Jersey Angel

by Bauman, Beth Ann

  “Fine. A few overly earnest types.” She smiles and yawns. Is she not going to say, or is there really nothing to say?

  “What do you mean I have to stop?”

  She turns to me. “Kipper?”

  “You make him sound like head lice.”

  She shakes her head. “I only mean that you don’t want him, so what were you doing?”

  “But it wasn’t a big deal. It was friendly. You know. The worst part was him getting all moony afterwards.”

  She sticks her finger in the hot wax of a candle and it hardens over her nail. “Sex is kind of a big deal, if you ask me.”

  “Well, it depends. And you can lose the attitude.”

  “Yeah, okay.” We’re quiet. She rolls the wax over her finger and into a ball. “Just be choosier, Angel. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Kipper climbs the ladder, carefully balancing two plastic cups of beer and two cupcakes. “Am I good or am I good?” he says.

  “You’re good,” Inggy says with the littlest smirk, and I totally regret telling her.

  That’s when the party stops being fun. At the end of the night Inggy’s on one side of the couch and Cork’s on the other and their legs are tangled together. I catch Cork’s eye and he looks away, which pisses me off, because if anyone’s gonna look away it’s gonna be me. Sherry’s in the recliner, holding her belly and drinking Diet Coke, and Carmella’s sitting on the arm of the chair eating Mallomars and wearing bunny ears. I wander into the kitchen and pick up a cupcake and lick at the blue icing.

  Cork comes in pretty buzzed and leans against the sink and watches. I chuck the bald cupcake into the trash.

  “Hey, you,” he says.

  “Shut it, Cork.”

  “Come on,” he whispers. “Come on, Angel.” I give him the finger and walk out.

  Everybody’s yawning, but no one wants to leave yet. Why is that? It’s late, the conversation’s thin, the beer’s drunk, the cupcakes are picked over, but still, no one wants to pack it in. Joey, Kipper, Tony, and I play darts, and I win by a hair. When no one’s looking Joey slaps me on the butt. We play another round, and then Carmella says, “Joe, let’s hit it.” We all head out into the night. The wind roars.

  I’m feeling a little philosophical. There’s Inggy, my best friend, with her hand in Cork’s. And there’s Joey, my Joey, with his hand in Carmella’s. It’s very complicated, which is what life is, and here’s the living proof. I huddle in my jacket, wishing for a hand to hold. I catch up to Sherry and nudge her. “How you feeling?”

  “I seriously have gas.” Well, what is a person to say?

  “Christ,” Tony says. I hold the door open while she heaves herself behind the wheel and Tony gets in the other side and slams his door.

  Inggy looks back as a big gust whips her hair over her head. “Hurry, Angel,” she laughs as she and Cork run to her dad’s car. But I walk over to Kipper, who’s behind the wheel of his mom’s lime-green Fiesta. I knock on the window. “Can I have a ride?”

  “Sure.”

  I wave in Inggy’s direction and climb in the Kippermobile, which smells like cough drops.

  “So this is just a ride home, right? ’Cause I’m no good at innuendo. So if this is more you should let me know so that I’m not going to be tortured with anticipation.”

  “It takes five minutes to drive me home. You’re going to be tortured for five minutes?”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, Kipper. I just want a ride.” I watch his face crumple like a kid’s. I squeeze his arm. “I’m really not available, you know.”

  “Come on, you are so.”

  “I do have a life beyond high school,” I tell him.

  “See, that’s so cool, because I totally don’t. How do you manage that?”

  I smile. “Innuendo. What a good word. I’m going to find a way to work that into conversation.”

  “I’ll remind you.”

  Kipper’s quiet and drives like an old lady. Even though there isn’t much traffic he comes to a full stop at a stop sign and looks both ways before moving ahead.

  “Safety first,” I joke, and he gives me a quick smile.

  He pulls in front of my house and looks at me sweetly, shyly. “Here you are.”

  “S’okay. This isn’t innuendo. You wanna come up? Just this time?”

  chapter 16

  That Friday, Cork’s parents are off to Atlantic City for the night. When Ing calls to tell me that the plan is to hang out at his place, I say I have a stomachache.

