Girlish

by Lara Lillibridge

  In August Sharon and Girl got an apartment together a week before they started their freshman year of college. It was big and airy, with windows on three sides, and heated by steam radiators. There was a built-in bookcase where they arranged all of their mementos. They went to the Salvation Army and bought a wingback chair together, and melted crayons into candles. Girl loved everything about the apartment and her roommate. She had been lonely for so long.

  The phone rang at three in the morning, two weeks after school started. The ringing phone woke Girl, who batted the receiver about as she struggled to awaken and find the source of noise and make it stop.

  “Tigger is dead,” Brother told Girl. Suddenly she was on high alert.

  Tigger was Brother’s best friend. He and Girl had spent half of high school dating when neither of them had anyone better around, dropping each other without malice when someone more interesting came into the picture.

  “What?” Girl said, thinking, Why does it have to be Tigger? If someone had to die, why couldn’t it have been John, one of Brother’s other friends, instead?

  “He was in Chicago with Karl,” Brother explained. Brother was supposed to go on the trip back to Karl’s hometown, but had backed out at the last minute. He was trying to get his life together, which meant working full-time at 7-Eleven and going to the same community college as Girl. She had been proud of Brother for choosing to be responsible. “They went to a party, Karl got drunk, Tigger didn’t. Karl was driving. He hit a tree. Tigger was launched out the front window. When they found his body, all his clothes had been ripped off in the accident.”

  Girl didn’t ask how he knew the details.

  “I called Tigger’s parents to tell them, but they hung up on me. They thought it was a joke.”

  Girl and Brother had drifted since she found religion in high school. She looked down on how his whole life revolved around Rocky Horror Picture Show; he scorned her new conservative mindset. But Brother had just decided to make a change. He had been previously living with Karl and Tigger and getting high, but he had just gotten his own one-bedroom apartment, just a few blocks from Girl’s, and he had decided to get sober again. He was on the edge of the pit clawing his way out, and he had to do it without any help from their parents. Girl had a car and child support, and even though she worked, it was only part-time. Brother had a full-time job and a bus pass because Stepmother was done helping him.

  “We’re down at Denny’s on Monroe Ave,” he said. Girl got dressed and drove down to see him. She was surprised that Mother was at the restaurant, drinking coffee with all of Brother’s punk friends. Mother hugged her, tears in her own eyes.

  “It’s been twenty years, but I wish I still smoked right now,” Mother said when Brother lit a cigarette.

  At the wake a few days later, Girl picked up the box of Tigger’s ashes at the prompting of his sister. “Feel how light it is,” the sister had urged her. It didn’t feel like an entire person was contained in the metal box. It felt like nothing at all.

  After Tigger died, Brother fell apart. He stopped going to work, dropped out of school, and was evicted from his apartment. He spent the next few years bouncing between friends’ apartments, winding up on Girl’s doorstep when he ran out of places to stay. Stepmother would not allow him to come back home, though Mother did give him a box of food every time she saw him.

  Girl still worked at South Wedge Florist, and since Tony’s birthday party, everyone at the shop always asked about Sharon. Her roommate hung out with William, too, taking him to doctor’s appointments when Girl was busy, or going out to lunch with him.

  “My two little nurses,” William called them. “Sharon is so beautiful, don’t you think?” he asked Girl. She was visiting William alone this time. “I want to get married before I die. Do you think Sharon would marry me? She’d be a gorgeous bride with that long red hair.” Girl was uncomfortable and a little jealous.

  “Why do you want to get married?”

  “Oh, I have spent my life planning other people’s weddings. I want to do one completely my way.”

