Not Like I'm Jealous or Anything

by Marissa Walsh

  “We should pretend like the carpet’s a moat and we can’t walk on it, we can only walk on the sleeping bags,” Sally had said, leaning against Gwen. “Like we’re being chased by a monster, but we can’t fall into the moat. Want to?”

  “Shut up, Sally.” Gwen wanted to sit—all the other girls were just sitting, they weren’t playing around. Avery’s friend Melissa had brought some of her mother’s makeup; they were going to do makeovers and Gwen wanted to watch.

  “Sally, come here,” Avery’s friend Denise said.

  Sally obediently went to Denise on her sleeping bag.

  “Can I do your hair? It’s so long and pretty,” Denise said, smiling. Sally had fine, straight blond hair almost to her elbows. Gwen’s hair was cropped into a Dorothy Hamill cut—not quite a bowl cut, but close enough. Gwen detested it. She knew she looked like a boy.

  Gwen had to hand it to Sally, she played it very cool. Sally’s eyes were shining with excitement, but she sat politely and calmly while Denise brushed her hair and braided it. Melissa looked at Avery and then said, “Gwen, do you want me to do your eyes?”

  At nine-thirty Sally was summoned into the kitchen, with her head half-braided. “Time for bed, little girl,” Ma said. From her seat on Melissa’s sleeping bag, Gwen watched Sally beg for more time.

  “But she’s not done with my hair yet!”

  “What, exactly, is being done to your hair?” Ma said, smiling, but looking curiously at Sally’s multiple long braids—some looped, some hanging straight. “No, honey, I’m sorry. You have to go to bed. It’s past your bedtime.”

  “Why doesn’t Gwen have to go to bed?” Sally was upset. Gwen would have been upset, too, but she and her mother had already agreed that Gwen could stay up a little later with the girls if Avery would let her.

  That was when the door had opened, banging against the wall, letting in a flying stream of wet cold air from outside. Melissa had actually screamed a little. Gwen’s father lurched through the doorway.

  “What is this, Invasion of Planet Preteen?” he’d exclaimed cheerfully, slurring a bit. Avery’s friends laughed.

  But Avery did not laugh. Gwen had noticed. Gwen had looked at her older sister the minute their father came in the door. Avery sat on her folded comforter, back very straight, her hands in her lap, her face smooth with worry.

  Sally came out of the kitchen with their mother then, and Gwen saw almost the same expression on her mother’s face as she’d seen on Avery’s—except her mother’s worry was darker looking. Sally ran to her father, braids flying. She’d taken her first steps that way. The story was famous in their family: Sally as a baby, seeing her father come in the door after work, and being so excited that she stood right up and wobbled over to him.

  “Sally, what the hell’s wrong with your head?” Their father, a construction worker, was not a big man or a fat man or a particularly muscled man, but he was strong. He picked Sally up and stared at her in mock consternation. Avery’s friends laughed even more loudly. “What have you preteen monsters done to my baby girl?”

  “We were doing her hair, Mr. Rodman,” Denise explained patiently, eyes twinkling. Denise was the most mature of Avery’s friends.

  “I can see that, smart-ass. But what,” he said, staggering a bit with Sally in his arms, “were you doing with her hair?” He staggered a bit more, and Avery sat up on her knees, one hand stretched slightly forward. All the humor in the room seemed to fall into the floor in an instant. Gwen could see that Avery’s friends were just now realizing that he was drunk—and they probably weren’t sure a father should call his daughter’s friends smart-asses, even as a joke. Gwen watched Melissa and Beth exchange a look.

  Then her father lost his balance. Sally’s legs slipped and her bare foot hit the side table. “Daddy!” Sally yelped. The lamp shivered.

  “Paulie!” Gwen’s mother was quick. She got her arms under Sally’s bottom and scooped her away, oof-ing with effort. Gwen’s father put an arm out to the wall to catch and steady himself, and knocked against the lamp, which fell over.

  It did not break. It fell to the carpet, where it lay on its side, shade askew so that you could see the light-bulb. It was peculiar to see a lamp like that, Gwen remembered thinking.

