Perfect

by Natasha Friend

  "I don't know," I told her. "I have to check."

  Ashley called back from the kitchen that I didn't need anything, she had extra sweats and stuff.

  "I'm all set, Mom. She's got extra."

  My mother asked did we want her to swing by with something from General Cho's? Something healthy? Steamed chicken and vegetables? It would be absolutely no problem.

  "No!" I said. "Definitely not."

  The silence on the other end of the phone said it all. I am a horrible daughter.

  "Thanks, though, Mom, for the offer... Un1, next time?"

  "Of course," she said. "Next time." But I could tell her feelings were still hurt. I am practically an expert at hurting my mother's feelings.

  I made my voice soft and daughterly and told her I'd be home tomorrow morning, around eleven. "Maybe we could take a bike ride up to the lake?" I said. "Just the two of us?"

  She liked this. "That would he great, sweetie. Have fun tonight."

  "I will," I said. "Definitely." Then, "You have fun too, Mom. Okay? ... Okay, Mom?"

  "Okay," she said, but quiet, so you knew Sad Mom was hack.

  For dinner it was chicken marsala and some kind of fancy rice. I told Ashley's mother her cooking was delicious.

  Mrs. Barnum dabbed at her mouth with a corner of napkin and said, "Thank you, darling, but I'm afraid I can't take credit."

  Turns out they have a cook, Gregory. And he's divine. If I haven't tasted Gregory's spinach quiche, Ashley's mother told me, I haven't lived.

  I happen to hate quiche more than anything, but I decided to keep this information to myself.

  I was careful to cut everything into small bites and to finish chewing before opening my mouth. The only words I used were please, thank you, and ma'am.

  Ashley barely touched her food, maybe one stalk of asparagus and that's it. The reason I noticed is that the portions were tiny. When someone wasn't eating, it was obvious. At least at my house, where everything is plopped onto your plate in one huge mound, you can always rearrange things to make it look like you're eating.

  Even Ashley's dad ate only about two bites before he pushed his plate away, like he had better things to do. Mr. Barnum is that Richard Gere kind of handsome, with white hair and warm, crinkly eyes. He was wearing a tuxedo. I would say that he is older than Mrs. Barnum by at least ten years. Either that, or she's had a lot of plastic surgery.

  "Kaye," Ashley's dad said to Ashley's mom and tapped his big shiny watch.

  When Ashley's mother stood up, you could smell her perfume, spicy and exotic. Her dress was covered with about a million little green sequins.

  "Warren," she said to Ashley's dad. "Go get the car."

  Mr. Barnum gave her a yes-ma'am salute and clicked his heels together. He walked around the table to Ashley, kissed her on top of the head. "Night, Ash."

  When Ashley said "Night, Daddy," I had to swallow hard to get the prickle out of my eyes.

  "Isabelle," Ashley's dad said, bowing like Prince Charming. "A pleasure."

  "Thank You," I said.

  Ashley's mom gave us both air kisses and reminded Ashley to wash her face, twice, but not with soap. With the facial wash from Bliss.

  On her way out the door, Mrs. Barnum threw on some kind of floaty scarf with a leaf pattern. She told us not to wait up because these functions at the country club run late. They would be back maybe one, two in the morning.

  Oh well. What my mother doesn't know can't hurt her.

  Out on the porch, Ashley's mom checked her hair in a little gold mirror. When Mr. Barnum pulled his big black car in front of the house, she slipped the mirror into a sequiny purse that matched her dress. "Good night, darlings."

  "Night, Mom," Ashley said. "Have fun."

  "Bye, Mrs. Barnum," I said. "Nice meeting you."

  From the car, Ashley's dad called for us to hold down the fort. Ashley's mom said, if we wanted dessert, there were diet ice pops in the freezer. No fat.

  In the kitchen, Ashley told me she was sorry about her parents.

  "Why?" I say. "I thought they were nice."

  "Yeah," Ashley said, with a little half smile. "Except for wanting to kill each other, they're a real treat."

  I knew I was probably not expected to respond, but I nodded sympathetically. "Parents."

  We were sitting on high stools at the kitchen counter. Ashley was picking at a hangnail on her pinky. It was her turn to speak, but I took it upon myself to break the silence. "Diet ice pop, anyone?"

