Read Online Putting Makeup on Dead People by Jen Violi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jen Violi
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Fiction - Young Adult, Death & Dying, Adolescence, Emotions & Feelings, Social Themes
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today?”
“Mom,” I say.
“Something about school?” She pulls off her gardening gloves.
“No, and nothing is the matter with me.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” she says, and reties the silk scarf that keeps her hair from frizzing out to eternity.
I just shake my head; she won’t understand. She won’t want me to become a mortician. She’ll want me to go to regular college like everyone else and not ask any questions about it. Mom likes things to go according to plan, and this is decidedly unscheduled.
“Help me up,” she says, holding out her hand. “Your brother’s bringing something special for lunch.”
I stand and pull her up. I watch the petunias quiver a little with the breeze, imagine that’s Dad waving happy birthday to me.
“And”—Mom pauses until I turn to look at her—“you’d be surprised at what I understand.”
At home, B has brought us an extra-large mushroom-and-onion pizza from Marion’s, the really good kind with the sweet tomato sauce and cut into lots of little squares. My favorite.
After we finish the pizza, Mom says, “Now close your eyes.”
When I hear her start singing and B start singing and Linnie very faintly joining in, I open my eyes and see a triple-decker chocolate cake with eighteen flames hovering over eighteen purple candles.
I blow out the candles, and through the smoke I look at the big chocolate cake Mom baked and iced, at the purple sprinkles she got just for me, and I decide maybe I would be surprised at what she understands. Maybe I shouldn’t be afraid of telling her; maybe it would be okay. I remember that Uncle Lou and Aunt Irene are taking me and Mom to lunch tomorrow, and I decide it would be good to have them present as a buffer. Just in case. Uncle Lou, whether intending to or not, always creates a diversion.
The next afternoon, Uncle Lou plucks the lemon off the edge of his water glass and puts it on his bread plate. “I’m not a goddamn girl,” he says, shaking his head. And then, to me, “So how many boyfriends do you have these days?”
“None,” I say, and before Uncle Lou can ask any more questions that make me feel uncomfortable and awkward, as Uncle Lou is apt to do, I add, “So, I have something to tell you two.”
Mom gets that look on her face like she’s terrified I’ll say I’m pregnant or something. Which is pretty funny considering I still haven’t even kissed anyone. She puts down her roll but keeps hold of her knife, a clump of butter smeared on its tip.
“You’re not knocked up, are you?” Uncle Lou asks, a little too loudly, and two middle-aged women in corduroy jumpers and cream-colored turtlenecks at a neighboring table turn to us, aghast. Maybe I look more promiscuous than I thought.
“No, everyone,” I say. “Not pregnant.”
“Thank God,” Mom says, and makes the sign of the cross.
We are at Vandermeer’s, which is Uncle Lou’s Special Event restaurant, and I guess that means my birthday is a Special Event. Aunt Irene was supposed to join us, but Uncle Lou says she wasn’t feeling well. I think that’s Aunt Irene’s way of saying she can’t stand Vandermeer’s and doesn’t get what Uncle Lou sees in it. Today, Uncle Lou sports an orange Hawaiian shirt and Kelly green polyester pants, which he has identified as his “lucky trousers,” something I have zero desire to interpret.
Possibly inspired by said lucky trousers, Uncle Lou winks at the turtlenecked women, who quickly look down at their dinner rolls.
Mom glares at Uncle Lou, who shrugs and leans back into the pink cushion on his faux-wood chair.
Taking in Vandermeer’s décor—funeral home, circa 1972—I hope I’ll have some decorating input at Brighton Brothers or wherever I work. Because seriously, the dim lights and the pastel floral drape patterns will have to go.
I don’t understand why a funeral home can’t be brighter—you know, more of a place that doesn’t make you want to kill yourself while you’re
“Mom,” I say.
“Something about school?” She pulls off her gardening gloves.
“No, and nothing is the matter with me.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” she says, and reties the silk scarf that keeps her hair from frizzing out to eternity.
I just shake my head; she won’t understand. She won’t want me to become a mortician. She’ll want me to go to regular college like everyone else and not ask any questions about it. Mom likes things to go according to plan, and this is decidedly unscheduled.
“Help me up,” she says, holding out her hand. “Your brother’s bringing something special for lunch.”
I stand and pull her up. I watch the petunias quiver a little with the breeze, imagine that’s Dad waving happy birthday to me.
“And”—Mom pauses until I turn to look at her—“you’d be surprised at what I understand.”
At home, B has brought us an extra-large mushroom-and-onion pizza from Marion’s, the really good kind with the sweet tomato sauce and cut into lots of little squares. My favorite.
After we finish the pizza, Mom says, “Now close your eyes.”
When I hear her start singing and B start singing and Linnie very faintly joining in, I open my eyes and see a triple-decker chocolate cake with eighteen flames hovering over eighteen purple candles.
I blow out the candles, and through the smoke I look at the big chocolate cake Mom baked and iced, at the purple sprinkles she got just for me, and I decide maybe I would be surprised at what she understands. Maybe I shouldn’t be afraid of telling her; maybe it would be okay. I remember that Uncle Lou and Aunt Irene are taking me and Mom to lunch tomorrow, and I decide it would be good to have them present as a buffer. Just in case. Uncle Lou, whether intending to or not, always creates a diversion.
The next afternoon, Uncle Lou plucks the lemon off the edge of his water glass and puts it on his bread plate. “I’m not a goddamn girl,” he says, shaking his head. And then, to me, “So how many boyfriends do you have these days?”
“None,” I say, and before Uncle Lou can ask any more questions that make me feel uncomfortable and awkward, as Uncle Lou is apt to do, I add, “So, I have something to tell you two.”
Mom gets that look on her face like she’s terrified I’ll say I’m pregnant or something. Which is pretty funny considering I still haven’t even kissed anyone. She puts down her roll but keeps hold of her knife, a clump of butter smeared on its tip.
“You’re not knocked up, are you?” Uncle Lou asks, a little too loudly, and two middle-aged women in corduroy jumpers and cream-colored turtlenecks at a neighboring table turn to us, aghast. Maybe I look more promiscuous than I thought.
“No, everyone,” I say. “Not pregnant.”
“Thank God,” Mom says, and makes the sign of the cross.
We are at Vandermeer’s, which is Uncle Lou’s Special Event restaurant, and I guess that means my birthday is a Special Event. Aunt Irene was supposed to join us, but Uncle Lou says she wasn’t feeling well. I think that’s Aunt Irene’s way of saying she can’t stand Vandermeer’s and doesn’t get what Uncle Lou sees in it. Today, Uncle Lou sports an orange Hawaiian shirt and Kelly green polyester pants, which he has identified as his “lucky trousers,” something I have zero desire to interpret.
Possibly inspired by said lucky trousers, Uncle Lou winks at the turtlenecked women, who quickly look down at their dinner rolls.
Mom glares at Uncle Lou, who shrugs and leans back into the pink cushion on his faux-wood chair.
Taking in Vandermeer’s décor—funeral home, circa 1972—I hope I’ll have some decorating input at Brighton Brothers or wherever I work. Because seriously, the dim lights and the pastel floral drape patterns will have to go.
I don’t understand why a funeral home can’t be brighter—you know, more of a place that doesn’t make you want to kill yourself while you’re
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