Gym is the most embarrassing of high school classes. We have to change in the locker room in front of one another, everything revealed—heavy breasts, thick hips, and unshaved legs. This is especially bad for the new girl. I am sharply aware of the moles on my arms, the way my leg fat spreads if I sit to pull on jeans. The other girls, already in cliques, chatter away, every once in a while stealing glances my way. I push the dirty gym clothes into the locker and duck out, avoiding eyes. It is in this vulnerable state, making my way back toward the other buildings, that Amy stops me.
“Did you just start here?” she asks. She looks at me with sharp brown eyes. She is bigger than me, both in stature and in height, and I feel vaguely intimidated. I recognize her from campus. She’s a grade ahead of me.
I nod.
“Why?” she asks.
“Why?” I’m confused.
“Why are you coming here for tenth grade?” She keeps her gaze steady. “Did you just move?”
“I got in trouble,” I tell her. “My dad made me switch schools.”
Amy’s eyes open wide, intrigued. “What did you do?”
I shrug. “I had a party and people stole stuff.” Amy smiles slightly and seeing her amusement, I keep going, embellishing. “And there were boys. I did some things my dad didn’t like.”
Now Amy’s smile fills her face. “I know what that’s like,” she says.
I smile too.
From then on, Amy and I spend most of our time together. On weekends we take cabs into Manhattan and search for bars that won’t badger us for our fake IDs. Our aim is simple: We’re looking for boys.
Most nights, Dad sleeps at his new girlfriend’s, leaving Amy and me free to do what we want. Amy calls her mother, telling her she’ll be sleeping over. I can tell from Amy’s brief silence that her mother begins to protest, but Amy always cuts her off.
“I’ll be fine, Sheila,” she says, annoyed, and she rolls her eyes at me. I shake my head, feigning understanding, but the truth is I am amazed by the way she talks to her mother. She even calls her by her first name! I would never have the guts.
Nights that Dad is home, he watches me carefully as I emerge with Amy from the hallway, both of us wearing miniskirts and too much makeup. He knows he shouldn’t trust us. But I can tell he also kind of likes it, even after that whole lawsuit thing last year. He likes that I try to be pretty, that I’m even becoming pretty as I get older, and he likes that I want to party. It reminds him of who he used to be when he was a teen, when he was popular and carefree, not a divorced dad raising two girls by himself. He has stories, like the one from when he was seventeen and working at Jan’s Ice Cream Parlor with his friend Les. Whenever thirteen- or fourteen-year-old girls visited, they told the girls to sit tight while they prepared a special treat: two scoops of vanilla ice cream, a carefully carved banana, whipped cream, and chocolate sprinkles for pubic hair.
“Here you go,” my young father said. “Virgin’s Delight, made especially for you.”
The girls erupted into giggles. They held their spoons this way and that, trying to work at the ice cream.
My father and Les winked at them. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like it? Is it too big for you?”
They giggled some more.
I can tell by the way he talks that he misses those days.
Tyler is another story. Tyler stays in her room with the door closed. I think it bothers Dad that he doesn’t understand her the way he does me. She’s too much like Mom, with her interest in art and all things alternative. She even looks like her, dark-haired and small. I avoid looking at her door as I pass, not wanting to think about the way she isolates herself all the time. It’s her choice, I tell myself. She could be going out and having fun if she wanted to. No one’s making her sit around with her fantasy figurines, waiting for Mom to call.
“Where are you going?” Dad asks when I head for the front door. His cigarette sits in an ashtray on the coffee table, swirling smoke into the air.
“To the city,” I say. “I told you.”
“I want you home by midnight.”
“Dad.” I cross my arms. “Nothing even happens until ten.”
Dad takes a deep breath, considering this. “How about one?”
I scowl.
“Two?”
“Fine.” I glance over at Amy, roll my eyes. And we leave.
“I wish my dad were like that,” Amy says once we’re in the elevator. I think of her dad, who owns a chicken-packing company. He leaves every day at four in the morning, so usually when I’m at Amy’s house he’s asleep. When he’s awake, he’s grouchy and distant. He calls Amy “Lame-y” as a joke, but I can tell Amy doesn’t think it’s funny. In many ways I do feel lucky my dad is my dad. He’s friendly and funny—really funny, not mean funny—and he smokes pot in the apartment. My friends have always liked him, and I can tell he takes pride in being the cool dad.
