by Lisa Pliscou
“Don’t argue with me, young lady.” She puffs once, twice on her cigarette, the tip glowing red like a wicked little eye. “And stop wiping your nose with your hand.”
“I need a Kleenex.”
She’s looking down at the desk. “You’ve gotten Daddy’s papers all wet.” She takes me by the shoulder and pulls me from the chair. “From now on you stay out of Daddy’s study. You hear me?”
“It’s the den,” I say feebly, feeling the tears starting to slip down my cheeks again. “It’s not the study, it’s the den.”
“Will you ever learn? It’s not the den.” She gives my shoulder a little shake. “We’re calling it the study now. And just stay out.” Holding me by my wrist, she marches me into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind her. “Now go upstairs and blow your nose.”
“Hey. Hey.” Timmy pokes my knee with his forefinger, once, and pulls his hand back. “Hey, spider woman.”
My eyebrows wrinkling, I look down at him on the step below. “Hey what.”
“Do you go to school too?”
“Yep. Just like you.”
“Are you waiting for someone to come pick you up?”
“Nope. Just hanging out.”
We sit silently for a while, and then I wipe my nose with the collar of my t-shirt. “Timmy.”
“What.”
“Do you have a pencil box?”
“A what?”
“A pencil box. You know, a box to keep your pencils in.”
“Nope.”
“Well, what do you keep your pencils in?”
“I don’t have any pencils.”
“You don’t? Then what do you use to write with?”
“They make us use pens.” He laughs mirthlessly. “And get mad at us when we make mistakes.”
“Are you serious?”
“No, I’m making it up,” he says darkly. “Like it’s raining today too.”
“You’re right.” I poke him gently on the arm, once. “People are jerks.”
“Yep.” He looks at his arm. Then he shrugs. “But who cares?”
“You’re right.” This time I’m the one giving the bitter little chuckle. “Who cares?”
We’re quiet again for a while. I’m clasping my knees to my chest, watching the sun tint his hair a tawny gold. Suddenly he jumps up, swinging his schoolbag.
“It’s my mom.”
“Where?” I look around in confusion.
He points across the schoolyard. “There. In the green car.”
A small green Toyota has pulled up to the curb on Mount Auburn Street. Through the fence I can see a blur of face and hair, a hand waving from the driver’s side.
“Well—” He looks at me for a second. “So long.” Without waiting for a reply he turns and hops down the steps. When he reaches the bottom he stops, stands stock-still for a moment, and digs into his satchel. Then he runs back up the steps and thrusts something at me. “Here.”
I hold my hand out and he drops something onto my palm: a green plastic ring. “What’s this?” I look at the ring and then over at him.
“My Spiderman ring.”
“No, no. I can’t. Not your Spiderman ring.”
“Take it,” he says impatiently.
“No, I can’t. It’s too much.” I hold it out to him. “Really.”
“Don’t you want it?”
“Of course I want it.”
“Then take it, stupid.”
I look at him and then my fingers curl around the ring. “Okay.” From across the schoolyard a car horn honks. “Thanks.”
“You girls are so dumb.” He turns and runs down the steps and across the yard. He gets into the Toyota, which after a few seconds pulls out onto Mount Auburn Street and drives away, merging swiftly into the traffic.
The courtyard is deserted now except for two priests walking toward the church, heads bent and hands clasped behind their backs. Alone on the steps, I look down at my hand, observing how the sunlight lends my skin a faint golden sheen, and slowly, smiling a little, I uncurl my fingers.
“Ow,” I say aloud. I’m slumped on the sofa with Jessica’s hot-water bottle resting on my stomach. “Ow!” I frown at the ceiling. How long can it take for three Midol to kick in?
I pick up the Lampoon again and turn to the next article. It’s called “How I Made a Killing in the Stock Market” and above the title is a full-color picture of a hatchet dripping with bright-red blood.