  “We’re just going to hang out on the couch. Come.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re not mad at me, are you?” I’m surprised she asks; we’ve avoided talking about Kipper all week.

  “That wasn’t too nice, Ing.”

  “Telling you to be choosier?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t tell my best friend to be choosier?”

  “Do I tell you what to do?”

  “Why can’t I tell you what I think?”

  “Why are you judging me? Okay, so you wouldn’t sleep with Kipper Coleman. You made that crystal-clear. But just because you wouldn’t—”

  “Whoa there. For the record, I think Kipper’s cute in an indescribably goofy way.”

  “In an indescribably goofy super-skinny way.” We laugh.

  “Right,” she says. “But—”

  “But what?”

  “You’re not gonna date him.”

  “So what?”

  “It’s just disingenuous, that’s all. I mean, why bother? Why not sleep with someone you care about?”

  “Disingenuous?”

  “Well, sorta,” she says, her voice getting high.

  “There’s no one I’m interested in at the moment.”

  “Okay. Just come to Cork’s. Come have your stomachache over here.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hang up.

  Disingenuous? I think that means “not real.” I go over to the House and get the Webster’s off the shelf, and sure enough, it means “insincere.” Sitting on the floor, I think about that. I’m pretty sure Kipper wouldn’t say I’m disingenuous.

  I deep-condition my mop with my mom’s fancy-schmancy conditioning oil and sit with a plastic bag on my head to keep the heat in as I channel flip. Mom’s out with the banker and the kids are with TB, so it’s me and the TV. As I rinse the conditioner out, I think about maybe drying my hair and riding over to Cork’s, but instead I stay up late watching TV and snacking. Then I go to my house, put on my leopard-print nightie, and lie on my bed wide awake. Around one o’clock I get dressed and bike over to 7-Eleven for a hot chocolate. While I’m fiddling with the chocolate packet, this guy named Danny walks in. He graduated a couple of years ago and goes to the community college and works in the deli at the A & P. He owns a small Grady-White and fills his tank at the marina.

  “You’re up late,” he says, tearing open a package of Ring Dings with his teeth.

  “Hey,” I say. “You too.” He’s a pretty quiet guy, but cute in a look-twice kind of way, meaning the more you look the better he becomes, which is really an interesting phenomenon if you think about it.

  “You need a ride?”

  “My bike,” I say, pointing outside. I stir in hot water and add a splash of milk. “How’ve you been?”

  We talk for a minute and then he says, “We should have pizza sometime.”

  “I like pizza.”

  “Okay then.” He takes my number and pays for his Ring Dings and leaves.

  That could be fun. I sit on the curb out front and sip my drink. It’s good and hot and the air is chilly without being too cold. Then I get the idea to visit Joey. He might be up, depending on when he got back from Cork’s. I walk the couple of blocks to his house, sipping my drink and missing him again. I don’t think Joey would call me disingenuous either.

  I walk to the back of the house to his window, which is cracked, and call, “Hey, Joey, you up?” Th
e window raises and there stands Carmella with tousled hair, wearing a football jersey.

  “Oh,” I blurt.

  She tilts her head. “Hey.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you guys.” I cringe.

  “I was up.” She thumbs toward the bed. “But this guy is sound asleep.”

  “Yeah.” I look into the half darkness at Joe stretched on the bed under a sheet. “Anyway, I’m not stalking. I swear. Just couldn’t sleep. I’ll get going.”

  “Stay.” She shrugs, grabs her bag, and lights up a cigarette. “He hates when I smoke.” She blows a stream out the window. “You used to smoke, right? A long time ago?”

  “A really long time ago. Like four years. But I got the patch.”

  She nods. “Maybe I should try. You don’t crave one?”

  “I like watching. I’ll watch you smoke.” I grab the wobbly stool from behind the shed and carry it over. And it is nice watching her take a drag and shoot the cool stream into the night air. “Did you guys go to Cork’s?”

