Read Online Laura Ruby - Good Girls by Laura Ruby - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Ruby
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ice cream cone for a nose. Cookie Puss! Cookie Puss! we'd growl over and over again, until the ice cream guy chased us out of the store.
I'm not in the mood for ice cream. Instead, I decide to
81 wander up and down the aisles of the Christmas place, poking at the fake trees and the lighted candy canes. They have an entire section devoted to Nativity scenes of all sizes and shapes, and I go there to check them out. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in plastic; Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in wire; Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in wood. I say "hey" to all the Jesuses. Hey, baby. It's what I used to say to my mom's stomach when she was pregnant with Henry. I don't remember it; I read about it in a notebook I found hidden at the back of my mother's closet. She was only pregnant for five months before she lost him. The last entry in the book, the entry my mother wrote a few months after Henry died, said that I kept patting her belly, saying Hey, baby, Hey baby, Hey baby. She wrote that the last time I said it, my father put his face in his hands and cried. She wrote that I never said it again.
I get tired of walking around, so I slump down on a bale of hay in one of the life-sized Nativity scenes. I glance around. Mary seems smug, Joseph seems stunned, and baby Jesus looks like a glowworm in a blanket, but the bale of hay is the perfect place for a girl to hide from her mother, her father, the world. I gather my hair up in a loose bun at the back of my head, yank one of the elastics I always wear around on my wrist and wind it around the knot. Then I dig in my backpack for Much Ado About Nothing and start reading.
"You can't sit here," a voice says.
82 I look up, confused. I must have been sitting for a while, because my butt's asleep. The guy standing over me is maybe fifteen, but I don't recognize him. He's wearing a uniform vest the red of his numerous zits. His name tag says "Walt."
"What's up, Walt?"
Walt is short and skinny, with a very prominent Adam's apple. He also has a serious hair-gel fetish. He's probably the one who set up the Nativity scene that I am ruining with my presence. I'm pretty sure I'm not holy enough to guest-star in any Nativity scenes.
"You can't just sit there," he warbles. "This isn't a library."
"I know that," I say. I wonder if his hair is stiff enough to pop a balloon. "I was just resting my legs."
"Yeah, well. You can't do that, either." He scratches at a pimple on his nose. "You've been back here for forty-five minutes."
"I have not," I say.
"Have too."
I don't feel like getting up. I don't feel like talking to Walt. I don't feel like talking to anyone. "There's no one in the store. What do you care if I sit here or not?"
"I don't care," Walt says. "My boss cares. He told me to tell you to leave. He thinks you're going to steal something."
"Like what?"
83 "How should I know?" he says.
"Think I'm going to smuggle out the baby Jesus over there?"
"Maybe."
"And why does he look like a glowworm, anyway?"
"Like a what?"
"Never mind," I say. I don't know why I'm torturing Zit Boy. It's not his fault that I'm in a pissy mood and that his boss thinks I'm going to make off with the Virgin Mary. I shove my book back into my bag and stand up, my butt tingling painfully. "I'm going."
"Good," he says.
I feel a weird little snap at the back of my neck, and suddenly my hair falls down. I shake my head and pluck the broken elastic off my shoulder. I'm about to fling it to the floor when I see Walt's face. He's smiling.
"What?" I say.
"Nothing," he says. But he's still smiling.
"What?" I say again, louder.
"You're that girl, aren't you?"
"I'm a girl, if that's what you mean," I say, though I know. Of course I know.
"That senior girl. I saw the picture," he says. The smile is now a smirk. There should be some sort of law against smirking. You should have to be at least eighteen to do it. It should require a license. "Everyone at school has seen that picture," he's saying.
84 "I
I'm not in the mood for ice cream. Instead, I decide to
81 wander up and down the aisles of the Christmas place, poking at the fake trees and the lighted candy canes. They have an entire section devoted to Nativity scenes of all sizes and shapes, and I go there to check them out. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in plastic; Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in wire; Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in wood. I say "hey" to all the Jesuses. Hey, baby. It's what I used to say to my mom's stomach when she was pregnant with Henry. I don't remember it; I read about it in a notebook I found hidden at the back of my mother's closet. She was only pregnant for five months before she lost him. The last entry in the book, the entry my mother wrote a few months after Henry died, said that I kept patting her belly, saying Hey, baby, Hey baby, Hey baby. She wrote that the last time I said it, my father put his face in his hands and cried. She wrote that I never said it again.
I get tired of walking around, so I slump down on a bale of hay in one of the life-sized Nativity scenes. I glance around. Mary seems smug, Joseph seems stunned, and baby Jesus looks like a glowworm in a blanket, but the bale of hay is the perfect place for a girl to hide from her mother, her father, the world. I gather my hair up in a loose bun at the back of my head, yank one of the elastics I always wear around on my wrist and wind it around the knot. Then I dig in my backpack for Much Ado About Nothing and start reading.
"You can't sit here," a voice says.
82 I look up, confused. I must have been sitting for a while, because my butt's asleep. The guy standing over me is maybe fifteen, but I don't recognize him. He's wearing a uniform vest the red of his numerous zits. His name tag says "Walt."
"What's up, Walt?"
Walt is short and skinny, with a very prominent Adam's apple. He also has a serious hair-gel fetish. He's probably the one who set up the Nativity scene that I am ruining with my presence. I'm pretty sure I'm not holy enough to guest-star in any Nativity scenes.
"You can't just sit there," he warbles. "This isn't a library."
"I know that," I say. I wonder if his hair is stiff enough to pop a balloon. "I was just resting my legs."
"Yeah, well. You can't do that, either." He scratches at a pimple on his nose. "You've been back here for forty-five minutes."
"I have not," I say.
"Have too."
I don't feel like getting up. I don't feel like talking to Walt. I don't feel like talking to anyone. "There's no one in the store. What do you care if I sit here or not?"
"I don't care," Walt says. "My boss cares. He told me to tell you to leave. He thinks you're going to steal something."
"Like what?"
83 "How should I know?" he says.
"Think I'm going to smuggle out the baby Jesus over there?"
"Maybe."
"And why does he look like a glowworm, anyway?"
"Like a what?"
"Never mind," I say. I don't know why I'm torturing Zit Boy. It's not his fault that I'm in a pissy mood and that his boss thinks I'm going to make off with the Virgin Mary. I shove my book back into my bag and stand up, my butt tingling painfully. "I'm going."
"Good," he says.
I feel a weird little snap at the back of my neck, and suddenly my hair falls down. I shake my head and pluck the broken elastic off my shoulder. I'm about to fling it to the floor when I see Walt's face. He's smiling.
"What?" I say.
"Nothing," he says. But he's still smiling.
"What?" I say again, louder.
"You're that girl, aren't you?"
"I'm a girl, if that's what you mean," I say, though I know. Of course I know.
"That senior girl. I saw the picture," he says. The smile is now a smirk. There should be some sort of law against smirking. You should have to be at least eighteen to do it. It should require a license. "Everyone at school has seen that picture," he's saying.
84 "I
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