We find the taxi we ordered idling outside my building and get in. Both of us have piles of twenties in our purses, courtesy of our dads. The ride into Manhattan is always the same for me. As we cross the bridge I can see the endless lights that make up the skyline, flickering like a secret code. The sky is pale, starless, no match for the life below. The excitement of the city enters my bones like drugs from a syringe, and by the time we are paying and getting out on the Upper West Side, I am convinced something real can happen, something that can change my life. We walk to the West End, a trendy bar full of underagers like ourselves. The sweaty, bearded bouncer smirks at our IDs, but he leans back to let us through. Amy goes to the bar and orders us sea breezes. Not that it matters to anyone working there, but we don’t really care about the drinks. We’re not looking to get drunk. We just order them to have something to do with our hands in case there are no tables. It’s the same reason we light up cigarettes. We take our drinks and look around the room. Sure enough, the tables are full, so we stand against the wall, bouncing our heads just slightly to the music blaring from the ceiling. The bar is loud tonight, full of laughter and conversation. Amy and I look at each other, trying to think of something to talk about. This too, looking like we’re engaged in intense conversation, is a part of looking right, like we’re not really just waiting for some boys to approach us and free us from our discomfort.
These minutes, the waiting, this is always the worst for me. My anxiety peaks, wondering whether I will be picked, like waiting to be chosen for a team in gym class. I run my fingers through my hair, cross one leg in front of the other, hoping that makes me look thinner. I scan the room, doing my best to look available, but not wanting to betray the desperation inside. I talk casually with Amy, but inside I am a jumble of angst and prayers. Please, I think, please let a boy find me tonight.
This particular night, I see Amy has noticed someone.
“Look,” she says, pointing her chin toward someone. Then, as I turn to look, “No, not so obvious.” I stop myself and glance back as casually as I can. There are three boys there, two OK-looking and one very good-looking. I recognize them immediately. It’s Peter Rafferty and his friends from our school, seniors. Every girl wants to date Peter. An extremely pretty senior girl did for a few months, but it was over quickly, and as far as I know no one has dated him since.
“I didn’t know anyone from school came here,” I say.
“Me neither.” She grabs my arm. “Come on.”
We make our way toward them, my heart thumping against my chest. They look up with amused expressions.
“Hello, ladies,” one of Peter’s friends says. “Can we be of service?”
Peter and the other one chuckle and exchange looks. I swallow, hoping they aren’t making fun.
“We know you,” Amy says to Peter. “We go to Dwight too.”
Peter raises his eyebrows and smiles.
“Really?” He stands. “I’ll get you some chairs.”
I breathe out, relieved, and we smile at the other two, Danny and Case. Peter comes back with chairs, and we set our drinks on the table and sit.
“So, what grade are you guys in?” Case asks. He has light brown hair and a long nose.
We tell them.
“I recognize you,” Danny says to me. “You’re new this year.”
I nod, feeling good. He knows about me. I’m noticeable. I take a long sip of my drink and light up a cigarette. As I blow out I look right at Peter.
“How long have you guys been here?” I ask.
Peter looks back at me. His eyes are a pale blue, and his blond hair hangs over them. He lights up a cigarette too. I put a finger to my lips, wanting him to think about them, to imagine kissing me. “I don’t know,” he says. “A few hours.”
“Let’s do something,” I say. I look at Amy and she smiles.
“We could go to the park,” she says, referring to Central Park.
“Nah.” Danny downs the rest of his beer. His dark curls are cut close to his head, but he runs a hand over them as though they are long. “We can go to my place.”
I look at Peter. He shrugs and finishes his beer too. My heart picks up pace again as the five of us leave the bar and walk to Danny’s car, a white Honda. He opens the back door and Amy and I climb in. To my delight, Peter climbs in after me. I lift my leg slightly, so it will look thinner, and then I press it, just barely, against Peter’s. He glances at me, but I keep my eyes straight ahead. I don’t want to overwhelm him. I want him to come to me.
