“I know we still need to go on a proper back-to-school shopping spree. Maybe we can go this weekend? I bought you this to tide you over for your first day.” I can see Patty in the mirror as I brush my teeth in the bathroom that adjoins the room where I sleep. Her cheeks are flushed and she’s smiling faintly. She lays a T-shirt and shorts on the bed, one above the other as if dressing a flat doll. She looks pleased with herself. It will be my first day ever at school, but I don’t tell her that. I swirl water around my cheeks and spit into the sink, then blot my mouth with a towel and climb up on the bed next to her.
“It’s pretty.” The shirt is pale yellow with pink flowers. There are little sparkly pink circles sewn onto the petals; when I run my finger over them, they shift and change to purple.
“Sequins,” Patty explains. She’s watching me carefully. The shorts are long and narrow and yellow cotton like the shirt.
“It’s the prettiest outfit I’ve ever seen,” I explain. She looks startled at first, then smiles big and hugs me. I stiffen; I can’t help it.
“Well, then.” She pulls away and breaks the tags off the clothes.
“I’ve never had clothes with tags.” I don’t know where the Mothers got our clothes, but when something new showed up, it always had stains or loose threads or pilling. And all the clothes were in one place for sharing. We dug into the drawer and put on whatever fit best. Andrea always got first pick. Boy wore mostly tiny underwear and shirts that came down to his knees.
“Will there be boys at school?” It’s the first time it’s occurred to me. The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
“Yes.” Patty’s forehead squishes up into a pattern of wavy lines. “Tom and I were planning to talk with you about that tomorrow. There will be adult men there too—teachers—but we have asked for you to be assigned to a female teacher. The boys in your classroom will be your age. Is that okay?”
I nod. I think it will be. But I can’t be sure. Patty and Tom explained there’s nothing to be afraid of, with boys and grown-up men. But I know they’re wrong. I think of the magic the Mothers used in times like these, and my pulse slows back to normal.
“If you feel uncomfortable at any time, even just a little, you can ask the teacher to help you call me. I’ll tuck our number inside your lunch box, just in case you forget it.”
“No way would I forget.”
Patty laughs. It’s the first thing she taught me, here at the new home. She made a game of it, giving me a square of chocolate for every time I remembered three, then four, then five, then seven, then all ten digits. I didn’t try as hard as I could have, and when the game was over I was smeary with melted chocolate.
“Just in case,” she repeats. “Now. Hop into bed. I’ll bring French Louie in to sleep with you. Wake-up is seven o’clock sharp. You can always change your mind in the morning. We think this will be fun for you, but there’s no rush, okay?”
I nod and climb into bed, pulling the covers up to my chest.
“I’ve got it under control,” I tell Patty, and for some reason she laughs.
“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.”
On her way out, Patty pauses at my art table. She gathers the markers and places them inside their plastic cup. She organizes my drawings into an even stack, glancing at the top one, which is a drawing of the woods behind the Mothers’ house. Patty tells me to draw my feelings, whenever I feel anything strongly, good or bad. When I drew the woods, I was feeling sick and crawly.
I feel sick and crawly now, but it’s too late to draw.
When I wake up in the morning, French Louie bounds up to my pillow from the end of the bed and covers me in kisses. I close my eyes and lay my head back down, pretending to still be asleep, and he whines but retreats. By the time Patty comes in to officially get me out of bed, I have a plan.
“Be downstairs in twenty minutes,” she says. “I’ll have breakfast ready. How does baby-in-a-buggy sound to you? Tom’s feeling inspired.” She gives me a wink.
“Good!” I love the buttery, fried sliced bread with an egg in the center that Tom makes sometimes. It’s the only thing Tom makes, as far as I can tell, but it’s really good. He makes mine over easy so I can dip the small fried circle of cut-out bread in the yolk.