  Ashley said she could do better than that. How hungry was I?

  "I could eat," I said. You have no earthly idea how much I could eat.

  Ashley told me to follow her. We walked down a long hallway, into a pantry straight out of Gone with the Wind, big enough to hold a hundred salted pig carcasses. She started taking things off shelves. Chips, cookies, ravioli, peaches, tuna, cocoa, cereal. We headed back to the kitchen with a full load.

  "So," Ashley said, dumping stuff on the counter. "Do you like salty first, or sweet?"

  I told her sweet.

  "Me too!" she said. She stopped and thought. "Bowls. Salsa. Soda." She asked if I wanted regular Coke or Diet. I said Diet. Of course.

  I was directed to various drawers and cupboards, where I expected to find the same mismatched plastic cups and howls we use at my house. I forgot for a moment that everything in Ashley's world is matching, everything is just so. Even the napkins were cloth, with a blue and yellow windowpane pattern that went with the stool cushions.

  I held up a hag of corn chips. "Should I open these?"

  "Yeah," said Ashley. "We'll lay everything out first."

  She pulled two frosty mugs out of the freezer. They were so cold my fingers stuck to the handles.

  Ashley poured two Diet Cokes, squeezing a little wedge of lime into each. "My dad is big into g and t's," she said. "That's how come I'm using lime instead of lemon."

  "G and is?"

  "Gin and tonics."

  "Oh. Right."

  "Ever had one?" she asked.

  "Not exactly," I said, as if you can kind of have a gin and tonic.

  "What about wine?" she said. "My parents are big into red wine with dinner. Especially merlot."

  "Yeah," I say. "I like red wine." For Passover Seder, Daddy would always pour a little kosher red into my glass. He showed me how to dip my pinky in and dab it on my napkin, ten times, to represent the plagues. Then we'd raise glasses and clink. "Lechaim, Bella," he would say.

  Lechaim, Daddy.

  Ashley opened the fridge and checked out the shelves. "I forgot! We have roast beef! And gravy! Want to make diner sandwiches?"

  I said okay, and we set up shop. Baking sheet, saucepans, carving knife, fat slices of white bread, the kind that's really had for you but tastes really good.

  We piled everything onto a gigantic serving platter and schlepped it downstairs to the den, the only room in the house where we're allowed to make a mess. Ashley said her brothers practically live down there.

  No kidding. It's only wall-to-wall posters of supermodels in bikinis. There's Ping-Pong, fooshall, darts, and pool. Plus, a big-screen TV and a refrigerator. It's teenage boy heaven.

  I asked Ashley, where were the brothers tonight, by the way?

  "Jon and Dave are down the street, at Eric Dean's," she said, taking a single corn chip and dipping it in salsa. "You know Eric?"

  I shook my head no.

  "He's like my fourth brother." Ashley popped the chip in her mouth, chewed once, and swallowed. "And Craig's ... where is Craig? ... In the Hamptons, I think. Some party."

  In the Hamptons. Where the rich people go.

  I picked up my Diet Coke and swirled the ice around with my finger. You don't mind being here all alone?"

  "I'm not alone," Ashley said. "I have you."

  Ashley kicked off her shoes and reclined on the couch, her feet propped on the coffee table. I noticed that her socks were pure white on the bottom. They probably smelled like vanilla beans.


  I sat down next to her but kept my sneakers on.

  Ashley sipped her Diet Coke and asked if I had any sisters or brothers.

  "One sister," I said. "Younger."

  "Really? A sister?" Ashley took her feet off the coffee table and tucked them under herself. "I always wanted a sister. How old?"

  "Ten."

  "Ten. You're so lucky."

  I practically choked on an ice cube "You wouldn't want April for a sister," I said. "Trust me. She's a pain in the you-know-what."

  Ashley smiled. She really does have the world's most perfect teeth. "Come on, Isabelle, she can't be that had."

  "Oh, yes," I said. "She can."

  We continued the small talk for a few minutes. I tried not to look at the food trays. I wanted a chocolate chip cookie so had I was drooling.