We drive through the city streets and head over the bridge, Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” blaring from the radio. The boys laugh at private jokes, and Amy and I smile at each other. We’re getting what we wanted. I mouth to her, “Peter is mine.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Good luck,” she mouths back.
Danny turns off an exit and down some side roads and we slow in front of a moderate-sized house. We follow him inside and go straight to his bedroom.
“Where are your parents?” Amy asks.
“Asleep.” Danny throws a bunch of clothes off his unmade bed. “Just don’t get too loud.”
Case laughs, hearing the sexual innuendo. I laugh too, looking right at Peter.
Peter sits on a beanbag chair on the floor, and I sit against the wall beside him, trying to figure out how to get him alone. Danny puts a Doors album on, and when he leaves the room to find beer in the kitchen, I get an idea.
“I need a cigarette,” I say softly, just to Peter. “Come with me?”
“Where?” I can’t read his expression. Is he hesitating? Does he not want to be alone with me?
“Is there a deck? Or on the front stoop. I don’t know.” I stand up, close to him, so he can feel the heat from my legs. I see him glance at them briefly.
“I guess I could go for a cigarette,” he says, and I know I have him. He stands and as we walk out of the room, I smile slyly at Amy.
Look at me, I’m thinking. Getting Peter Rafferty alone.
I follow Peter to sliding doors that lead to a deck. Danny sees us on his way back to his bedroom but says nothing. This gives me some hope. Maybe he expected Peter to want to be intimate with me, away from the others. It is a chilly spring night. I hold my jean jacket closed. I pull out a cigarette, hand one to Peter, and he lights them. The night is clear, a half moon glowing in a corner of the sky. Stars sprinkle above the dark trees in Danny’s backyard. That discomfort kicks in again, the wondering and waiting. I take a drag and try to think of something to say, something that will cut into my anxiety.
“Tenth grade, huh,” Peter says. I smile, relieved he spoke first.
“Is there a problem with that?”
He smiles too. “I don’t really spend time with sophomores.”
“You’re too good for us.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t say that.”
I watch his lips as he talks, wishing he would just kiss me already. I don’t want to have this conversation that pulls me just barely from my anxiety. I want to feel him hovering above me, blocking out all else. I want his full and total attention, and I want it to reach every part of me. Nothing left alone. Nothing untouched. I step toward him and touch his arm.
“What are you saying then?” I ask. I bite my lip.
He lets out a low laugh, understanding what I’m doing. With his eyes on mine he reaches a hand out and touches my breast. It is almost a competitive gesture, a dare. Like he’s checking to see what I can handle. I hold my gaze on his. Then I lean forward and kiss him. He kisses me too but then pulls back abruptly. I throw my cigarette over the side of the deck, bothered, those nervous questions rushing in again. Is he teasing? Does he not like me? He takes another drag and leans his hands against the deck railing.
“Nice night,” he says.
I twist my lips in frustration and cross my arms over my front. After a moment, he flicks his cigarette off the side. He lifts the hair off the back of my neck and kisses me there. My whole body tingles, and I stay perfectly still, not wanting him to stop. His kisses are so tender, I could almost cry. He turns me around and kisses me again, this time harder. He bites at the side of my neck, the tenderness gone. Then he pushes me against the deck, grinding himself against me. I can feel him, hard against my belly, and I push back, all body, all pressing and pulling, my thoughts finally gone. He reaches under my shirt. And then all of a sudden he stops again. He pulls back, leaving me breathless, speechless. I reach for him, but he is already walking away, toward the sliding doors. As he slips them open he looks back at me.
“You coming?”
I straighten my shirt and skirt, run a hand through my hair. What just happened? He walks ahead of me, a stranger again. Another boy who doesn’t want me. My stomach is hollow, and I realize I am very tired. We go into Danny’s room where the three of them are sitting with beer bottles. They look up at us. Danny smiles at Peter, but I don’t know what Peter looks like as he grabs a beer from the top of Danny’s bureau. I think back to the look Danny gave when he saw us going outside. Maybe he didn’t expect Peter to want me. Maybe instead he expected Peter to mess with me like he just did. I hate the elusiveness, not knowing what’s going on in their minds. Boys are mysteries with no recognizable clues. They’re like aliens, sent to earth with the sole mission of making girls feel like crap. I take a beer too, though I have no desire to drink anymore. I feel deflated and confused. I really just want to go home.