  Girl understood that—she always thought about her own wedding while she put together flowers for other people’s ceremonies. Girl wanted more than anything to be a princess for just one day, wearing a gown and feeling beautiful, surrounded by admiring friends and family. They always had bridal magazines around the flower shop, and at lunch she’d dream her way through the pages, trying to decide the best way to wear her hair, the best dress for her figure. Girl evaluated every church and reception hall she set up so she could pick the prettiest one when it was her big day. She no longer had a steady boyfriend, but that didn’t stop her from planning everything she could, even down to the money box shaped like Cinderella’s pumpkin-turned-carriage. Girl could understand William’s yearning for his own wedding, but she wondered why William didn’t want to marry Walter, his life partner. She didn’t know why he wanted to marry a girl so badly. Girl didn’t think it occurred to William to marry Walter, perhaps because of the ingrained Catholic sensibilities he was raised with, but mainly, Girl thought, because he wanted to pick out bridal gowns and attendants dresses as much as she did. He wanted to plan his big day, and straight was the only acceptable version of that in his eyes.

  “Besides, I need someone to register my car for me,” William said. “The insurance is too much to just have a Porsche. It’s a lot cheaper if you have two cars on one policy. My friend Roselyn used to do it for me but she said she can’t anymore, even though I did her drapes in her living room and everything.” Oh, so there was added motivation behind it, Girl thought. There was no way she would put his car on her insurance. Mother would kill her.

  Girl talked to Sharon about it the next day.

  “That’s funny,” Sharon said. “He says the same thing to me about you. He tells me how beautiful you are. Says you are a natural beauty and I’m only pretty with makeup. And he wants to marry you but is afraid to ask.”

  “I only want to only get married for love,” Girl said. There was more than that, though. Girl kissed William on the lips every time she saw him without thinking twice about it—all the gay guys at work gave pecks on the lips to all their friends. But if she married him would he want to have sex with her? That she couldn’t do. Girl couldn’t sleep with an HIV-positive man when she was only eighteen. What if she got sick, too? But he was dying. If Girl was a good friend, wouldn’t she marry him? And what about money? Wouldn’t she be responsible for his bills if they got married? Girl knew that William was racking them up, figuring he’d die before he had to pay them.

  “Why do you think he plays us against each other like that?” Girl asked.

  “I have no idea. It’s weird,” Sharon said. William was stirring the pot at work, too. He and Bob were constantly fighting, so he hired someone to replace Bob, but Ryan wouldn’t fire him. Now they had two people who thought they were the head designer and only enough work for one of them.

  “William’s still kind of an asshole,” Girl said. “I know you aren’t supposed to say that about someone who is dying, but he is.”

  “Did he tell you his plan?” Sharon asked.

  “What plan?”

  “Well, he wanted to place an ad for a threesome in the paper and have guys come over and undress for us, and then I was supposed to say I wasn’t interested. That way we’d both get to see naked penises for free.”

  “He didn’t ask me about that. I do think he likes you better. Are you gonna do it?” It sounded predatory. Mean. Girl wanted no part of it. She understood that his time here was short and that he wanted to do everything he could in the time he had remaining, but William’s requests seemed to always be at someone else’s expense.

  “I said I’d think about it, because I didn’t know what to say. But I don’t want to. I wish he’d stop asking.”

  “His birthday party is next week,” Girl said.

  “Yeah, he told me. We’re going together, right?”

  “Of course we
are. William throws the best parties. I promised to be his bartender.” It didn’t matter if Girl had a boyfriend, Sharon was always her date for any of William’s parties. She had made the mistake of taking a boyfriend only once, and he had just sat there, too uncomfortable to speak or even move off the sofa.

  William was turning twenty-five. He seemed so grown up to Girl, so mature. She didn’t realize that at eighteen she was closer in age to him than he was to any of the other guys at the shop. Girl didn’t know he saw her and Sharon as his peers. It wasn’t until Girl was twenty-five that she realized how it is just a breath and a week from eighteen, not all that old, not all that grown up.

  A few weeks later Ryan called Girl into his office. They were so busy that she rarely spoke to Ryan one-on-one—normally he was in the back office doing paperwork and Girl was in the work area out front, and Ryan only appeared when they got too loud. Girl was a little trepidatious, but she couldn’t think of what she had done wrong.

