How did he do that?
* * *
—
PIPER IS BESIDE herself excited that I am going on a date. “You’re going to wet your pants if you don’t stop prancing around,” I tell her.
The idea of wetting one’s pants triggers that memory of when I wet my pants the night of my arrest. It seems like just yesterday and also like a hundred years ago.
When Danny picks me up at the house, it’s all a blur of my quiet nervousness and Piper’s constant yapping. Once inside the movie theater, I admit that popcorn would be good. Not only because I love popcorn, but also it will give me a way to occupy my hands in case he has any ideas about holding one of them. While Danny gets in the concession line, I find us seats.
When the lights finally go down, I feel a small thrill. Danny has bought himself Jujubes, that awful gummy candy that sticks in your teeth. He smells good, though I can’t decide if it’s from cologne or a musky deodorant or soap. On the way here in the car, I noticed that his hair still looked a little damp. He’s more handsome without the cap.
During the previews, I watch his hands out of the corner of my eye. He has long fingers, smooth nails. I wonder what he looks like when he’s up close enough to kiss. If you would still notice his nose so much.
At dinner, there’s an awkward moment when Danny orders wine for us and the waiter cards me. I don’t want to use Annette’s license, since she’s not twenty-one—and I told Danny that I was. Thinking quickly, I volunteer that I lost my license and hadn’t bothered getting a new one yet since I don’t own a car. The waiter lets me order wine anyway, which I barely sip.
In order to deflect the conversation away from me, I ask Danny questions about his family, background, and hobbies. I learn that his mom and dad are both realtors. He’s got two sisters, both of whom live in Los Angeles. He’s crazy about college basketball, though he never played himself. He grew up in Springfield, Oregon, until he was eighteen. After graduating from the University of Washington, he enrolled at the police academy. He likes Bob Marley. He likes Jujubes. And, apparently—he likes me.
I still wonder why. What do we have in common? I guess he thinks I’m pretty. And we do have an easy way of bantering. Our senses of humor seem to go together, and he says I make him laugh. When I admitted I love astronomy, he claimed that on any clear night he can find every constellation in view.
Of course, I didn’t offer up my astronaut dream. What a joke.
I should have realized that by asking him all those “get to know you” questions, he’d do the same to me. Sweating and awkward, I tell him a series of small (big) lies, like that I’m an only child. I graduated from Snohomish High School. I went to Everett Community College until I ran out of money. The being-poor part there’s no hiding, so why lie?
Once, I catch Danny looking at me in a gentle, probing way that makes me wonder what he’s thinking. At the Porters’ door, I’m nervous he’ll try to kiss me. Instead, he bows, reaching up to tip his hat—which isn’t there—and we both laugh.
* * *
—
OF COURSE, PIPER is waiting up for me and accosts me as soon as I shut the front door.
“So how fun was it?” she asks. She has on her same pink nightgown. “What movie did you see?”
“It was called Runaway Train,” I tell her.
“About a train?” she asks. “Did people kiss and stuff like that?”
“No, silly. It was a movie about criminals who escape prison and end up on a train that is out of control.”
“Oh,” she says. I can see the wheels turning. “Was it good?”
“Actually, I really liked it,” which is true. I wish I could tell Piper about the time I tried to escape juvie and failed—only I’d give her the funny version. She would love that story, especially the part where the fireman cuts off my hair.
I go to the kitchen and open the fridge, looking for milk. The wine at dinner has left my tummy feeling funny.
“Did you kiss?” She is right behind me.
“Piper! I told you we are just friends.” She looks disappointed. I pour a glass of milk and sit at the table.
“Did you hold hands?”
I laugh. “Piper, you’re a romantic, aren’t you?”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, nothing. No, we didn’t hold hands.” I take a gulp of milk. “We went to a movie and then for a bite.”
“What restaurant?”
“A place called Thirteen Coins.” I see her mind still working. She wants details but doesn’t know how to get at them.
“Are you going out again on another date? Is he your boyfriend now?”
I sigh heavily. “I don’t know, Piper. I think we will just be friends.”
As Piper and I make our way upstairs, I realize something. I had told Piper about Leo. And if I keep seeing Danny, someday the subject of Leo will come up. Then I’ll have to make a really embarrassing apology about not being an only child. How would I explain? That alone should be reason enough not to go out with Danny again.
* * *
—
A COUPLE NIGHTS later, I have the run of the house. Mike, in a highly unusual move, has taken Piper, along with Curtis, to see an early showing of Pinocchio. Maybe Curtis has some parental instincts Mike seems to lack. I hope so, for Piper’s sake.
I’m determined to maximize my Piper-free time, but instead I’m restless and there’s not much on TV. Around eight, the phone rings. When it turns out to be Danny, I’m surprised he called me so soon after our “date.”
“Annette,” he says. “How’s it going?”
“Okay, I guess.” Does he just want to chat? I feel like I don’t know how.
“Have you recovered from our date? I know I left you swooning.”
I let out a small laugh. “Not exactly,” I tell him.
“You’re hurting my feelings,” he jokes.
“No, really,” I assure him. “It was a lot of fun.”