  Finally, Ashley said, so casual, "I guess we should eat those sandwiches, huh? Before they get cold?"

  Yes, I suppose we'd better.

  And the corn chips, and the cookies, and the peppermint patties, and the Cap'n Crunch, and the tuna salad, and the cold leftover spaghetti, and an entire bag of frozen cocktail meatballs dipped in BBQ sauce, and the rest of the Diet Coke.

  10

  FOR OUR BIKE RIDE my mother packed us a picnic, all healthy stuff. Peaches, zucchini bread, and lemon hummus sandwiches on seven grain. Also a box of raisins, which I wasn't crazy about.

  Besides that, there was a bigger problem. If I came within three feet of anything resembling food, I would die.

  We'd been riding for a couple of miles. Every few minutes my mother pointed to a tree and announced how splendid it was. "Look at that one, Belle! Isn't it splendid? It's like fire."

  I'll tell you what's like fire-my intestines.

  "Ooo! Look at that one! Have you ever seen such colors?"

  Somehow I managed to say "Wow!" and "Nice one!" But really what I was trying to do was stay vertical.

  By the time we pulled off the bike path onto the dirt road that winds around the lake, my stomach was cramping so badly I was doubled over the handlebars. I told my mother I had to find a bathroom. Now.

  She said if I could wait another mile, there was a gas station off Route 9.

  "Emergency," I told her. "Number two."

  Moral stopped and leaned her hike against the nearest tree. "JIISt give me a minute, sweetie," she said and began loosening her helmet.

  I didn't have a minute. I had ten seconds, tops.

  Rummage, rummage, rummage through the knapsack. My mother was sure she'd packed those paper towels. She was positive.... She could swear it....

  Too late! I was staggering through the woods like a rabid hear, unzipping my jeans and yanking them down around my knees. I was squatting, before I even found a tree. I was making noises that no human being should make.

  It was pure torture.

  If Ashley Barnum thinks I'm ever trying Ex-Lax again, she is insane.

  My mother tucked me into bed with cool hands. She put a tray on my bedside table, some kind of broth and a stack of crackers. She sat on the edge of my bed and pulled the covers up to my armpits. "Feel better?"

  I held up my hand to make the so-so sign.

  "Any idea why your tummy's so upset?"

  I did my best move: the shoulder shrug.

  "Isabelle. A little feedback, please."

  Just then a wave of cramps hit me. I pulled my knees into my chest and moaned.

  "Belle? Honey.' Do you need to use the toilet again?"

  I didn't answer, I just tore off the covers and sprinted down the hall to the bathroom. I made it just in time. I stayed on the toilet for a long, long while. That gave me time to think.

  When I got back to my room, Morn was still there, sitting on the edge of my bed.

  I tried to make my voice cheery. "Well, that explains it! I just got my period!"

  My mother held back the covers so I could crawl into bed again.

  I babbled on. "You know, Mom, your period can really upset your stomach. I learned all about it in Health."

  She nodded and handed me a cup with a bendy straw in it. "Take small sips," she said.

  I swallowed. Ginger ale.

  "What did you eat last night at Ashley's?" my mother asked. "Remember our deal about cutting back on junk? I hope you didn't have a lot of junk, Isabelle."

  "I didn't."

  "Anything that might upset your stomach? Anything rich? Ice cream?"

  "Morn," I said. "I didn't eat anything." Just thinking about everything we ate made me want to run to the bathroom all over again.

  "I thought you were having dinner there."

  "I mean I didn't eat any junk. It's just period cramps. Honest."

  My mother leaned her head to one side and looked at me.

  "Although . . ." I said, wrinkling my brow like I was thinking hard, "I did have this chicken marsala thing. And you know what they say about undercooked chicken. I could have a very slight case of food poisoning."

  Mom reached out to palm my forehead. "You are a little warm," she said.

  "I feel a little warm," I said.

  Even though I knew for a fact that Gregory-the-Cook would never poorly handle his chicken, maybe if she thought it was food poisoning she would stop asking so many questions.

  "I should call Dr. Atlas," Mom said, "just to be safe."

  "Oh no," I told her. "That's okay. Really. I'm feeling better already. See? I'm sitting up."

  "Well. .."