“Oh Christ.” I flip the Lampoon into the fireplace. From the street below I hear a car radio blaring some thumping disco song by Queen, a voice wailing high over the bass: “Another one bites the dust, another one bites the dust.” The sound rises and then falls, slowly dying away as the car drives off down Plympton Street. I readjust the hot-water bottle a little lower between my hipbones, and then I close my eyes and try to drift off into sleep. Twisting my head on the sofa cushion, I recall that Midol has caffeine in it. “Oh Christ.” I force myself to count backward from a hundred in French. But even as I’m finally starting to go limp, without warning I find myself remembering Richard’s voice, strong and plaintive through a bright misty blaze of turquoise.
Your crown don’t it weigh too much
See it glitter, see it shine
Yeah shimmering it reflects the light
But it weighs too much, it keeps you down
Do you remember, do you know
Can you take it off at night
For a moment I’m tempted to get up and turn on the radio, and then the phone rings. Lacing my fingers over the hot-water bottle, I look at the ceiling and silently count. On the fifteenth ring I jump up and pounce on the receiver. “What?” I snarl.
“Hi, Miranda.”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s me.”
“Look, I don’t have time for this. Who’s calling?”
“It’s Tim.”
“What?” Little Timmy?
“Tim Lazare. Remember me?”
“Oh. Hi.”
“Listen, can I come up? I’m downstairs.”
I sit down on the couch, sagging against the cushion. “Yeah, sure,” I say slowly.
When I open the door to him I think for a brief moment that he’s going to hug me, and I start backing into the living room. “Come on in. Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” He sits on the sofa, one arm stretched along the back. He looks up at me, smiling.
“Well,” I say.
“Yep.”
“Well, well, well.” I’m standing in the middle of the room, my hands gripped together. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure. What have you got?”
“Water.”
“That’s okay. Thanks.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you going to sit down?”
“What? Oh. Okay.” I sink into the armchair.
“So.”
“Yep.”
“It’s nice to see your room again. I haven’t been here in a while.”
I find that I’m holding on to the arms of the chair with fingers that have gone white. “So,” I say evenly, “what brings you around these parts?”
“I just thought I’d drop by.”
“Drop by?”
He’s crossed one leg over the other and is jauntily swinging his foot back and forth. “Yeah, I was just in the neighborhood.”
“I see.” I make myself let go of the chair arms. “Tim?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I—” I hesitate, startled all over again by the complete symmetry of his features, even to the cleft in the exact middle of his chin. I feel a fiery blush start to flood my face. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“It’s about that night we spent together.”
“Yeah?”
I’m gripping the chair again. “Why the fuck did you have to go and tell Bryan and Jessie?”
“Huh?” The foot stops swinging.
“You had to go and blab.” My voice tremb
les. “Why couldn’t you just keep your goddam mouth shut?”
“Well, I—”
“I mean, it wasn’t like it was the goddam eighth wonder of the world or anything.”
“But I—”
“Don’t you realize I almost threw up on your bedspread?”
“I know, but—”
“Tim, nothing happened.”
“Well, I just—”
“Why the hell did you have to tell them?”
“I told everybody.”
“What?”
“Yeah.” He smiles at me. “I just thought it was so neat.”
“Neat?”
“Yeah, you’re so cool, and so pretty, and I—well, I just thought it was neat.”
“Well.” I can feel another rush of heat cascading down my face. “My own impressions were somewhat different.”
As Tim opens his mouth to reply, I hear the door to C-45 being unlocked. “Hello?” Jessica calls out. “Anybody home?” She comes whirling into the living room and abruptly halts, her skirt flouncing around her calves.
“Hi, Jessie.” I sense my face irrationally collapsing into lines of guilty distress. “Welcome home.”
“Hi, Jessica,” Tim says from the couch.
She’s looking straight at me. “I’d like to speak with you.”
“Yes.” I glance at Tim. “Well, thanks for dropping by.”
“Oh. Sure.” He stands up, and I follow him to the door, avoiding Jessica’s eyes. At the threshold his arms go out as if to embrace me and I recoil, whispering sharply, “Stop it. Jesus.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”
“Jesus.”
“Well, bye, Miranda.” He smiles at me. “It was nice seeing you again.”