“That’s great,” he says. “I can’t wait to get together again. How about this Friday? Do you want to bring Piper?”
“No, I don’t want to bring Piper! I want to escape Piper!” Then I realize he’s done it again, drawn out a yes from me, this time by implication.
“What grade is she in?” he asks.
“Fourth.”
“Ah yes, he says. “Fourth grade, Marcy Mayhew.”
“Marcy who?” I nervously curl the phone cord round my finger.
“Mayhew. I used to chase her around the playground. Sometimes I got close. But then I’d panic. I mean, what would I do if I actually caught her?”
“I remember that,” I tell him. “The chasing thing.”
“Did a boy ever catch you?”
“Yeah,” I answer truthfully.
“What happened?”
“I punched him in the mouth. I didn’t mean to. But I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid he was going to try to kiss me.”
“Uh-oh. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Very funny,” I tell him. “But, about Friday…” I’m about to worm out of that date when he quickly cuts in.
“I’ll pick you up at six. I have something special planned.”
“Oh?” I say, curious.
“It’ll be fun. I’ll see you then.” He hangs up before I can object. I sigh as I place the receiver back in the cradle. I’m tempted to call back and cancel, but that seems so rude. Or is Danny the one who is rude? He’s pushy, for sure, but he also seems genuinely kind and, yeah, maybe a little desperate.
I wander over to the fridge and, for some reason, grab one of Mike’s beers and snap it open. The sound reminds me of Raymond, who was always demanding someone bring him a beer. Raymond, with his stinky socks, the TV remote plastered to his hand, his ass planted in his La-Z-Boy. Raymond with his eyes grow
ing lazy and bloodshot as they followed me. Raymond getting all goopy and sweet, calling me Veenie.
I shudder. And then I realize the reason I’m thinking of Raymond is that I’ve been thinking about Danny. It’s almost like the two subconsciously overlap in my mind in a bizarre, unfair way. Suddenly feeling sick, I pour the beer down the sink.
The next evening, I overhear Mike talking on the phone to a friend about how it’s strangely balmy outside. I step onto the back porch to check, and he’s right. The rain has left everything damp but clean. What surprises me more than the mild temperature is the clear night sky. The two don’t usually go together in Seattle in the winter. Suddenly I feel Piper at my side, looking up with me.
“Do you see Venus?” I ask, pointing it out to her.
“It’s such a pretty star,” she says. “Like you,” she adds with a self-conscious giggle.
“You think I’m pretty?”
“Of course!” she says. “You’re as pretty as one of Charlie’s Angels.”
“Yeah, right,” I say. “But thank you, Piper.” I sit down on one of the crumbling cement steps and she joins me. “Actually, Venus isn’t a star,” I tell her. “It’s a planet. But lots of people call it a star—the Morning Star.”
“Why can’t it be both?”
“It kind of is,” I say, enjoying her interest. “The only thing that shines brighter than Venus in the night sky is our moon.”
Piper tells me she’s been learning about space at school. She wants to talk about the Space Shuttle Challenger and how that one teacher was going to get to go into space even though she wasn’t an astronaut, just a teacher.
“If it happens when we’re at school, we might get to watch it on TV,” she says.
“Wow, Piper. That would be so great. I’ll probably be at work, unless it happens on a Monday.” I don’t bother sharing with Piper how I used to want to be an astronaut. I know now that they don’t send people like me into space. Still, I’m so jealous of that teacher—Christa McAuliffe—that I’m not even sure I’ll watch the launch.
“So can you find the Big Dipper, Piper?” I ask.
“You work there, silly!” she says. “It’s not in the sky.” Then she laughs and I suspect she knows better.
“You’re right,” I tell her. “But it’s in the sky, too. You know that. The real Big Dipper is a constellation of stars.”
“What is a con-sul—”
“A constellation is a group of stars that make a picture in the sky,” I explain, trying to keep the science on her level. “Like Taurus is a group of stars shaped like a bull. Or at least that’s how it looks to us. But the stars themselves aren’t actually related to one another; they just look like they belong together.”
“Kind of like our family,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
She takes a second to swallow a bite of cookie, which she snuck after I cut her off hours ago. “You said the stars aren’t really related, they just belong together. That’s just like us.”
I smile in the shadows. “You’re a smart girl, Piper.”
* * *
—
I DON’T PLAN it, don’t even realize I’m going to do it until Danny shows up on Thursday at the Dipper. He begins to flirt with me first thing—and I stiffen. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “About tomorrow night…I can’t.”
“Okay, so how about the next night?” he says, trying to humor me along.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” I blurt out. “I appreciate the movie and dinner. That date was great. But I was only being nice. I think it’s probably time for you to give up, you know? Would it help if I tell you there’s no hope?” I can hear a hint of disdain in my voice, which I totally didn’t mean to be there. By the surprised look on his face, I can tell he heard it, too.
“Okay,” he says. He doesn’t stay to order anything. Just walks out the door. For the rest of my shift, I feel sick to my stomach and totally devastated. I can hardly plaster a smile on my face for customers. By the time I get home, I want to cry or scream or punch something, because I’m so disappointed and embarrassed, too. I was so rude!
