then why do you want one?” I ask.

  She sighs, and I wait for her to answer. “It’s been so long since we’ve been trying, I don’t even remember. It’s what comes next.”

  “You want a little buddy,” I say.

  “I want this place”—she gestures to everything around us, the mountain, the hotels, this snow-globe life—“to mean something. I want it to be our home. Skip and I have been doing the same things for a long time.”

  I must look confused.

  “Imagine nothing changing in your life, never graduating. I want to graduate. I know you can change your life in other ways, but I want the baby to be the way, and it’s just part of life, putting down roots, having collaborators. I look at your mom and like what she has. I’m not into kids, but I’ll love the baby after I’ve met her. I hope. I’m kind of banking on it.”

  “You will,” I say. “She’ll be yours.”

  Something passes over her face, and she seems to be holding something back. I think of my family as collaborators, but it just fills me with a bad feeling. What have we collaborated on? What have we done together? I feel guilty and dirty.

  “Right now I don’t even see a baby,” she says. “I see time running out. I’m forty.” She looks over at me. “You’re so young. You’re so pretty.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “You must hear that all the time,” she says. “Sorry. That’s not all you are.”

  I tuck my lips in, shy. “My mom had a hard time, too,” I say, trying to comfort her. “I guess Jay was easy, but it was harder for me, and she did IVF a bunch of times for Sammy. I know you’re not close, but . . . you could always talk to her.”

  Nicole looks per
plexed. The carriage comes to a stop at the end of Main Street.

  “Hope you’ve enjoyed the romantic clip-clop of horseshoes,” the driver says.

  “Will you turn into French Creek?” Nicole asks.

  “The horse stops here,” he says.

  “I’ll pay more for the horse to keep going. Or she will. She’s rich.”

  The driver looks at his watch, and then the horse continues on.

  It’s strange when we enter the dark residential neighborhood, like we’ve really traveled into the past. The horse looks sad, walking with its blinders. It’s funny that it’s less afraid when it can’t see as much. We’ve been quiet for a while, both in our own heads. I am at peace.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” she says.

  “Hmm?” I say, looking ahead so I don’t see the cars in people’s driveways. I want to pretend I’m in the past.

  “You and Jay are so close in age,” she says. “How’d she have a hard time with you? Didn’t seem hard. You came right after. Not like she tried for ten years.”

  “I never thought about that.”

  She laughs harshly. “And did she tell you Jay was easy?”

  I give her a conspiring grin. “I think it was her way of saying he was an accident.”

  “He wasn’t an accident,” she says. “And he definitely wasn’t easy. Nothing was easy about it.”

  I realize she’s really stewing, and I wonder what I’ve said wrong.

  “Okay. So, what, she lied?”

  “Yes. She did.”

  “It’s kind of an odd thing to lie about,” I say.

  “Your mother has always hidden things unnecessarily. Always. I mean, look at you now. You’re here. Hiding.”

  I stare ahead.

  “I cannot believe she told you that Jay came easy. Just wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. What’s the point of telling you that?”

  “I get you’re sensitive about—”

  “I’m not fucking sensitive.”

  “Whoa!” I say, my heart beating fast. The horse stops.