  “Steady now,” her father had said, as if he hadn’t been the one to almost fall. “Steady as she goes.”

  It would be tempting to believe that the evening had gotten progressively worse from that point, but in fact, after the lamp was put to rights and they’d all recovered, nobody said anything about Gwen and Avery’s father coming in drunk at Avery’s slumber party. Sally was packed off to bed, and Gwen’s mother and father had said goodnight and gone back into their bedroom not much later, with a blustered warning from Pop: “And don’t make too much goddamn noise out here, you little preteen monsters!” The girls laughed and talked and did each other’s hair, and they didn’t exclude Gwen from their conversation, which Gwen had felt at the time was really different from what her own friends would probably do when she had her first slumber party. Kimmy and Casey wouldn’t want to have Sally or Avery around; they were like that. Avery’s friends were nice. Avery was nice too, letting Gwen stay up with them. The party became fun again, almost hilariously fun—the close call with the lamp put them all in high spirits. It wasn’t until later that things got weird.

  The lights were out, and they were sitting in the blue glow of the unwatched, muted television, doing a friendship test on each other called Red Roses, Green Grasses, Purple Violets. Red Roses was a series of light pinches down the inner arm, administered by the girl who wanted to test the nature of her friendship with you. Green Grasses was a long sweep back and forth with the fingertips, and Purple Violets was a pair of light taps on the inner wrist. Your friend did it five times on your arm, chanting “Red roses green grasses purple violets . . . Red roses green grasses purple violets,” and when she stopped and looked at your arm, you were supposed to be able to see a red, green, or purple tinge to the skin: red meant “friendship,” green meant “envy,” and purple meant “hate.”

  Beth said suddenly, "Avery, I think your parents are fighting.”

  “Oh, they always fight,” Avery said with a laugh. Gwen looked at her sister in the dark. Avery’s eyes and mouth gleamed. She looked pretty. But she also looked weirdly determined.

  “They do not,” Gwen said.

  “Uh, yeah, they do,” Avery retorted. “And you totally know it.”

  At the time Gwen was ashamed that Avery would be so sarcastic about their parents in front of her friends. She hadn’t realized how angry Avery was about their father. In the brief silence that followed Avery’s remark, they all heard it, from the back of the house: her father’s voice, indistinct but loud. Their house wasn’t large—almost every word was audible.

  I can do whatever the hell I want. This is my house, this is my roof, and I don’t have to apologize for shit.

  Then their mother’s voice, lower, murmuring, less clear.

  Then: “Avery!”

  Avery shot to her feet. Gwen scrambled up too, almost on instinct.

  “What?”

  “Come back here! I want to talk to you for a second.”

  His voice was loud. His words were ragged around the edges. Gwen and Avery had heard him drunk many times before—it didn’t scare them to hear him this way, not exactly. But Avery’s friends were another story. Gwen wasn’t scared of her father, but she was scared of what might happen.

  Avery looked at her friends. She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be right back.” She stepped out of the nest of blankets and started down the hallway. Gwen followed.

  “What are you doing? Go back out there!”

  “No, I want to come.”

  “Don’t—” Avery turned then and glared at Gwen in the hallway, giving her a little push. “Don’t wreck it any more than it’s already been wrecked,” she whispered ferociously. Gwen rarely saw Avery so angry—it was usually Gwen herself who pushed, fought, was mean
. “Go back out there and act normal.”

  Gwen didn’t move. She stood still in the middle of the hallway, feeling the carpet cool on her bare feet. Avery finally huffed, turned, and went to the glowing yellow outline of their parents’ bedroom door. She closed the door behind her. Gwen inched down the hallway and stood outside.

  “Your father wants to apologize,” Ma’s voice said evenly.

  There was a silence. Gwen heard a low noise, like a cross between a sniff and a sob.

  “Jesus. Don’t cry, kid.”

  “You ruined my party.” Avery was definitely crying. But Gwen could tell she was trying to keep her voice quiet.

  “Don’t cry, honey. Come here and sit by Mommy.” Some rustling.

  “Ah, Christ.”