  She shakes her head. “We saw a movie, went to Fat Sal’s for a slice, and came back here and went at it for like seven whole minutes before he falls straight asleep. We’re like an old married couple, I swear.” She takes a deep drag on her cigarette. “Why can’t you sleep?”

  I shrug. “Sometimes I just can’t.”

  “High school bores the crap out of me.”

  “I’m not bored, exactly.”

  She leans on the sill and cups her chin in her hand, the cigarette jutting from her fingers glamorously. “Isn’t it funny how some guys are such shits? They can totally live without you and let you know like every second. Then there are guys who glom on. Joey’s a bit of a glommer.”

  I nod.

  “You can’t win.”

  I wave a finger between her and sleeping Joey. “Are you—”

  “Am I gonna break up with him?” She stubs out her cigarette and looks at me coolly. “Probably not. I want a date to the prom. You have to plan ahead, and it’s so lame to drag a college boy. Like they want to go. Plus, he’s a nice guy, Joe.” She yawns. “And a glommer’s better than a shit.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I’m in a funk. I went to see my grandma today in the nursing home. She’s lost it. Oh, my poor granny!” She digs in her bag for a tissue. “So we sit out in the garden and she mostly doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, but she’s still sorta herself. She still likes Fritos.” She blows into the tissue. “And there’s this old man on his little motor cart and he just rides in a circle, making loop after loop. Loop after loop. The whole time we’re sitting there I thought I’d have to kill myself.” She takes a package of Starbursts out of her bag and offers me one.

  I laugh.

  “What? That was funny?”

  “You have the most amazing bag.” I pinch out a cherry one and unwrap it.

  “I know, right?” She uncrinkles one and pops it in her mouth.

  “I miss my grandma too,” I say.

  “Oh, my little granny!”

  “Mine made the best gravy.”

  “There’s nothing like a grandma.”

  “There really isn’t.”

  Carmella dabs her eyes with a tissue. “We have good stuff to look forward to. We do,” she says, the Starburst bulging in her cheek. “Like Miss Merry Christmas. We’ll get nominated. You and me and Inggy. Of course, Inggy’ll probably win.…”

  “Christmas!” I say.

  “It’ll be here before you know it.” It seems so far off, but yeah, she’s right. Every year the senior class nominates four pretty girls and the town votes. All the girls ride on a float in the Christmas parade, but the winner sits high on top of the float wearing a crown. And she gets a hundred bucks.

  “I should get going,” I say. I look in at Joe curled on his side. “It’s hard, isn’t it? You break up with someone and then you can’t know them anymore.”

  “I don’t always want to know them after I ditch ’em.”

  “I do,” I say. “Sometimes, at least.”

  “Well …”

  “I didn’t mean to butt in.”

  “Be his friend, by all means. I can’t be his everything.” She takes a pocket mirror from her bag and gives herself a once-over.

  “Carmella,” I say, “what do you think it is about Inggy? That she’ll win?”

  She yawns, blowing fruity Starburst and cigarette breath my way. “She’s got that thing. But,” she says, digging in her bag for another cigarette, then pointing it at me, “I’ll give her a run for her money.” She lights up, and smoke curlicues above our heads.

  I jog back to 7-Eleven and my bike. The moon is bright in the dark sky, and I’m nice and warm inside my hoodie, my breath coming out in little clouds. Miss Merry Christmas. They’ll take our pictures and hang them all over town. Next to interest rates, pizzas, calzones, and Super Savers. Everyone will vote and crown a winner.…

  Inggy’s beautiful, true. Cool and blue-eyed and queenly. Maybe that crown would look right on her head. Maybe beauty trumps sexy. In theory it does. Beauty is better, I admit. But sexy is the body. It’s the eyes. It’s electric. It’s willing. I look at myself in the chrome of the doors of 7-Eleven. My long, curly hair blows all around my face and the 7-Eleven sign shines brightly in the reflection. There are lots of guys who might vote for me. I could win. Maybe.

  chapter 17

  In World Problems, Mrs. Crisp is talking about the Middle East when Sherry’s water breaks and trickles under her desk. “Shit,” Sherry cries, heaving herself up. “People, I’m having a baby.”

