Testimony from Your Perfect Girl Read online

  Jay and I look at one another, not understanding what the hell Desjarlais is all about, but understanding they’re having some sort of hidden argument loaded with insider info.

  “This is really good pie,” Jay says to Nicole.

  “I didn’t make it,” she says, looking at her empty plate with longing.

  “What kind of pie is it?” he says.

  “Turtle nut,” she says.

  “What?” he asks, his voice breaking a bit, and I hold back laughter.

  “Turtle nut.”

  Jay and I both crack up, and Nicole and Skip exchange glances that seem to say, What the nut did we sign up for?

  * * *

  • • •

  In room. Alone. First night. Lying in bed, staring at the TV, staring at the ceiling.

  I need to use the bathroom but don’t want to go into the hall in case someone’s out there. It’s so weird not having my own bathroom. I’ve never not had that before. Around fourteen more nights of this to go? And what if it’s longer? Commuting? Coming back from school to this? How will I tolerate that? What pleases me, or comforts me, is the fact that I know how restless Jay must be. He’s never alone, and now he is. I bet he’s pacing, talking on the phone, texting, flipping channels. Ah, there it is. I smell the weed, get up from bed, and see smoke billowing out his window. I open my window and can hear him on the phone talking to someone, wanting to know what’s going on tonight.

  I stand still, doing something he can’t.

  I lie back down on my bed and continue to watch some show about catching child predators. Holy shit. I realize I need to get up to change channels. I won’t be able to stand this for even one more day, let alone fourteen. I stand up, press the button on the side of the TV. The screen has a three-second delay after my push, and I’m about to break ass, so I just settle on PBS and return to bed, mumbling the phrase “I’m speakin’ to you, pig shit,” like it’s my calming mantra, which, I guess, it is.

  I tune in, sleepy and thankful for this tiredness. I listen to the narrator on the television, letting his words sink in, my brain doing what it will with this new information.

  . . . A moving record of Colorado’s transformation. Here everything seems somehow larger, grander than life. It’s easy to understand why so many different people see their innermost lives as inextricably linked to the ground upon which they stand. The story of Colorado is a series of triumphs, a relentless epic in which greed and cruelty are often glossed over as enterprise and courage.

  This is good. My eyelids feel like they’re carrying tiny weights. I’m comforted by the fireplace out in the living room, the thought of blue and orange embers losing light.

  5

  Morning. Our first real day living here. I’m in this sad room, in a big T-shirt and small underwear. Do I need to get fully dressed to go out there? Can I wear what I’m wearing? Of course not. Usually, at least on school days, Mira brings breakfast to my room on a tray—coffee, fruit, two eggs—but now my peaceful mornings in a shirt and underwear are gone. I pull on some jeans, even though I absolutely hate eating breakfast with pants on. I walk out and hear Skip and Nicole talking in the kitchen, so I stop at the end of the hall.

  “Put clothes on!” I hear Nicole say. “We have the kids now.”

  I guess Skip has to say good-bye to peace and underwear too.

  “All right, all right,” he says, and then appears in front of me with jeans on, but shirtless. Jay comes out of the bathroom, shirtless and in boxers.

  “Morning, everyone,” Skip says.

  “Hi,” I bleat, sheeplike. I have an uncle with abs.

  “Morning,” Jay says, all at ease with himself and his surroundings. “Your toilet has such a strong flush!”

  “Oh, thanks,” Skip says. “Go on out, get some breakfast.” Skip pats Jay on the back. I see them in a fantasy football league; it’s looming there on the horizon.

  I do a thumbs-up, then walk out to the kitchen, cursing my thumb for going up like that. I am not a thumbs-upper or a high-fiver.

  Nicole stands in the kitchen chugging water out of a glass. She’s in tight running pants and a tight black shirt. Her collarbone looks like a boomerang. A black headband holds her hair off her face, and after putting down her water, she swoops it up into a ponytail. She looks ready to run a something-K. Her body puts me in mind of beef jerky. It’s like some of the skater girls, just a few who are all muscle, and yet what is she training for?