For the next hour, Peter ignores me. I try to stay in the conversation, but I am too distracted by my thoughts, going over what happened again and again, hoping to figure out what I did wrong. Did he think I was fat? Was I too eager? Finally, Amy and I call a cab to go back to my apartment. On the ride home she looks at me.
“Well?” she asks. “Did you get together?”
“Sort of.” I keep my gaze out the window, not wanting her to see my expression.
“You either did or you didn’t.”
I still don’t look at her. Even though Amy is interested in boys, it’s different with her. She wouldn’t let someone play games with her like Peter did with me. She would walk away, lose interest. It’s not that she’s prettier than me, or even thinner. It’s not that I feel inferior to her for these reasons like I used to with Liz. It’s the opposite, actually. She struggles with her weight. And I’m prettier than her. I know because when we’re at the West End, boys turn to me first. I would never admit it, but I like it this way, not having to see myself as less all the time. Still, Amy wouldn’t stand being treated the way Peter had treated me. Why couldn’t I do that? Why couldn’t I hold myself back, stop being so needy? Needy, just like my mom. I turn to look at Amy, the emptiness in my stomach spreading, turning to anger.
“Look,” I say, “we fooled around a little bit. It’s not a big deal.”
She shakes her head. “Fine,” she says. “Relax. I don’t really care anyway.” She turns away. “Peter Rafferty’s a big slut. It’s not like you’re going to be his girlfriend now anyway.”
“I know,” I say, but inside I cringe because, of course, like an idiot, that’s exactly what I had been hoping for.
When we get home, I go to the bathroom and see two hickeys Peter left on my neck. I touch them, wishing I could keep them there, proof he had wanted me even for a few minutes. But by the time Monday comes, they are mostly faded. I see him only once that week. He walks right by me with a small group of his friends. He doesn’t even say hello.
BACK AT THE West End, Amy and I stand against a wall with our drinks and cigarettes. “Take On Me” by a-ha floats down from hidden speakers. I sway a little to the music. A few guys approach us, but they are ugly or too old. We turn away from them, hoping to look involved in conversation. Soon, another boy and his friend come in and stand near us. I glance over. Not bad. Not bad at all. One is tall and dark-haired. He looks just a little bit like the guy who played opposite Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles. Gorgeous. The other one is shorter and stockier with light hair. I angle my body to catch their attention, especially the tall one’s. I laugh loudly at something Amy says, throwing my hair back. When I bring the cigarette to my lips, I look right at him. Our eyes meet, and I see a flicker. I’ve got him.
That night, we wind up at his place. His name is Paul and he lives in a penthouse apartment on Madison Avenue, not far from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The apartment itself is like a museum, filled with angled leather furniture, abstracts in primary colors on the wall. The kitchen is pure white—cold, glistening—as though nobody ever goes into it. Only Paul’s room, where I jerk him off sometime before the sun comes up, has some air of comfort to it.
When Amy and I leave, I write my number on a scratch pad and press it into his hand.
“You’ll call?” I ask hesitantly.
“Of course.” He laughs and kisses me on the mouth, surprised by my doubt.
Sure enough, Paul does call two evenings later, when I am doing homework and watching television in the living room. We chat briefly and I learn more about him. He’s a wrestler at his school, the same school in Riverdale my sister still attends. He’s sixteen and his parents let him drive their Porsche sometimes. He invites me to watch him wrestle next Friday, and I hang up smiling. I have a boyfriend. Dad is in the kitchen, and he comes around to where I’m standing.
“Who was that?” he asks, seeing my expression.
“A boy,” I say.
He smiles, holding a half-eaten sandwich. This is usually how dinner goes with us. You eat what you can find when you’re hungry. “Oh, really.” He takes a bite from the sandwich. “What boy is that?”
“He’s from Tyler’s school. A wrestler.”