I hurry to pee, then I splash water on my face and brush my hair. After that I slip on my new outfit. It isn’t right, but Patty didn’t know. She’s old and doesn’t go out or meet anyone besides Tom. I saw the Mothers go out a hundred times, so I have a plan for making it right. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and bunch up the fabric of the long sparkly shirt. I tie it in a big knot, but the shirt is meant to cover most of the tight cotton shorts, so even when I bunch it, there’s still too much shirt covering my stomach.
I go to my craft table. I was hoping not to have to do it, but I can’t go out like this. I pull the long shirt over my head and stand there, naked except for my shorts. Then I pick up my scissors and begin to cut. When I’m done, I slip the shirt back over my head. I run back into the bathroom and look at my reflection from every angle, turning this way and that.
It’s perfect.
There’s a mess of sparkles on the floor that I will clean up later, but I only have a few minutes before I have to eat breakfast. I run back to the craft table and sort through the plastic cup that contains all my markers. I find the red one and the blue one.
In the bathroom, I pull the cap off the red and run the tip of it over my mouth the way I’ve seen the Mothers do on the days they go out. I smack my lips. The taste is tangy and bitter, and I have to swallow hard in order not to gag. I turn on the faucet and run my mouth under the water, rinsing my tongue. When I straighten back up, there are smears of red on my chin. I grab my hand towel and scrub at it hard.
“Maeve! Time for breakfast.” Patty’s voice is faint, but it reaches me all the way in the bathroom.
“Just a minute!” I call back. I color my lips in again, resisting the urge to lick them this time. Then I uncap the blue marker and run it over my eyelids. When I’m done, it’s perfect. I look like them.
I run down the hallway to the stairs. The smell of buttery fried bread drifts up and I take a deep breath, inhaling it all, reminding myself not to get used to it. If I get used to it, I’ll forget how miraculous it is that it’s there: this luxury, this good food and these clothes and the warm, soft bed I sleep in.
When I round the corner to the kitchen, Tom and Patty turn to me from their posts at the stove, where they are mixing, flipping, pressing. I lean against the door frame casually, letting their eyes rove over me. Is this what it feels like for Mother to be stared at? Patty’s face is frozen, and Tom’s eyes are wide, his neck flushed.
It feels like I’ve done something wrong, but it can’t be. I did everything right.
I let out a high-pitched giggle. It echoes around the silence of the room, sounding strange even to me. “You like what you see?” It’s a line I have heard Mother use a thousand times, late in the night. It’s supposed to sound like play, but Tom and Patty don’t say their line back: Baby, you know I do.
“What the fuck is she doing? That shirt doesn’t cover half—”
Before Tom can finish bellowing, Patty swoops in and yanks my arm hard, dragging me out of the kitchen. I cry out, but she doesn’t seem to care that she’s hurting where her fingers twist the skin of my wrist.
“What have you done?” she hisses, when we’re halfway up the stairs. I trip. She’s moving too fast, and I fall against the carpeted staircase, skinning my knee. She hardly pauses for me to get to my feet, dragging me ahead so hard I stumble a second time before I catch my balance.
“What?” My eyes are filling by the time we get to my bedroom. “What did I do?” I feel tears rolling down my cheeks, and I wipe them with the back of my hand. It comes back blue.
Patty’s eyes soften. She grabs a towel from the bathroom and holds it under the faucet.
“Here,” she says when she’s back. “Wipe off your face. We’ll need to get cold cream, but blot it with water for now. What possessed you, Maeve?” She sits heavily on the mattress, then massages her forehead with both hands.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I choke out, pressing my face into the towel.
There’s a pause.
“I know,” Patty says after a minute, wrapping her arm around my shoulders and pulling me against her. “God. I know.”
“I’m going to be late for school,” I venture. Patty seems less mad now. Her eyes look sad when she turns to me.
“How about you start school tomorrow?” she suggests. “Today will just be you and me. I’ll talk to Tom.”
I nod. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll know how to be.