Read Online Girlchild by Tupelo Hassman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tupelo Hassman
Tags: Contemporary, Young Adult
Ads: Link
mean. Even though I’m always way over on the edge of the bed and not making noise and breathing through my mouth and letting the snot run onto the sheet so I don’t sniffle, she says it.
“E-N-O-U-G-H,” I spell to the Briefcase Man.
I am pushing against the wall because I don’t want to touch her and I don’t want to feel the Hardware Man touching her and I
don’t want his big dirty hands pulling my hair. Carol says, “Wait,” even though the bed is already sunk from his weight and I’m squeezing into the crack that is growing between the mattress and the wall, growing bigger and bigger with each push he gives on top of her, she still says it. She even says, “No,” somehow, and sometimes it has an echo at the end of it, the o ’s rolling back. And sometimes the echo goes on so long I think that she is the one crying and I am the one getting pushed, pushed silent, like a k .
“No.”
“K-N-O-W.”
uncle
T he metal smell of Ace in the mornings makes you sick, leaves you coughing up last night’s gin and tonics on the bathroom floor while the grease spots on the tiles turn the colors of a little girl’s rainbow T-shirt. You become a dervish with mop and bleach to erase the colors from the floor, but then the smell of bleach is too like your own smell and you are sick again, crouching, trying not to ruin the knees of another dark uniform with circles of bleach that remind you of what you should have already learned by heart, having taught the lesson so well: There’s never anyplace to hide in a bathroom.
You’ve done a thing you can’t clean up, found a place you can’t reach with mop or apology. The forever you’ve created branches like the hairline fracture in a pelvic bone, hides like a dirty Polaroid shoved under a mattress, rises like hot blood to burn cheeks pretty with shame. Places you didn’t even know you were signing your name will always be marked with your hand, but despite every new day’s resolution to never do it again, you will. You’ll look away from your own face in the mirror, pull the chain twice to hide from yourself in the dark, and when it’s all over you won’t fucking say anything. You won’t fucking say anything to anyone ever.
ma bell
M ama and Grandma must’ve made up the day she called to tell her about my book rearranging because our schedule got rearranged right after that, and now I’m allowed to stay at Grandma’s again after school and when Mama’s working nights. And they must have agreed with the Briefcase Men that I’m getting pretty smart too, because today Grandma said I could go to the playground if I stop by the Truck Stop before and after and check in with Mama. She calls Mama to tell her so, they sound easy on the phone, and before they hang up, Grandma says, “We’ll get her back yet.” I guess they’re worried I won’t come home but I’m going to follow the directions perfectly so I’ll get to go again.
On the way to the Truck Stop, I’m passing the Hardware Man’s house and I just slow to look in his windows when someone pokes at my shoulder. I shouldn’t have lagged, I think, now I’ll never get to go to the playground by myself again and I love the playground when school’s out, when it’s no one but me and the swings.
But when I turn, it isn’t the Hardware Man’s face, or Carol’s, like I expected. It’s Viv. She pulls my arm. “Come on, R.D.,” she says, “let’s go swing!”
“Viv!” I haven’t seen her for days since the Bucks don’t have a phone so I couldn’t call and tell her about staying at Grandma’s. I’ve been walking to school by myself again and I’m so excited to see her that I’m using her exclamation points without even realizing it,
POP!, “I have to stop into the Truck Stop first. You can say hi to my mama!” Viv has been pulling my hand, making us run, but when I say this she slows.
“I’m not supposed to see nobody.” Viv doesn’t say things
“E-N-O-U-G-H,” I spell to the Briefcase Man.
I am pushing against the wall because I don’t want to touch her and I don’t want to feel the Hardware Man touching her and I
don’t want his big dirty hands pulling my hair. Carol says, “Wait,” even though the bed is already sunk from his weight and I’m squeezing into the crack that is growing between the mattress and the wall, growing bigger and bigger with each push he gives on top of her, she still says it. She even says, “No,” somehow, and sometimes it has an echo at the end of it, the o ’s rolling back. And sometimes the echo goes on so long I think that she is the one crying and I am the one getting pushed, pushed silent, like a k .
“No.”
“K-N-O-W.”
uncle
T he metal smell of Ace in the mornings makes you sick, leaves you coughing up last night’s gin and tonics on the bathroom floor while the grease spots on the tiles turn the colors of a little girl’s rainbow T-shirt. You become a dervish with mop and bleach to erase the colors from the floor, but then the smell of bleach is too like your own smell and you are sick again, crouching, trying not to ruin the knees of another dark uniform with circles of bleach that remind you of what you should have already learned by heart, having taught the lesson so well: There’s never anyplace to hide in a bathroom.
You’ve done a thing you can’t clean up, found a place you can’t reach with mop or apology. The forever you’ve created branches like the hairline fracture in a pelvic bone, hides like a dirty Polaroid shoved under a mattress, rises like hot blood to burn cheeks pretty with shame. Places you didn’t even know you were signing your name will always be marked with your hand, but despite every new day’s resolution to never do it again, you will. You’ll look away from your own face in the mirror, pull the chain twice to hide from yourself in the dark, and when it’s all over you won’t fucking say anything. You won’t fucking say anything to anyone ever.
ma bell
M ama and Grandma must’ve made up the day she called to tell her about my book rearranging because our schedule got rearranged right after that, and now I’m allowed to stay at Grandma’s again after school and when Mama’s working nights. And they must have agreed with the Briefcase Men that I’m getting pretty smart too, because today Grandma said I could go to the playground if I stop by the Truck Stop before and after and check in with Mama. She calls Mama to tell her so, they sound easy on the phone, and before they hang up, Grandma says, “We’ll get her back yet.” I guess they’re worried I won’t come home but I’m going to follow the directions perfectly so I’ll get to go again.
On the way to the Truck Stop, I’m passing the Hardware Man’s house and I just slow to look in his windows when someone pokes at my shoulder. I shouldn’t have lagged, I think, now I’ll never get to go to the playground by myself again and I love the playground when school’s out, when it’s no one but me and the swings.
But when I turn, it isn’t the Hardware Man’s face, or Carol’s, like I expected. It’s Viv. She pulls my arm. “Come on, R.D.,” she says, “let’s go swing!”
“Viv!” I haven’t seen her for days since the Bucks don’t have a phone so I couldn’t call and tell her about staying at Grandma’s. I’ve been walking to school by myself again and I’m so excited to see her that I’m using her exclamation points without even realizing it,
POP!, “I have to stop into the Truck Stop first. You can say hi to my mama!” Viv has been pulling my hand, making us run, but when I say this she slows.
“I’m not supposed to see nobody.” Viv doesn’t say things
Similar Books