Dad makes a face that means he’s impressed. Is he surprised? I wonder. Does he think I can’t get a nice guy? Then his expression changes, but I can’t read what he’s thinking.
“What?” I say.
“Just don’t screw it up.”
My stomach sinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He smiles. “You know how you can be.”
“No,” I say, that hollow feeling spreading. “I don’t.”
“Bossy,” he says. “Everything has to be your way.”
“Screw you,” I say. I walk away from him toward my room. Tears prick my eyes.
“I’m just telling you what boys like,” I hear him call after me.
I slam my bedroom door and lie on my bed, hating him, wishing I could be someone else. Not this person who’s bossy, who’s always aching with need. I get up, pull open a window, and light up a cigarette, a social habit that has quickly become a plain old habit. At the bar cigarettes give me something to do with my hands. Whether by association or because of the chemicals, turns out they calm me elsewhere, too. I hear Tyler rustling around in her room. She’s probably closing her own window, annoyed by my smoke wafting in. Not that I have any idea, really, what she’s thinking. She never leaves that room, the door is always closed. I’ve lived with her my whole life, shared childhood baths and well-worn blankets. I’ve dressed in her hand-me-downs, all scuffed and threadbare from the points and chafes of her body. Her scent is as familiar to me as my own, yet she’s a complete stranger to me. I try to put my mind on Paul, reminding myself he’s asked me out. Reminding myself someone out there wants to be with me.
Friday Dad drives Amy and me to Riverdale. We step into the gymnasium, where people are scattered in the bleachers. The room smells like sweat and socks. It smells like boys. We take a seat near the front and I spot Paul with his teammates. Like the others, he wears one of those tight halter outfits wrestlers have to wear. They are watching a guy out on the mat who is struggling with a guy from the rival school. Paul’s expression is hard. He takes this seriously, that’s for sure. The whole scene is sort of silly to me—the outfit, the boys pushing and hugging on the mat, the seriousness. But I push these thoughts away. I want to like Paul. More, I want him to like me. And if becoming interested in wrestling is what I have to do, then so be it.
When it is Paul’s turn, he and the other guy thrash about for close to ten minutes, but in the end he pins his opponent. I clap loudly, hoping he’ll see me. When the match is over, the bleachers clear out and Amy and I wait, my eyes flicking nervously back to the locker-room doors.
“Does he know you’re here?” Amy asks.
I shrug, my anxiety soaring. “He invited me.”
“That was back on Monday,” she says. She speaks nonchalantly, as though she’s not saying something that is making my heart race. “Maybe he forgot.”
“He didn’t forget,” I say quietly.
Then, like an exhaled breath, the door to the locker room opens and a group of boys pushes through. One of them is Paul. He is freshly showered, wearing normal clothes again. He comes right over.
“What did you think?” he asks.
“You were great,” I tell him.
“I did OK,” he says. “Eight minutes to pinning. But I got him with a neck hold.”
I nod, wondering if it means anything that he didn’t kiss me hello. “I brought Amy,” I say.
“That’s cool.” He smiles at her. “I’ll bring Davis.” He calls to one of his friends, a nice-looking boy with curly hair, and we agree to meet in the parking lot where his parents’ Porsche is parked.
Back at Paul’s apartment, he orders a pizza, and he and Davis eat the whole pie. We sit in the kitchen, and I keep my hands in my lap, afraid to dirty anything. Paul is friendly and kind. He refills my soda. I look up into his dark eyes, wanting him to touch me, to show me he still wants me. Only once does he put a hand on my back briefly as he passes, and the heat where his hand touched stays there the rest of the night until Amy and I leave. He hugs me at the door, a friendly hug, not the sort of hug you give a girlfriend. And I walk away, untouched and cold, like his apartment.
I discuss this with Amy for the next few days.
“Just call him and ask him to do something again,” she says. “If he likes you, he’ll say yes. If he doesn’t, he won’t.”
