Read Online The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted by Elizabeth Berg - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Berg
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they lived in Germany (ages three to six), she spoke more German than English. She still says Ja for yes.
Last night, Janey came into the kitchen, the screen door banging behind her, and asked, “Are we fixin’ to eat?”
Her mother turned to look at her and laughed.
“What?” Janey said. “Idn’t it five-thirty yet?”
“Oh my goodness,” her mother said, laughing louder, and turned back to the stove. She was dishing up potatoes.
It was time to eat. So what was so funny? When Janey asked, her mother affected a southern accent to say, “Well, y’all have just gohn raht out ’n’ turned inda one of ’em.
Mah lands.”
Janey wasn’t sure what to do. First of all, “y’all” was 56
t h e d a y i a t e w h a t e v e r i w a n t e d the plural form of “you,” not the singular. She stood still, half smiling, and her mother sighed and came over and kissed the top of her head and told her to go wash up.
“Don’t be so sensitive,” she told Janey. “It’s kind of sweet.
Are we fixin’ to eat.”
In the bathroom, Janey looked deep into her own eyes.
She likes doing this, but she has to be careful not to look too long or she can go crazy. Mary Beth Croucher told her that, and it is true: if you look too long, all of a sudden it’s like you are floating and your brain goes cobwebby. But Janey likes to look because, when she does, she can see herself as a woman. She falls down the rabbit hole of her own eyes into a brighter future, where she is grown up and no longer oversensitive. There she is in a short-sleeved sweater and tight skirt, her hair in a French twist, pearl earrings firmly screwed on. Red lipstick and rouge. The woman Jane.
She is getting there. Recently, boobs came. They are not pointy enough, they are more like fat pads, but they are still boobs and she has a bra with a sweet pink rose sewn onto it. Soon she will start her period and there will be no arguing then: she will be a woman because she will be able to have a baby. She doesn’t like to think too much about actually having a baby, it makes her a little ill, but the fact of being able to, that’s the thing.
Last night, after Janey looked into her eyes just up to the point of going crazy, she washed her hands and dried them hastily on the towel. She did this to obey her mother; Janey herself thinks using towels is wasteful. Why not just wipe your hands on your clothes? It’s only water. Even after baths, Janey sits in the tub to air-dry. There’s only the tiniest residue of dampness on your bottom when you do F u l l C o u n t
57
that, and pajamas easily absorb it. And then the towels: pristine, unbothered.
Next Janey went to sit at the table with her parents and eat dinner. It was then that she asked about the pie for their trip tomorrow. She saw a look pass between her parents; then her mother said, All right, yes, she would make a pie. Janey wasn’t sure what the look meant, and it was times like this that she longed for a sister with whom she could compare notes. If she were the older sister, she could be flip and ask, “What the hell was that look?” If she were the younger sister, she’d have to be more deferential, of course. She’d have to ask permission to come into the sister’s room, permission to sit on her bed, and then say,
“Why did Mother and Father look at each other that way?” But Janey is an only child, and so she lay in bed that night and asked the question only of herself. Maybe because baking the pie would heat up the kitchen? Or it would be too messy to eat it in the car? Had she said “pie,”
“pah”?
But now, “Go ahead,” her mother says. “If you want pie, have some. If you’re that hungry.”
Janey is not hungry. It has nothing to do with that. She reaches into the back and carefully opens the food chest, carefully cuts a piece of pie, carefully puts it on a small paper plate, carefully gets out a fork and a napkin. “Do y’all want any?” she asks.
“No thanks,”
Last night, Janey came into the kitchen, the screen door banging behind her, and asked, “Are we fixin’ to eat?”
Her mother turned to look at her and laughed.
“What?” Janey said. “Idn’t it five-thirty yet?”
“Oh my goodness,” her mother said, laughing louder, and turned back to the stove. She was dishing up potatoes.
It was time to eat. So what was so funny? When Janey asked, her mother affected a southern accent to say, “Well, y’all have just gohn raht out ’n’ turned inda one of ’em.
Mah lands.”
Janey wasn’t sure what to do. First of all, “y’all” was 56
t h e d a y i a t e w h a t e v e r i w a n t e d the plural form of “you,” not the singular. She stood still, half smiling, and her mother sighed and came over and kissed the top of her head and told her to go wash up.
“Don’t be so sensitive,” she told Janey. “It’s kind of sweet.
Are we fixin’ to eat.”
In the bathroom, Janey looked deep into her own eyes.
She likes doing this, but she has to be careful not to look too long or she can go crazy. Mary Beth Croucher told her that, and it is true: if you look too long, all of a sudden it’s like you are floating and your brain goes cobwebby. But Janey likes to look because, when she does, she can see herself as a woman. She falls down the rabbit hole of her own eyes into a brighter future, where she is grown up and no longer oversensitive. There she is in a short-sleeved sweater and tight skirt, her hair in a French twist, pearl earrings firmly screwed on. Red lipstick and rouge. The woman Jane.
She is getting there. Recently, boobs came. They are not pointy enough, they are more like fat pads, but they are still boobs and she has a bra with a sweet pink rose sewn onto it. Soon she will start her period and there will be no arguing then: she will be a woman because she will be able to have a baby. She doesn’t like to think too much about actually having a baby, it makes her a little ill, but the fact of being able to, that’s the thing.
Last night, after Janey looked into her eyes just up to the point of going crazy, she washed her hands and dried them hastily on the towel. She did this to obey her mother; Janey herself thinks using towels is wasteful. Why not just wipe your hands on your clothes? It’s only water. Even after baths, Janey sits in the tub to air-dry. There’s only the tiniest residue of dampness on your bottom when you do F u l l C o u n t
57
that, and pajamas easily absorb it. And then the towels: pristine, unbothered.
Next Janey went to sit at the table with her parents and eat dinner. It was then that she asked about the pie for their trip tomorrow. She saw a look pass between her parents; then her mother said, All right, yes, she would make a pie. Janey wasn’t sure what the look meant, and it was times like this that she longed for a sister with whom she could compare notes. If she were the older sister, she could be flip and ask, “What the hell was that look?” If she were the younger sister, she’d have to be more deferential, of course. She’d have to ask permission to come into the sister’s room, permission to sit on her bed, and then say,
“Why did Mother and Father look at each other that way?” But Janey is an only child, and so she lay in bed that night and asked the question only of herself. Maybe because baking the pie would heat up the kitchen? Or it would be too messy to eat it in the car? Had she said “pie,”
“pah”?
But now, “Go ahead,” her mother says. “If you want pie, have some. If you’re that hungry.”
Janey is not hungry. It has nothing to do with that. She reaches into the back and carefully opens the food chest, carefully cuts a piece of pie, carefully puts it on a small paper plate, carefully gets out a fork and a napkin. “Do y’all want any?” she asks.
“No thanks,”
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