  I almost had her. I took the tiniest spoonful of broth and dipped my tongue in it. "This is really good, Mom. Did you make it from scratch?"

  "All right, Isabelle," my mother sighed, leaning over to kiss my forehead. "I'm going to take your word on this one. But if you start to feel worse, even by a millimeter, I'm taking you in. Deal?"

  "Deal."

  Around five, someone knocked on my door. It was Ape Face. Even though I didn't say she could come in, she marched right over to the bed and handed me a piece of orange paper cut into the shape of a sun. The glitter glue was still wet.

  I gave her a nod, which was more of a Get Lost than a Thank You. But was she going to take the hint and leave? Oh no. Not Ape Face.

  "Food poisoning," she said, like she was impressed. "That's had."

  I shrugged.

  "The runs?" she asked.

  "Uh-huh."

  Naturally, she kept on going. Ape Face proceeded to tell me about this one time she had the runs, when she ate approximately five thousand grapes at a class picnic. For extra drama, she clutched her stomach and made farting sounds out of the side of her mouth. "I'ni serious, Belly. I was, like, exploding with grape juice. I was a regular grape juice factory."

  "Listen, April," I said. "This is not exactly what I need to hear right now."

  "Oh," she said. "Okay. Do you feel any better yet?"

  "Not really," I said, which was the truth.

  Then Ape Face plopped herself right down next to me. "Swath over," she said.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  "Sitting," said Ape Face.

  "I can see that. Did you think I invited you, or ... ?"

  Ape Face didn't say anything. She picked up a piece of my blanket and rubbed it between her fingers.

  "Well?" I said.

  "Isabelle?" Ape Face said. Her voice sounded shy, not like her usual voice.

  "What!"

  "I know you're still mad at me and everything, and well, I don't blame you. I really shouldn't have told on you.

  "No," I said. "YOU shouldn't have."

  "I know." She didn't look directly at me, so I kind of got that she meant it.

  "Okay then," I said, meaning, You can leave now.

  She didn't go anywhere though. She kept on sitting on my bed, rubbing my blanket between her fingers. Finally she said, "Belly?"

  "What, Ape Face?" I said.

  "Don't call me that," she said. "I hate it."

  "Well, don't call me Belly."

  "Fine.... Isabelle?"
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  "What, April? Spit it out, will you?"

  Ape Face wouldn't look at me. She looked at the wall and said, "I have to do this project. You know, for school? It's this family tree thing. We need to write about everybody. And we need to have photos. So ..."

  I knew what was coming. It made me want to jam a pillow over Ape Face's big mouth to keep her quiet.

  "I need your help, Isabelle," April said. "With the Daddy part. I mean ... what do I do?"

  I closed my eyes. Maybe if I kept them closed long enough, she would go away. We could pretend this Conversation never happened.

  Here's the weird thing, on the day of the funeral April cried and cried. My mother didn't cry at all, and neither did I, but April wouldn't stop bawling. So how come now she can just talk about him like it's nothing?

  "Isabelle? ... Hellooo?"

  I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.

  "I didn't know who else to ask," said Ape Face. "I thought maybe you'd have some photos of him."

  I shifted my position on the bed, bringing my knees up to my chest. "You thought wrong."

  "Oh," said Ape Face. "Okay."

  I closed my eyes again, but I could feel her looking at Inc.

  "Isabelle?" she said softly. "Do you think she threw them all out, the pictures?"

  I shook my head. It was easier than answering.

  "Where do you think they are?"

  I looked at her then. "How should I know?" I knew I sounded mean, but I didn't care. "Ask her yourself."

  "God, Isabelle," she said. "Bite my head off, why don't you.

  I closed my eyes.

  "I only wanted some help."

  I pulled a pillow over my face. The cool pressure felt good.

  Ape Face got off the bed. She walked over to the door and just stood there. I could hear her breathing. All I wanted her to do was leave.

  "Isabelle?"

  Silence.

  "You're not the only one, you know," she said softly. "I miss him too."

  11

  I TOLD NOLA AND GEORGINE about having to spend the weekend in bed. "I haven't moved in t'. enty- tour hours," I said. "Except to run to the bathroom."