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.
•
49 •
L o o s e G i r l
“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.
•
50 •
4
It’s late spring of my sophomore year. Amy turns seventeen and gets a car, and we start going into the city on weekdays as well as weekends. During the week we are able to find open tables. The bars aren’t packed. We begin to notice a group of regulars who come in every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday night. This is especially true at a new bar we discover, Dorrian’s Red Hand, a dark wood and brass bar on the Upper East Side. The regulars are wealthy high school and college students. The girls are beautiful with slick blond hair and tiny waists. They wear red lipstick and cocktail dresses and have names like Blake and Hunter. The boys are also stunning, many of them wearing navy blue sports jackets with gold insignia from their schools, their ties loosened but still on. Most all of them do cocaine in the bathroom stalls. They pull rolled fifty-dollar bills from their breast pockets and, gripping the brass toilet paper-roll holder for support, they lean over the backs of the toilets where they’ve assembled the lines. Amy and I dress accordingly and sit at the same table each night, hoping to fit in, but mostly feeling clunky and unattractive compared to everyone else.
Over time, though, a couple of the boys are friendly and sit with us
•
51 •
L o o s e G i r l
sometimes, and slowly we blend into the culture there. Even though they don’t know us, we come to know who most of the regulars are. A tall, handsome boy named Robert, two blond brothers, Chris and Tony. They glide through the bar like movie stars, stopping at tables of girls they know. Robert is gorgeous and charming. The brothers are fun-loving and smooth. Amy and I watch them, enamored.
We are well aware we chose this scene over the others available to us. Some of the kids who mingled at the West End wound up downtown at CBGB’s and the Beacon Theater. They don’t dress like the
“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.
•
49 •
L o o s e G i r l
“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.
•
50 •
4
It’s late spring of my sophomore year. Amy turns seventeen and gets a car, and we start going into the city on weekdays as well as weekends. During the week we are able to find open tables. The bars aren’t packed. We begin to notice a group of regulars who come in every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday night. This is especially true at a new bar we discover, Dorrian’s Red Hand, a dark wood and brass bar on the Upper East Side. The regulars are wealthy high school and college students. The girls are beautiful with slick blond hair and tiny waists. They wear red lipstick and cocktail dresses and have names like Blake and Hunter. The boys are also stunning, many of them wearing navy blue sports jackets with gold insignia from their schools, their ties loosened but still on. Most all of them do cocaine in the bathroom stalls. They pull rolled fifty-dollar bills from their breast pockets and, gripping the brass toilet paper-roll holder for support, they lean over the backs of the toilets where they’ve assembled the lines. Amy and I dress accordingly and sit at the same table each night, hoping to fit in, but mostly feeling clunky and unattractive compared to everyone else.
Over time, though, a couple of the boys are friendly and sit with us
•
51 •
L o o s e G i r l
sometimes, and slowly we blend into the culture there. Even though they don’t know us, we come to know who most of the regulars are. A tall, handsome boy named Robert, two blond brothers, Chris and Tony. They glide through the bar like movie stars, stopping at tables of girls they know. Robert is gorgeous and charming. The brothers are fun-loving and smooth. Amy and I watch them, enamored.
We are well aware we chose this scene over the others available to us. Some of the kids who mingled at the West End wound up downtown at CBGB’s and the Beacon Theater. They don’t dress like the
Similar Books