  “I’m not a brave man,” Ryan began. “I told William I’m closing the shop, but I’m not. I just need to get rid of him. So if you talk to him, pretend you’re sad about the shop closing and that you’re looking for a new job. But don’t worry, I’m not firing you.”

  Girl nodded. She remembered Bruce, the man she worked with years ago, saying that South Wedge had closed. Apparently this was how Ryan fired people. When push came to shove, it was Ryan that Girl was loyal to, and not just because he signed her paychecks. She wished Ryan had been her father. Even his words—I am not a brave man—made her love him more, and want to protect him. She would play his game.

  “Cleaning house!” Tony said gleefully when Girl exited the office. He was obviously in on it too. William was livid though, and not fooled for a minute. As soon as he was told the story, he called Girl.

  “They all have AIDS, you know. I don’t know what Ryan is thinking—I’ve been sharing my AZT with him, but I’m not going to do that anymore. And Tony? I was teaching him how to read. I was the only one to throw a party for him when he turned forty. His lover couldn’t be bothered.”

  William found another job, but he and Girl drifted apart. Not because she didn’t love him, but because he was so angry and hard to be around. She didn’t know how to reconcile it. Every time they got together Girl left fuming, resolving never to see him again, but then he’d get sick, or need a ride to the doctor’s, and she’d always go when he called.

  By May of 1992 William was bedridden, yellow and swollen from liver disease, nearly twice his original girth. William could no longer pretend to come from a close family that just happened to live too far to visit often. None of his relatives came to see him in his last few weeks, not even his mother. William couldn’t hide the fact that most of the people who drank his champagne and ate his caviar at parties didn’t want to see him in his final days. He couldn’t hide the smell of his disease as it ate his body away, or cover up the pallor of his skin, or pretend his bloated figure was due to too much pasta.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow, after school,” Girl said, after one visit.

  “Bring me raspberries,” William asked.

  “Of course I will. Anything you want.” Girl smiled and fought back tears. She didn’t want him to go on like this, but she wasn’t ready for him to die either. All of her complaints about him seemed petty now, and Girl wished she had been a better friend.

  The next morning the telephone summoned her from sleep, telling her it was too late to bring William raspberries ever again.

  Girl asked Mother to go to the funeral, but it was Sharon who held her as they both sobbed. Girl felt guilty for making Mother go with her—she knew Mother had lost so many people, been to too many funerals. Girl tried to turn to her instead of Sharon, but it felt forced, outgrown. She shouldn’t have asked her to go, even though she was willing. It wasn’t fair to Mother, so Girl let Mother hold her and cried on her shoulder as well.

  the right chevy

  summer 1989

  Girl met the Right Chevy at an Alcoholics Anonymous picnic when she was almost sixteen, and almost a year sober. “Met” wasn’t exactly the right word; “saw” was more precise. Samson Chevy was tan, muscular, and shirtless, at least five years older and a whole lot cooler than Girl. He had a Harley bandana tied around his head and a scruffy beard. His face crinkled in laughter around his green eyes, and he was surrounded by a group of admiring men and teenagers.

  Girl was there with her best friend, Rose-Marie. They were trying to impress the other high school kids at the picnic, the boys in particular. Since Girl was going to an all-girls Catholic school, AA functions were the only place she got to flirt.

  “Chevy’s here!” the boy Girl was talking to said, and walked off to hang around the bikers like a groupie. Girl didn’t follow him—she was too cool for that.

  “No girl can ever get me down!” Brandon was bragging.

  “Oh, yeah?” Girl replied. She’d show him that girls could do anything boys could do. Besides, maybe that guy on the bike was watching.

  Girl waited till Brandon had the football in the middle of the field, then ran full speed at him, catching him around the waist with both her arms, and knocked him flat on his back.

  “No girl can get you down, huh?” She was triumphant.

  “I can’t believe you did that! Everyone was watching!” Brandon was livid.

  “What? You said no girl could take you down.”

