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Authors: Lindsay Hunter
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drinking with her while her daughter was out in the night with that half-bald girl. Myra hated that she felt like she had to pretend in front of her husband.
Finally he turned back, raked a spatula through his eggs. “You sleep okay?” His way of dropping the subject. Myra felt tired. She knew Jim was tired. Perry was tired. They were on a carousel that wouldn’t stop.
“I might go over there and knock on her door,” Jim was saying. He meant the neighbor, the polka music. “I know she’s old and she enjoys it but we all need our sleep.” He was already halfway out the screen door; he closed it gently behind him.
Myra went to the bathroom, wet her hands, flicked water onto her face with her fingertips. The carpet of regret had returned, her face was as hot as a stone in the sun. She heard Jim knocking on the neighbor’s door, calling Mrs. Kozlowski? Mrs. Kozlowski? The music stopped. Jim and the neighbor murmured to each other. Myra looked into her own face in the mirror. Where Perry’s looks had come from, she didn’t know. She herself was blond and blue-eyed, and Perry’s father was Italian. Myra was pretty sure about that, anyway. It hadn’t been a long courtship.
But sometimes she saw Perry catching her own reflection in a window, that quick appraisal, and Myra could see how Perry was pleased with what she saw. That was what she had given to Perry.
She heard Jim come back in, remove the pan from the stove. The neighbor’s music started up again, turned down a smidge.
“Jim,” Myra called. “Come here for a sec.” She appraised herself in the mirror, straightened her neck and shoulders, allowed that flood of knowing vanity to fill her face. She had held the attention of a young man for quite some time the night before. When Jim appeared in the doorway, she took him by his belt and led him into the bedroom.
IF YOU LET YOUR EYES LOSE FOCUS everything becomes a smear. That’s how Baby Girl liked to get through class. The teacher a moving smear of brown and gray, his voice like someone was rubbing an eraser over it: the words were there but you had to work hard to find them.
She used to be good at this shit. Math, English. School. Back when it felt like it mattered, paying attention and doing homework and playing the clarinet and never missing class, not even when she was sick, not even when Charles called collect from jail at five in the morning.
She checked her phone. No new texts. That was all right, she told herself. That was fine, they’d talk l8r .
“Dayna,” the teacher said. “What’d I say about the next time you bring your phone to class?”
She let her eyes focus. Even still, Mr. Clark looked like a smear. She hadn’t had the time to fully convince herself that no new texts was actually just fine, and maybe that’s why she answered, “That you’ll set it to vibrate and put it up your butt?”
A boy in the back of the room exploded with laughter. Some other kids giggled behind their hands. Baby Girl hated them for it. They should think she was an asshole. What she said wasn’t even all that clever, had come out before she had time to stop it. Perry hadn’t laughed, either. That was happening more and more these days.
She began packing up her things. She knew she’d be sent to the principal’s office, and she wanted to make it as easy on Mr. Clark as possible, the least she could do. She also knew she’d walk right past the office, push out the doors, run to her car to wait for Perry. She could feel the hard slaps her feet would make, could feel the heat of the treeless parking lot. Was already composing a new text to him: What u doin? or even just Hey .
“Nope,” Mr. Clark said. “You’re staying right here in this classroom. And you’re coming up here to finish the equation we’ve started as a class.”
He held out the chalk. Baby Girl felt excited, she couldn’t help it. Back in the day she loved to write on the board, loved erasing what she’d written and
Finally he turned back, raked a spatula through his eggs. “You sleep okay?” His way of dropping the subject. Myra felt tired. She knew Jim was tired. Perry was tired. They were on a carousel that wouldn’t stop.
“I might go over there and knock on her door,” Jim was saying. He meant the neighbor, the polka music. “I know she’s old and she enjoys it but we all need our sleep.” He was already halfway out the screen door; he closed it gently behind him.
Myra went to the bathroom, wet her hands, flicked water onto her face with her fingertips. The carpet of regret had returned, her face was as hot as a stone in the sun. She heard Jim knocking on the neighbor’s door, calling Mrs. Kozlowski? Mrs. Kozlowski? The music stopped. Jim and the neighbor murmured to each other. Myra looked into her own face in the mirror. Where Perry’s looks had come from, she didn’t know. She herself was blond and blue-eyed, and Perry’s father was Italian. Myra was pretty sure about that, anyway. It hadn’t been a long courtship.
But sometimes she saw Perry catching her own reflection in a window, that quick appraisal, and Myra could see how Perry was pleased with what she saw. That was what she had given to Perry.
She heard Jim come back in, remove the pan from the stove. The neighbor’s music started up again, turned down a smidge.
“Jim,” Myra called. “Come here for a sec.” She appraised herself in the mirror, straightened her neck and shoulders, allowed that flood of knowing vanity to fill her face. She had held the attention of a young man for quite some time the night before. When Jim appeared in the doorway, she took him by his belt and led him into the bedroom.
IF YOU LET YOUR EYES LOSE FOCUS everything becomes a smear. That’s how Baby Girl liked to get through class. The teacher a moving smear of brown and gray, his voice like someone was rubbing an eraser over it: the words were there but you had to work hard to find them.
She used to be good at this shit. Math, English. School. Back when it felt like it mattered, paying attention and doing homework and playing the clarinet and never missing class, not even when she was sick, not even when Charles called collect from jail at five in the morning.
She checked her phone. No new texts. That was all right, she told herself. That was fine, they’d talk l8r .
“Dayna,” the teacher said. “What’d I say about the next time you bring your phone to class?”
She let her eyes focus. Even still, Mr. Clark looked like a smear. She hadn’t had the time to fully convince herself that no new texts was actually just fine, and maybe that’s why she answered, “That you’ll set it to vibrate and put it up your butt?”
A boy in the back of the room exploded with laughter. Some other kids giggled behind their hands. Baby Girl hated them for it. They should think she was an asshole. What she said wasn’t even all that clever, had come out before she had time to stop it. Perry hadn’t laughed, either. That was happening more and more these days.
She began packing up her things. She knew she’d be sent to the principal’s office, and she wanted to make it as easy on Mr. Clark as possible, the least she could do. She also knew she’d walk right past the office, push out the doors, run to her car to wait for Perry. She could feel the hard slaps her feet would make, could feel the heat of the treeless parking lot. Was already composing a new text to him: What u doin? or even just Hey .
“Nope,” Mr. Clark said. “You’re staying right here in this classroom. And you’re coming up here to finish the equation we’ve started as a class.”
He held out the chalk. Baby Girl felt excited, she couldn’t help it. Back in the day she loved to write on the board, loved erasing what she’d written and
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