  “See what you did, now? See how upset she is?”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong. Christ. I have a couple of drinks and suddenly I’m persona non grata around here.” Gwen didn’t know what “persona non grata” meant, but she could tell her father’s voice had a sarcastic edge to it. That meant two things: he was still pretty drunk, and Avery was being a crybaby. In the hallway, Gwen leaned against the wall and sighed.

  “Why do you always have to have a couple of drinks?” Avery cried suddenly. Gwen rolled her eyes. Avery. Such an actress. “Why couldn’t you stay sober for my birthday party?”

  There was a moment’s silence; then her father laughed—in surprise, almost.

  “Don’t laugh at your daughter, Paulie.”

  “She’s acting like she’s in a goddamn soap opera. Avery. I’m sorry I got a little drunk. But I don’t see how it makes any goddamn difference since I wasn’t even home all night. And now I’m sitting back here,” he went on, “keeping my goddamn mouth shut, leaving you and your preteen queen friends to do whatever you want. So quit your crying and go have your party.”

  “And he’s sorry.”

  “And I’m sorry. All right?”

  “No, it’s not all right.” Avery’s voice was stony.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Get out of here. Go play with your friends.”

  “Paulie.”

  “I’m sorry. Okay? Now get out of here.”

  There was a furious rustling, followed by soft, fast footfalls on the carpet. Gwen had barely enough time to skitter into the bathroom before Avery burst out into the hallway.

  After that, Gwen had known better than to ask her mother if she could have a slumber party. Maybe her mother would have said yes, maybe she wouldn’t have. But that was exactly what made this crummy roller skating party even worse: Gwen had just wanted to avoid more trouble, more weird scenes. And all she got was this: hot, moist skates. Orange Tang—not even pop. Grainy cake, with icing that tasted like sugar mixed with Crisco. Laura Branigan, over and over and over—Gwen liked “Gloria,” but the DJ had played it three times already. And Kimmy—bigmouth Kimmy—trying to buy her mother something from the food pit.

  Gwen looked at the clock as she skated back from the girls’ room with Dawn. Only an hour left until six, when the roller rink closed. She felt tired, tired and bored. She was ready to go home and open her presents from her family. Avery, Sally, and her father were supposed to be making Gwen an “ugly cake” this afternoon. Ugly cake was a tradition in their house: deliberately lopsided layers, weird icing patterns, sideways candles. Once, even a half-eaten apple plunked on top—that had made them all laugh like it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen.

  “Look at this great cake!” Kimmy said enthusiastically as Gwen and Dawn approached. Gwen gave her an exasperated look.

  “It’s super, yeah,” she intoned, in her most sarcastic voice.

  Then she caught her mother looking at her. Her mother’s face was curious—and sad, and hopeful. Gwen blinked. Her irritation drained out of her and was replaced by something else—she didn’t know what; maybe protectiveness? Maybe. But even that wasn’t quite it. Maybe this was what her mother had felt like when she was trying to figure out how to swing a birthday party for her, even if it was just a little stupid one. Gwen leaned against her mother’s side, and they put their arms around each other—her mother’s arm around Gwen’s shoulders, Gwen’s arm around her mother’s waist. Gwen’s mother was skinny like her. It always made Gwen feel better to stand side by side with her mother. Gwen put her ear to her mother’s ribs. “Thank you, Mommy.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she said.

  BAKE SALE A RUBY OLIVER STORY

  E. Lockhart

  I don’t really like baking.

  I like eating stuff that other people bake.

  True: Cricket, Nora, Kim, and I used to go over to Cricket’s every week and make batches of chocolate chip cookies. But to be honest, I was really more of a tray-greaser and batter-taster than an actual baker. Nora did most of the baking. The one time I took charge of a batch of cookies, something went wrong and the batter was really gloopy; the cookies turned black around the edges, and I got a large burn mark across the center of my palm because I forgot to use a pot holder.

  But.