  “Everyone saw me get tackled by a girl!” Brandon stormed off. Girl looked for the bikers, but they were gone. She couldn’t stop thinking about that one guy, though. Chevy. Even his name was cool.

  She saw him again at an AA dance a few months later, and this time he spoke to her. Rose-Marie and Girl were wearing their matching red sweatshirts and tight black jeans and doing their synchronized left, right, left, turn dance moves to “Funky Cold Medina.”

  “Hey, I’m Chevy,” he said when the song ended. He still had that bandana tied around his head, and his face was scruffy with a few days’ growth of beard. The leather jacket, jeans, and cocky smile rounded out his look as Mr. Cool. Girl couldn’t believe he noticed her.

  “I know who you are,” she said, trying not to sound impressed. “I saw you at the picnic last summer.”

  “Dance with me. I’ll come and find you for the first slow song,” he said, walking away in his black cowboy boots that made him just an inch taller than Girl was in her white sneakers.

  Girl kept looking for him as she and Rose-Marie danced to “Wild Thing,” “Mony Mony,” and other eighties hits, but he never came back as promised.

  spring 1992

  Girl met another Chevy when she was eighteen, but he wasn’t the right one.

  Wrong Chevy and Girl were playing cards with some mutual friends at the Sober Barn, a nonprofit organization where teenagers could hang out away from the temptation of drugs or alcohol. Girl was a freshman in college, and Sharon had just taught her to play euchre. They sat around the one-room cabin on old donated sofas playing cards night after night. Wrong Chevy was a few years older than Girl, but still in college. He was preppy and muscular with thinning blond hair and freckles. Girl was surprised when he asked her over to his apartment. Jocks didn’t normally go for Girl—she didn’t have enough style, or confidence, or something. They kissed and he pulled off her clothing to gasp at her matching black bra and panties (thank God it was clean laundry day). When he drove her home, though, he said, “I can’t believe you let me go so far. I thought for sure you would slap me.”

  Girl was confused. Was he just seeing how far she would go? Didn’t he like her? Hadn’t he wanted to mess around, or was this some sort of test she failed? He called again a few days later, when Girl was making chocolate chip cookies. She left the batter half-mixed on the counter and drove to his house. She’d finish it later—if she delayed, he might change his mind.

  Girl let him borrow her car after his was stolen from the university parking lot. He brought her a rose when he returned it
. She went to his apartment on Valentine’s Day with a box of homemade cookies and a handmade card, and he had a pair of earrings for her, along with a card with a picture of a girl picking her nose. “I picked this one for you!” it said. They didn’t go anywhere—he didn’t have any money, but had too much pride to let Girl pay—but Girl bought him groceries and he cooked for her in his studio apartment. He put his arm around her in front of their friends at the Sober Barn, and to Girl, that was all that mattered.

  One night a new girl, Marian, joined the gang. Wrong Chevy leaned over to Girl and whispered in her ear, “That is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen!”

  Girl looked at Marian: chestnut brown hair, no makeup. Most people would probably say that Girl was the prettier of the two. But she was clean-looking, sporty, and sincerely nice to everyone, including Girl, Wrong Chevy’s girlfriend. Within a few days Girl and Wrong Chevy broke up. He and Marian would marry two years later at a 9:30 a.m. ceremony in a Catholic church when Marian was twenty years old and three months pregnant.

  After Wrong Chevy and Girl broke up, he and Girl remained friends. Girl still secretly hoped he would change his mind and come back. He was selling a computer and she needed one, so she agreed to buy his, even though it was older and crappier than the one at her mother’s house. Girl hoped if they hung out enough, he’d remember what he had originally seen in her. When he suggested they drive to his brother’s house to look for the manual to the computer, Girl agreed, even though she knew she’d never read it.

  Wrong Chevy and Girl drove to the edge of the city and parked in front of a small house with white peeling paint and cracked concrete steps, the yard completely surrounded by a chain-link fence. It wasn’t a bad neighborhood—small neat houses mostly—but it was a just a few blocks from Jay Street, which Mother had told Girl to avoid at all costs.