She makes it sound so easy, but the possibility of his rejection is unbearable. I don’t want more evidence no one will ever like me. At the same time, the wondering is torture. So I call, and, surprising me, he says yes, and we make a plan for the following Saturday. I meet him at his apartment. This time I go alone. We head straight for his bedroom and fool around. My mind slips away, body taking over. This. This is what I want. My body in his hands, his face, his breath right there against my skin. It feels good, but not just sexually. His hands, his body, his mouth. He breathes me into being, making me real. I unzip his pants, wanting him to feel what I feel: beholden to me. I want him tied to the memory of me here in his bed. I want him to remember I made him feel this good. I kiss down his body as he stretches out, letting me do what I want. At his crotch I stop, thinking about how I can trap him. I had read in a Cosmopolitan in my dentist’s waiting room about tricks to drive a man wild. One was to challenge him to a sexual game. Every boy loves games.
“I’ll bet I can make you come in under two minutes,” I whisper, improvising.
“You’re on,” he says.
So I take his penis into my mouth, and I begin. I have never given a blow job before, so I run through everything I’ve read or heard about them. Some spot on the head is most sensitive. Some technique they tend to like best. But nothing seems to make a difference. He is not moaning wildly with ecstasy like in the movies. He is not moving at all. My jaw gets tired quickly. Spittle runs out of my mouth. I feel clumsy, amateur. From the corner of my eye I see the red numbers on his clock. The minute changes, and Paul smiles down at me.
“Ha,” he says. His voice is controlled. “I win.”
I keep going, knowing I have to finish what I started, and after another quick minute or so he comes into my mouth, the hot liquid surprising me. It is gross, but I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow it, suppressing a gag. I heard somewhere guys prefer that. He buttons his pants and gets us water from the kitchen. He remains kind, but a feeling nags at me, staying with me long after I leave. And it’s this: It doesn’t matter what I did to him. He can choose to remain detached, untouched by me. Something I can’t do back.
I call him the next day, and we have a nice conversation. He can’t hang out, he says, because he has a lot of homework, but we can make a plan for the next weekend. In school that week I think of him constantly, twice going silent when called on because I haven’t heard the question. I refer to him as “my boyfriend” when I talk to Amy. I call him three more times, though we only talk once, as he’s out the other two. By the time Saturday comes I’m eager to see him, my anxiety high. I need to know he still wants me.
I arrive at his apartment and once again we get right down to business. I give him another blow job, but this time I feel angry while doing it, put out. Afterward, he buttons his pants and goes to the bathroom, leaving me on his bed. When he comes back, I won’t look at him.
“What?” he asks.
“You always do that.”
“I always do what?” He stands near the door, shock on his face. “What could I possibly always do in the time I’ve known you?”
“Leave me in here.”
“I went to the bathroom.”
“Whatever,” I say. I start putting on my clothes.
“I don’t understand what the problem is.”
I yank my shirt over my head. A small voice in my head rises up, telling me to stop. I am acting like one of those girls, those needy, crazy girls. But I can’t seem to stop it. That feeling—he doesn’t need me, I can’t have what I want—bubbles up, and the words tumble out of my mouth. “The problem is, you don’t seem interested in doing anything for me.”
He laughs, a short burst. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you even want to be with me?” I ask.
“I’ve known you for, like, three weeks.”
“Forget it,” I say. I look down at my bare feet, tears pooling in my eyes.
“Maybe you should go,” he says. I look up at him. “The doorman can get you a cab.”
I put on my shoes, gather up the rest of my stuff. We say goodbye, and I can tell he is anxious for me to get out of there. I know I’ve blown it, exposed myself once again. On the ride home, my dad’s words echo in my head: Everything has to be your way. I look out the window at the lights that line the slopes of the bridge, clutching my purse to my chest.
IF MY DAD is home weekend mornings, it means his girlfriend, Nora, is there too. They wake late and spend a long time making breakfast. They cross back and forth in the galley kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, passing knives to chop vegetables for omelets and cream cheese for the bagels. They grind coffee and beat eggs. Sunlight angles in through the silvery blinds, exposing the dust on Dad’s granite table that only gets cleaned on Wednesdays when the cleaning lady comes. Usually Nora has a Mets game on the small kitchen TV. Or else it’s the Giants. She keeps her eye on the TV and whoops when her team scores. She’s the only woman I’ve ever known who likes sports as much as men. She also has a lot about her that’s girly, like the rhinestone clips she wears in her curly hair and the red wire-rimmed glasses she uses for reading. She keeps her nails long and polished, and on these weekend mornings she wears a floor-length, red silky robe she brought from her own apartment in Manhattan. Beneath it I’m pretty sure she’s naked. I come into the kitchen and take a fresh carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. Nora stops me.