  Every year around the holidays, there is this charity bake sale at Tate Prep1 that raises money to buy holiday gifts for the kids at a shelter in downtown Seattle. It’s always a big thing, the bake sale; people get really show-offy. The stay-at-home mothers go all out, and then the non-stay-at-home mothers feel they have something to prove, and go even further out. So it’s hardly a matter of a few loaves of banana bread and some sad-looking oatmeal squares. I’m talking about pinwheel cookies with three different colors of batter, cupcakes made to look like ladybugs, cookies decorated like tiny fire engines, and six-layer ultimate fudge.

  Quite a number of Tate girls have inherited their mothers’ urge to display their talents as domestic goddesses—and if you’re the kind of person who believes that the way to a guy’s heart is through his stomach, then the Tate Prep Charity Holiday Bake Sale (CHuBS) is a good time to snag a guy. The thing goes on for a week in the entrance hall of the main building, and boys are always waiting on the front steps, trying to get freebies off the girls who are on their way to deliver their stuff to bake sale central.

  Not being the domestic goddess type, I stayed out of the whole thing freshman year. Cricket, Kim, Nora, and I did our part only by purchasing and consuming large quantities of baked goods instead of eating lunch. But sophomore year, I had this boyfriend called Jackson: a tall, gravelly-voiced junior who stuck notes in my mail cubby, drank a lot of root beer, and drove an old Dodge that used to belong to his uncle. He and I had started going out in the early fall—and I had never been so happy.

  At least, I thought I had never been so happy. Here’s what I mean: writing this now, I know that our whole relationship thing was headed for a major breakup debacle that would completely ruin my life2 —but at the time, I felt we had something close to love.

  So. Everyone at Tate Prep has to do a certain amount of community service each term—and what with going to Jackson’s cross-country meets, hanging out on weekends, and doing stuff with him after school, I had gotten seriously behind.

  That’s where the bake sale comes in.

  A popular senior girl named April announced it during assembly in early December. I was sitting in the auditorium with Jackson’s arm around me, surrounded by his friends. April said the organizing committee needed a few more people, and to talk to her afterwards if interested, and that sign-up sheets for baked goods would go up that week in the Refectory and the main building, blah blah blah.

  “Roo,” Jackson had whispered as she was talking, his breath warm against my ear, “are you gonna bake me some brownies?”

  “What?” I laughed.

  “Brownies,” he whispered, nibbling on my earlobe. “I love brownies. Like the kind with lots of walnuts. Or those cupcakes with the cream cheese—what are they called?”

  “Black bottom.”

  “Sounds dirty,” he laughed, and kissed my neck.

  Things between us at this point were already getting a littl
e weird, though I didn’t admit it to myself then. For example: I’d seen this note in his back pocket in another girl’s handwriting; he’d gone on this completely anxiety-inducing tennis/coffee date with his ex-girlfriend Heidi, and told me he thought she was superbeautiful; we had a fight one time when he said he’d call and didn’t; and he’d stopped leaving little presents in my school mail cubby every Monday.

  This underlying weirdness made me feel kind of spazzed out, but at the same time, we were having three-hour kissing sessions, and Jackson was saying things like “I never felt this way before.”

  Anyway. All you really need to know is that when Jackson got me all hot and bothered in the auditorium, breathing in my ear and kissing my neck and asking me to bake things for him, a tiny part of my brain thought: He’ll love me more if I make those black bottom cupcakes.

  I am an idiot, I know. But that is what I thought.

  I ran right up to April after the assembly and offered my services. Partly because of my sorely lacking community service hours. But really because of sex.

  “Roo, you’re out of your mind,” said Nora when I told my friends at lunch. "You can’t even read a recipe or remember to use a pot holder.”

  “So?”

  “So, this is hard-core baking,” she said. “You could do yourself some bodily harm.”

  “Oh, please. Do you think Jackson would like the black bottoms or the brownies better?”

  “You could just give him a hand job and save yourself a lot of time and trouble,” put in Cricket.

  “What?” I started laughing.

  “I mean,” she said, “the way to a guy’s heart. It isn’t through the stomach—”

  Kim leaned across, picked a raisin out of my salad, and jerked her head in Cricket’s direction. "Her mind is in the gutter.”