  “Morning,” I say. I can’t imagine it ever becoming comfortable here.

  “Morning,” she says, looking down. I realize that she’s just as shy and uncomfortable as I am.

  Except for her brown-blond hair, she doesn’t look like my mom at all. Maybe it’s the wardrobe; maybe it’s the lack of maintenance; maybe it’s because she’s younger. She’s pretty, in an effortless, natural way. A hidden way. She could be on the cover of Granola Magazine, if that existed. Or Outdoor Salad. The Hike Within. My mom is a different kind of pretty. Head-turning. You see her right away. She looks like you’re supposed to think she’s hot. She looks rich. It’s funny to think how their different looks must have determined what happened to them in life. Even though I look more like my mom—I’m supposed to, both she and my father would freak if I didn’t put an effort into my looks—I’m determined not to be like my mom. I don’t want to be a trophy wife. I want to be the person who wins the trophies: my dad. That’s why I work for him in the summers, why I work my ass off in school, and why I try to not let the small dramas of high school affect me. My dad doesn’t have many friends either. They’re a distraction.

  I walk into the kitchen, not really knowing what I’m allowed to do.

  “Help yourself to whatever,” Nicole says. “No maid here.”

  “I was going to make some eggs,” I say. I like to cook, and hope I’ll still be able to. “If there are any. Should we get our own groceries?”

  “No,” she says. “It’s all taken care of. Here.” She opens the fridge and hands me a carton of eggs. “I can’t believe how expensive they are these days.”

  Is she just making conversation or reminding me about the cost of things?

  “Let’s see.” She scurries around the kitchen. “Here’s a bowl and skillet and—just help yourself. Feel free to rummage around. Open cupboards to your heart’s content.”

  “Thanks.” I roam for ingredients, finding a spice rack, though the spices look dense and old. I open the canister of oregano and take a whiff.

  “You should buy small quantities of this,” I say.

  She’s staring at me as though thoroughly confused. Jay’s right. I really don’t know how to talk to people. My tone is all wrong. I smile to make up for its deafness.

  “Short shelf life, that’s all. Ha. Try saying that three times.” I do it. “Short shelf life, short shelf life, short shelf life. Guess it wasn’t that hard.”

  She looks at the oregano in my hand, then at me. “Okay,” she says. “Noted.”

  “I wasn’t being critical—”

  She holds her hands up. “No, no, you just . . . sounded like your mom for a sec. She . . . criticizes a lot. I’m not saying you were criticizing.”

  “I was just suggesting.” I take another whiff.

  “She does that too! She suggests. Sorry. I just got off the phone with her, and . . .” She pulls on her tight shirt at the chest as if she needs air.

  “What did she say?” I ask.

  “Not much. She was heading out . . . to court.” She cringes, knowing how strange that sounds.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I don’t have a lot to tell you. She doesn’t really give me all the details.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I know what’s going on.”

  She smiles with her mouth closed.

  Last Christmas my four-year-old cousin who li
ves in New York told me he stays up very late with huge bowls of candy with all his friends on the top bunk. I looked at him and smiled in the way Nicole is looking at me now, like his self-delusions were cute and that I had to build his self-esteem.

  “Skip said the same thing about the oregano,” she says. “He said I bought too much.”

  Great. It’s like I was just declared the winner. “Would you like an omelet?” I ask.

  “No, thanks. I just ate, but thank you.”

  “I can cook,” I say. “Earn my keep.”

  She grabs her ankle behind her and raises it to her butt. “You don’t need to earn your keep. We’re happy to have you.”

  I can tell this was hard for her to say. I start to move around again, gathering milk and a bowl and a whisk. The kitchen is actually kind of nice. I like the small size. It’s like putting on a puppet show. I chop some small bell peppers and grate sharp cheddar. It’s very good cheese. Skip must have bought it. It might be nice living with someone who owns a restaurant.

  “So is cooking one of your hobbies, then?” Nicole asks, switching legs.