What does it mean for my future that I just shot down a guy I really like? I had hoped that once I was free, if I met a guy I felt attracted to and liked, I’d be able to have a boyfriend. But my reaction to Danny seems to prove true one of my worst fears—that I’ll never be able to really be with a guy.
Of course, part of the issue is that I’m terrified of being discovered as Venus Black. But even worse than being recognized, I fear being known. I’m almost positive that if I date Danny, one thing will to lead to another—until it won’t. Because I can’t bear to have the tender, secret parts of my body exposed to the light of a man’s gaze. Like a starfish belly-up on the beach, I’d shrivel and die.
Which means I’d eventually hurt Danny worse than I just hurt him now. In time, he’d discover that I’m not unlike the planet I’m named for. At a great distance, Venus is beautiful, the brightest of stars in the sky. But what NASA discovered when they orbited her is that she’s actually an inhospitable planet, a boiling cauldron of poisonous gases.
Come too close and you’d fry.
When Christmas comes around, I convince Piper I don’t need a gift and tell her I’m not giving her one, either. But, of course, I hide a new Barbie under the tree at the last minute.
Recently, Piper has lost interest in tormenting Smelly Shelly and wants a Barbie instead. Personally, I don’t like Barbies, because when they are naked, even without genitalia, they make it so you can’t help but think of sex. Once when I was young, a girl came over with a Ken doll and wanted to play nasty. I never played with her again.
Christmas morning, Mike is sick and can’t join us. “The flu,” he says from his bed. “All I want for Christmas is some Pepto-Bismol. I like it cold, so it’s in the back of the fridge.”
So Piper and I open presents alone. Piper is ecstatic about the Barbie. I make her promise to keep Barbie dressed.
And, of course, Piper has a present for me, too. It’s a Polaroid instant camera—“So you can take pictures of me!” she announces. I can tell she’s not even joking.
“Remember when I told you to take a picture because it will last longer?” she asks.
I smile and nod.
“Well, now you really can!” She literally grabs the camera from my hand and loads the film. “Uncle Mike showed me how,” she says, handing it back to me. Obviously Mike was in on this gift and must have given her the money, too. It couldn’t have been cheap, and I feel bad that I didn’t buy him anything but a Bruce Springsteen album.
Piper sits in front of the rather pathetic Christmas tree. “I’m ready now!” she declares. I raise the camera and frame her in the tiny window. Her lips are slightly blue, her single front tooth looms large, and she’s wearing the new Christmas nightgown she got from Mike, which she opened last night. “C’mon, Annette! Hurry up!”
I snap the shutter, and then we both watch as the black film slowly slides out. We lie on the floor and lean over it, waiting for Piper to emerge. Gradually, she comes into focus.
“You’re so pretty, Piper,” I tell her. “Merry Christmas.”
She quietly studies the picture for a long time, which makes me wonder if Mike—working at Olan Mills, for God’s sake—has ever taken her picture. Watching her stare at her ten-year-old self, I get a lump in my throat. I hope she never has a reason to shy away from cameras, hope she’ll always feel confident and beautiful.
Piper spends the rest of the morning ignoring her new Barbie and taking pictures of me with what is supposedly my camera. At one point, for fun, I pull out my braid and shake my hair loose and wild, which delights Piper no end. I kneel down on the ground and let Felix play with my hair. Piper tries to do the same, but her hair doesn’t interest Felix as much as mine.
I wear m
y hair down like that for the rest of the day, reveling in the familiar feeling of having it loose. We force Mike to open his gift from Piper and me from bed. We dance around all morning to “Born to Run,” laughing.
Between Piper taking pictures of Felix and me and asking me to take more pictures of her, we waste a whole package of film.
* * *
—
NOT SURPRISINGLY, DANNY never comes back. When Piper grills me about him, I finally admit that I told him I couldn’t go on any more dates.
“But you like him!” she squeals.
“I know. You’re right that I like him. It’s just that…” How can I explain to Piper that I’m screwed up when it comes to guys?
“What?” she wails. “Why? How could you be so mean?”
It’s a good question and one that I’ve asked myself. But somehow I hadn’t expected Piper to be so upset about Danny. Then again, I hadn’t expected to be so upset myself, either. The whole thing is only made worse by the abrupt, stupid way I handled it. I know I hurt his feelings and probably embarrassed him, too—and he must hate me now.
Ever since it happened, my mood has grown dark. The days are so short—it’s dark by four-thirty now. Plus, I am more and more at a loss about how to keep Piper both entertained and on task with schoolwork. Meanwhile, I worry about how close we’ve become. What will happen when I want to move on? Clearly she thinks we’re some kind of family. Sweet but scary.
At times, I debate calling Danny to apologize, but I can’t see how to do that without changing my position. I’m sorry I dumped you so rudely, and by the way, I still can’t go out with you.
Sometimes the stupid irony of my situation is just too much. I begin to practically drown in my sadness—only to get angry at myself, because it’s all of my own creation. It’s no one’s fault but mine that instead of having a boyfriend to possibly plan a future with, I have skipped right to being a pseudo parent to a bratty fourth-grader.
My Name Is Venus Black Page 15