“Here, honey,” she says. “That needs to be shaken.”
She takes it from me and starts shaking, putting her whole body into it. Dad comes up behind her and slips a hand around her waist. He makes a noise, a sexual noise, a noise I don’t want to hear.
“Put the juice down, babe,” he says, “before it reaches climax.”
She laughs a little, but she glances at me nervously. I avoid her glance and get a glass down from the cupboard.
“I’ll just have water,” I say.
I go back to my room where I strip down for a shower. My ritual before a shower is always the same: take off clothes, stand before full-length mirror on the back of my door, curse at my thighs and butt. I have a fantasy I can take scissors and—snip!—slice off the flesh I squeeze back from my bones. My mother was constantly dieting when I lived with her, never satisfied with her body. She always looked thin to me, but like her I can’t really see what I look like. I rely on what others think, particularly men. From what I understand, men prefer skinny girls, and I believe if I were skinnier I could be lovable.
When I come out of the shower, I hear Tyler talking softly in her room. She opens her door when she hears me, and before she can say so I nod my head. Mom is on the phone. She calls every Sunday, when the rates are down. I put Squeeze on the record player, moisturize, pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, and comb my hair, putting off the inevitable. Finally I lift the receiver in my room. Mom is prattling on about the food she’s been eating there—fried bananas and steamed fish.
“Kerry’s on the line,” Tyler says.
“Hi, sweetie.” Mom’s voice is clear and loud, as though she is in the next room. “How are you?”
“Fine.” I look down at my lap, play with a thread on my sweatshirt.
“How’s the new school?”
“Fine,” I say again.
“You’ve made friends?”
I think of Amy, the boys in the bars. “Yes.”
Mom sighs and gets quiet. She always gets quiet when she’s upset.
“What’s the matter, Mom?” Tyler asks softly. Mom takes in a quick breath. “Are you crying?”
“I just wish I could be there with you girls,” she sobs.
I close my eyes. Oh, boy, I think. Here we go.
“We do too,” Tyler says.
“It hurts me so much to not be a part of your lives.”
“You are a part of our lives,” Tyler says. “That hasn’t changed.”
I look down at my hands to see I am gripping my sweatshirt. I let go, feeling numb, wishing I didn’t have to do this. Wishing I could just hang up the phone, go back to my new life.
“Kerry?” Mom asks. “Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you know how much I love you.”
“OK.”
She waits, and finally, just so we can end this already, I tell her what she needs to hear. “I love you, too.”
Afterward, when Dad and Nora call us for breakfast, I see Tyler in the hall.
“What?” I say, seeing her look.
“Forget it.” She walks off ahead of me, like I’m the one causing her problems. Like feeding Mom what she wants by making her feel better about her choices and then holing up in her room all day is going to make her happy. She has no idea at all.
“What happened to that boy?” Dad asks a few days later. “He never called again?”
“I saw him again,” I say, defensive.
Dad puts his hands up, as though to protect himself. “All right, all right,” he says. “Don’t be so sensitive.”
Later, though, knowing I’m upset, he drives me to Riverside Mall to buy clothes. It’s our ritual. His way of doing something for me. It’s a cliché, really. The divorced dad buying his daughter’s love. He waits on the bench the store provides for dads just like mine, the ones who will tirelessly wait while we, the daughters, try on clothes. And clothes shopping does make me feel better, at least briefly, because each new belly-baring top or pair of close-fitting jeans creates one more possibility for me to attract a new boy. And a new boy could mean another chance at love.
Is there another reason girls buy clothes?
At the register, the saleslady tallies the damage: $288 and change. Dad shakes his head and smiles at the woman conspiratorially.
“Daughters,” he says. “They’re so expensive.”
He says the same thing every time.