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s something I do with—” I stop myself, not wanting to tell her it’s something I do with Mira, not just because it sounds spoiled, this fact we have a cook, but also because it sounds sad—my mom didn’t teach me to cook. The help did. “Something I do,” I say.

  I heat the peppers, and when the pan sizzles, I pour in the milky whisked eggs, tapping in salt and a bit of nutmeg. “Is running one of your hobbies?” I put the heat on low.

  “It relaxes me,” she says, but seems unsure about this. “It’s supposed to.”

  Jay and Skip walk out from the hall, Jay wearing just his snow pants with the suspenders hanging.

  “Then you don’t have to deal with the line at the gondola,” Skip says to Jay, and then eyes my skillet. “Whoa. Look at that.”

  Skip comes into the kitchen to look at my breakfast in the making. Jay follows. He sees Nicole’s box of cereal and puts his hand in it.

  “Morning, Aunt Nicole,” Jay says. Nicole backs up against the sink. The cramped space is getting to her. There’s a commotion in her kitchen, and she’s probably used to being here alone in a big tee and small undies.

  “Morning,” she says.

  “I was just telling Jay to catch the shuttle right to Peak Eight, then go to the T-bar. It’s supposed to be good up there. Any plans today?” Skip asks, looking at the skillet, then my face.

  “Um,” I say. “Not really.”

  Skip and Nicole communicate. He raises his eyebrows and twists his mouth. She closes her eyes for a second and exhales. This seems to solve something.

  “I’m okay on my own, though,” I say, looking back and forth between the two. “I don’t, like, need to be babysat.”

  “We know,” Skip says. “Just thinking of things you can do while you’re here. Don’t want you to get bored. Hon, maybe you could see if Jen’s daughter—”

  “Who’s Jen?” Nicole asks, putting on tight green gloves.

  “Jen,” he says, and pantomimes someone with either big boobs or who carries large sacks of groceries.

  “Jen from work?” She plugs earphones into her phone, then straps it to her arm. I feel like I’m watching an assassin getting dressed. “She’s a weirdo.”

  “Well, maybe her daughter isn’t,” Skip says.

  “Her daughter’s the one I’m talking about,” Nicole says.

  “Oh,” he says.

  “Okay, yeah, I gotta go to work,” she says. “I’ll give you guys some room.”

  Skip looks at me and Jay, and pantomimes jogging. “She runs to work.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  Nicole pushes Skip a bit against the dishwasher. “Excuse me, if I could get by.”

  She totally could have gotten by, but I guess this is the way she’s going about delivering some kind of point.

  “Have a good day!” Skip calls.

  She leaves, slamming the front door. Jay and I exchange glances. It’s quiet now, except for the sounds of my cooking.

  “She’s on meds that make her a little moody,” Skip says.

  We don’t say a word.

  “But she’s not on them right now, though, so . . . I guess that’s not why she’s moody, and, well, I didn’t need to tell you any of that. About the meds.” He nods as if deciding on something. “We’ll all get used to each other.”

  I put the finished product on a plate and slide it toward Skip. “What are the meds for?” I ask.

  “Thanks so much,” he says, opening a drawer and taking out three forks. “Wow. Beautiful. The drugs, yeah, uh, they’re for babies. For having babies. Fertility.” He walks around to the stools and has a seat.

  “Oh.” I pour in more eggy mixture for Jay. “Congratulations.”

  “For what?” Skip says.

  “Yeah, for what?” Jay says. He leans on the counter across from us.

  “I don’t know—trying? Doing it. The whole baby thing, not it . . .” Damn. I put some green pepper in my mouth to keep me quiet.

  “They say children are the future,” Jay says.

  “Shut up,” I say. The pepper didn’t work.

  “We’re super excited,” Skip says.

  I finish Jay’s stupid omelet, not giving it as much time as Skip’s. I slide it across the small island as violently as possible, and he catches it in a way that lends the whole thing grace.

  Skip sits next to Jay on the other bar stool. “This is great,” Skip says. “Crispy on the outside and creamy in the middle. This is just delightful.”

