was the doctor, and when Jill got home from school and found out everything about the baby really being a girl and not being due for seven more weeks, she didn’t hide that she was mad about that, and hasn’t said very much to me since.
It doesn’t look like that’s going to change today.
The guest on the talk show is a bra expert, and women from the audience come down and get measured and everyone needs a bigger cup size than they thought and I don’t know why, but they don’t seem happy about it. I’ve always had the right size. In fifth grade, I got home from school one afternoon and I’d taken off my sweater because it was late spring and I wanted to feel the air on my arms. My mother saw me in my T-shirt and pulled me into my room—actually it was half my room and half Gary’s office—and lifted my shirt. We went straight out to get me fitted. “Why didn’t you say something, Amanda?” she asked me on the way to the store. “I hope you haven’t been running around like that in front of Gary.” Gary was her boyfriend that year. What I remember about him is a necklace with a real gold nugget on the chain, and the smell of Chinese tea. He drank it all the time because the antioxidants balanced out his smoking, he said.
After we got the bra, my mother took me out for ice cream. She made me order a triple-scoop sundae with everything on it, even though I wasn’t hungry, and she got a diet pop for herself. “Eat up, Mandy, while you can,” she said, her eyes fixed on my ice cream, looking lonely for it. I slid it across to her and offered my spoon. She pulled back, like it was poison, and shook her head. “You know what that will do to my hips. And to yours, pretty soon. You’ll see.” She said from then on I had to watch my weight. And I couldn’t be friends with boys. And I should never come out of my room less than fully dressed. And I had to use deodorant and wash my hair every day and not sit cross-legged or run around the schoolyard. After that she did take my spoon and a big bite of ice cream, hot fudge, chopped nuts. “I’m going to tell you what my mother told me,” she said, gripping the spoon like she wasn’t going to give it back. “Your childhood is over.”
I was just only eleven.
When a commercial comes on, I get off the couch and stretch my back. “Jill?” I call toward the stairs. There’s no answer. At the bottom of the stairs I try again. “Jill?” She’s ignoring me. Getting up the stairs isn’t so hard, but by the time I get to the closed door of her room, I have to catch my breath for a few seconds.
There’s music playing and, underneath the music, something else.
“Are you crying?” I ask through the door.
She doesn’t answer, so I turn the knob and push the door open. Jill is sitting on the floor, in the corner between the bed and the closet, her back to the wall and her head down on her knees. Fingers in her hair. Every couple of seconds, she clenches them.
It’s sad, how alone she looks.
She lifts her head, and there’s mascara on her cheeks. “Get out.”
“Are you okay?”
“I said get out.”
It’s the first time I’ve been all the way in her room. Her desk is a mess of homework and food plates and her laptop computer. The empty jar of peanut butter sits next to it.
“Is there a reason you’re not getting out?” she asks.
“I was wondering if you had some paper to write on.”
She stares at me a second, hard, then points to a desk drawer. I take out three sheets of beige stationery.
“And an envelope?”
“Same. Underneath.”
I dig through a little more and find a matching envelope.
“And a stamp?”
“Seriously?” Jill sniffs and wipes her nose on one of the balled-up tissues next to her. “Try the kitchen. Cigar box by the phone. Near the grocery list. And put peanut butter on it.” She licks her fingers and runs them under her eyes to clean off the mascara, but there are a few black streaks left.
In the back of the
It doesn’t look like that’s going to change today.
The guest on the talk show is a bra expert, and women from the audience come down and get measured and everyone needs a bigger cup size than they thought and I don’t know why, but they don’t seem happy about it. I’ve always had the right size. In fifth grade, I got home from school one afternoon and I’d taken off my sweater because it was late spring and I wanted to feel the air on my arms. My mother saw me in my T-shirt and pulled me into my room—actually it was half my room and half Gary’s office—and lifted my shirt. We went straight out to get me fitted. “Why didn’t you say something, Amanda?” she asked me on the way to the store. “I hope you haven’t been running around like that in front of Gary.” Gary was her boyfriend that year. What I remember about him is a necklace with a real gold nugget on the chain, and the smell of Chinese tea. He drank it all the time because the antioxidants balanced out his smoking, he said.
After we got the bra, my mother took me out for ice cream. She made me order a triple-scoop sundae with everything on it, even though I wasn’t hungry, and she got a diet pop for herself. “Eat up, Mandy, while you can,” she said, her eyes fixed on my ice cream, looking lonely for it. I slid it across to her and offered my spoon. She pulled back, like it was poison, and shook her head. “You know what that will do to my hips. And to yours, pretty soon. You’ll see.” She said from then on I had to watch my weight. And I couldn’t be friends with boys. And I should never come out of my room less than fully dressed. And I had to use deodorant and wash my hair every day and not sit cross-legged or run around the schoolyard. After that she did take my spoon and a big bite of ice cream, hot fudge, chopped nuts. “I’m going to tell you what my mother told me,” she said, gripping the spoon like she wasn’t going to give it back. “Your childhood is over.”
I was just only eleven.
When a commercial comes on, I get off the couch and stretch my back. “Jill?” I call toward the stairs. There’s no answer. At the bottom of the stairs I try again. “Jill?” She’s ignoring me. Getting up the stairs isn’t so hard, but by the time I get to the closed door of her room, I have to catch my breath for a few seconds.
There’s music playing and, underneath the music, something else.
“Are you crying?” I ask through the door.
She doesn’t answer, so I turn the knob and push the door open. Jill is sitting on the floor, in the corner between the bed and the closet, her back to the wall and her head down on her knees. Fingers in her hair. Every couple of seconds, she clenches them.
It’s sad, how alone she looks.
She lifts her head, and there’s mascara on her cheeks. “Get out.”
“Are you okay?”
“I said get out.”
It’s the first time I’ve been all the way in her room. Her desk is a mess of homework and food plates and her laptop computer. The empty jar of peanut butter sits next to it.
“Is there a reason you’re not getting out?” she asks.
“I was wondering if you had some paper to write on.”
She stares at me a second, hard, then points to a desk drawer. I take out three sheets of beige stationery.
“And an envelope?”
“Same. Underneath.”
I dig through a little more and find a matching envelope.
“And a stamp?”
“Seriously?” Jill sniffs and wipes her nose on one of the balled-up tissues next to her. “Try the kitchen. Cigar box by the phone. Near the grocery list. And put peanut butter on it.” She licks her fingers and runs them under her eyes to clean off the mascara, but there are a few black streaks left.
In the back of the
Similar Books