  “Holy crap!” someone yells.

  “Ew,” the kid sitting next to her says, inching his desk away.

  Sherry clutches her stomach. “Shouldn’t I, like, feel something?”

  Mrs. Crisp looks annoyed and then hurries over, sees the little puddle, and escorts her to the office. “Angel, tell Tony,” Sherry yells from the hall.

  I hustle to the gym, where the boys are playing basketball, and wave Tony over. “Her water broke.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” He’s for real. He stands there sweaty and panting and looking a little freaked.

  “Call her. Go to the hospital.”

  He thinks about this. “Yeah, okay.” And he runs back into the game and keeps playing, if you can believe it.

  Inggy and I get updates throughout the day. Sherry’s home. Her contractions haven’t started, so she’s lounging on the couch with a diet soda and TV.

  Then at seven-thirty I get a text from her. “Shithead won’t come to the hospital!!!”

  Inggy gets the same text and calls me. “Can you believe him?”

  “I know!”

  “Maybe we should go,” Ing says.

  “You think? Okay.”

  Inggy drives us to the small Catholic hospital by the bay. Out in front there’s a statue of the Virgin Mary with her hands outspread. She’s standing in the middle of a thorny little garden with a blue spotlight shining on her. I’ve always liked the Virgin Mary because she’s a complicated woman, from what I remember from the stained-glass windows when my grandma took me to church. Even this particular Mary under the blue spotlight looks like she’s been around the block and could handle anything. I make the sign of the cross.

  We wander for a while and finally wind up in a small maternity waiting area. Sherry’s still in labor, so we sit on the plastic couch and I watch an episode of Police Women of Memphis while Ing thumbs through a magazine. Things aren’t exactly great between us, but they’re not terrible either. I buy us Junior Mints from the vending machine.

  Ing pokes me. “Can you believe the next time we see Sherry she’s gonna be a mom?”

  “Freaky.”

  She shakes her head. “A whole new life is beginning for Sherry right now.”

  I nod. “So weird to think your life could change instantly.”

  “Yeah.”

  I text Sherry: “ing and i r here. did u have it?” It’s nearly n
ine o’clock, and the place is quiet. A couple of nurses walk through, and one looks at us curiously.

  My phone rings, making us jump. “It’s dead!” Sherry cries.

  Ing and I huddle together, the phone between us.

  “Dead?” I say, fingering a Junior Mint out of the box.

  “Yes!”

  “Where are you?” I ask, but she hangs up. Inggy turns pale, if that’s possible. “Dead,” I mouth.

  We stare at each other for the longest time until a young nurse with many tiny braids and a gap between her front teeth stands over us and says, “Girls, you can stay for a few minutes, okay?” She brings us down the hall to Sherry’s room.

  “It’s really dead?” Inggy whispers to the nurse.

  “Stillborn, yes,” she says.

  Sherry is teary, her hair sweaty and pushed off her forehead, and Mrs. Gulari is weeping in the corner, “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe.” She wasn’t thrilled about Sherry having the baby, but you’d never know it now.

  “Get a grip, Ma,” Sherry says. “It’s dead,” she tells us.

  “Why?” Inggy says, and blushes. “I mean, how?”

  “They don’t know. Stillborn. Do you guys think I should see it?”

  I ask, “Was it a—”

  “Girl.” Sherry swipes her eye with the sheet and smears eyeliner across it. “I didn’t really want it, but still … I have the worst luck, don’t I?” She smiles and bursts into tears, which gets Mrs. Gulari rocking and wailing louder. “I can see her if I want. They think I should. I don’t know.” She looks at us with big wet eyes. Inggy sits beside her and holds her hand. “It’s that bastard Tony’s fault. His genes are all screwed up. He drinks too much beer. Eats too many hot dogs. Man, it’s no good.” She sniffles.

  “Geez, Sherry.” I sit on the bed. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You think I should see her? The nurses say so, but I don’t know. Maybe you guys can take a look and if it’s not too bad I’ll take a look. Ma doesn’t want to.” Mrs. Gulari shakes her head and makes the sign of the cross.