  I cook mine and eat standing up. I wonder what Sammy’s doing right now. It’s crazy that he may just be sitting in his playpen, laughing and flapping his arms. What if that was part of my daily routine? I’m just going to flap my arms, maybe cry and poop. How long will it last for him?

  “Sammy does this thing right now,” I say. “His kissy face. He puckers up like this and stares at you.” I imitate Sammy, and so does Jay. We both look at Skip with our kissy faces, and he responds with a huge smile. HUGE. It doesn’t seem to take much to make him very happy.

  “Classic!” Skip hits his thigh and laughs a deep belly laugh. “That’s great.” His smile comes down. “Look, I’m sorry about all of this. I don’t know if you want to talk about anything or . . . if you don’t want to talk about it at all or . . . if something is on the news, should I let you watch it?”

  “Have you seen something today?” I ask.

  “Well, in the paper today, there was a bit about his secretary filing a lawsuit. I guess she invested about thirty grand. She has a sick kid and . . .” Skip looks down. “It’s kind of horrible.”

  My chest tightens. I like Joanie Lee. When I was little, I’d go to her office to wait for my dad and she’d give me candy and her iPad. It’s a horrible situation, but it’s not really his fault she decided to invest. If anything, he was giving her an opportunity.

  “That’s awful,” I say, wishing she hadn’t taken such a risk.

  Skip nods and takes a bite of his omelet, head down, serious, like my eggs are Communion. He glances behind him at the living room. “This must be really disappointing. I mean, your house is huge.”

  This makes me feel bad about my snobbery. I wonder if my parents could just give them some money, at least for some nicer furniture.

  “No, we’re sorry we’re putting you out,” Jay says.

  “You’re not putting us out at all,” Skip says, and I can tell he means it and that we may be something fun for him—something new he can sink his teeth into, like a chew toy.

  “It’s silly that we live so close and never spend time with you guys,” he says.

  “Why is that?” Jay lifts his fork, stretching the cheese. “You’re like these strangers who we know.”

  I
t’s true. That’s exactly who they are—and why is this? Why don’t we know my mom’s only sister? Why don’t we do Christmases together? I wonder if I can figure it out while I’m here. I can’t imagine growing up and never speaking to Jay.

  “That’s going to change now,” Skip says. “I’m fired up that you’re here, and flattered—we’re both very honored that you chose us.”

  Jay and I exchange glances, but remain silent, not wanting to burst his bubble. He reminds me of our old dog Linus, welcoming us home, even if we were gone for just a moment—he’d give a high-pitched hum-cry, wagging his body and peeing a little.

  “We can be practice kids,” I say. “Dummies. But then you’ll probably want to get your tubes tied. Or whatever they do.”

  My jokes just don’t go over very well, but Skip laughs anyway.

  “Nicole’s happy you’re here, too.” He rubs his face in a way that makes me think that he once had a beard.

  I’m afraid I’m not hiding my skepticism very well. Jay slides his plate toward me, and I catch it, then put it in the sink.

  “It’s going to work,” Skip says. “I want you to feel at home here for the next week. Or two. However long.”

  I finish my bite. “Well, I never found home that great, but let’s go.”

  Skip shakes his head, gives me a teasing smile like I’m just joking. I am, in a way—it’s a line from A Fistful of Dollars—but when I delivered the quote, I felt like I was saying something a little true, because now that I’m not home, I’m not sure what it is that I miss.

  6

  It’s nice with both Skip and Nicole gone. I can roam the house and open drawers and closet doors. I can use the bathroom in peace. I can scope out the food situation.

  I read the titles of books on the shelf by the fireplace: Winsor Pilates, Colorado Settlers and Native Americans, The Truth About Sporting Dogs. So . . . what is the truth?

  “Hey,” Jay says, walking from the hall, now fully dressed for outdoor adventure. “I’m outs. Want to come with?”

  “I don’t know.” I keep looking at books. He knows that I don’t know means no.