“So long.” I close the door in his face, and turn the deadbolt. I lean against the door just for a moment, listening to him whistle as he goes down the stairs.
“I’m fucking tired of your taking everything I own.”
“You’ve used fucking fourteen times in the last twelve sentences.”
“I’m fucking tired of your fucking taking everything I own.” Jessica is pacing around the living room. “My clothing, my sheets, my shampoo. Nothing of mine is safe from you.”
“Sixteen.”
She glares at me. “You’re the reason my socks don’t match.”
“Jessie,” I say gently, “you know that’s not true. You do it on purpose, remember? Your antibourgeois fashion statement.” I’m sitting in the armchair watching her stump back and forth.
“Okay, forget the socks. But everything else. Don’t you know the meaning of property? Of trampling other people’s boundaries? Of invading interpersonal territories?”
“Sure. I took Soc Sci 15 too.”
“A vulture, that’s what you are. Just waiting to descend.” She flaps her arms in the air.
“Now just a minute.”
“A vampire,” she screams. “Sucking me dry!”
“Jessica.” I uncross my legs. “Listen to me.”
“You take fucking everything.” She points a pale accusing finger at me. “You even took Tim from me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You knew I liked him, and so you couldn’t keep your hands off him.”
“I thought we’d gone over this,” I say wearily. “And would you kindly get your finger away from my nose?”
“It’s all the same to you, isn’t it? Shampoo, clothing, men.”
“Jessie—”
“The grass is always greener, right?”
“Jessica—”
“And then you bring him up here and flaunt it in my face.” She pivots violently. “Were you planning to fuck on the sofa? Or on my bed?”
“Christ, Jessica.”
“D’you have to rub it in my face?”
“Jessie, he called and asked to come up, and—”
“That’s right,” she sneers. “You’re just the girl who cain’t say no.”
I swallow. “That’s uncalled for.”
“Don’t tell me what’s fucking uncalled for.” Her chin juts rancorously. “How could you do that to me?”
“Look. I made a mistake. It should never have happened. I’m sorry, okay?” My heart is battering against my chest. “I’m sorrier than I can ever tell you.”
“You’re sorry. Big fucking deal.”
“Jessica—”
“Where’s my goddam Christian Dior twelve-dollar lipstick?” she screams.
“Do you think I’m having fun?” I say in a low voice. “That I’m doing this for laughs?”
She stares at me, her hands hidden in the folds of her skirt.
“Do you really believe that this is my idea of fun? Is that what you think?”
“Well, what I really think,” she says coolly, “is that I’d like you to let go of the chair before you break the arms off. It’s mine, if you recall.”
“I asked you a question.”
“I know you did.” She snorts, tossing her head. “I know you. It’s just your way of twisting things around, trying to put me on the defensive.”
“That’s not true.” Suddenly a half-remembered voice corkscrews through my brain. That Miranda. She could sell shoes to a snake.
“Oh yeah? If I don’t watch you like a goddam hawk, in five minutes you’ll have me on my knees begging for forgiveness.”
Who said that? “Listen. Will you listen?” Now I feel a headache coming on. “I’d just like an honest answer, that’s all.” Jackson? Teddy? Master Ackerman? My mind churns uselessly.
“Oh, Jesus. An honest answer. Now I’m rooming with goddam Demosthenes. How fabulous.” Shaking her head, Jessica plunks herself onto the sofa. “Jesus,” she screams, jumping up. “Christ!” She digs into the cushions and pulls out the hot-water bottle. “What the fuck is this?”
“A hot-water bottle.”
“Whose fucking hot-water bottle?”
“Your fucking hot-water bottle,” I say politely.
“That’s right, my fucking hot-water bottle. Why don’t you use your own fucking hot-water bottle, for Christ’s sake?”
“I don’t own a hot-water bottle. Or a fucking hot-water bottle, for that matter.”
“Oh, you’re funny.”
“Not really.”
“Why don’t you buy your own?” She drops the bag as if it’s contaminated by something unspeakably foul. It lands on the floor with a soft gurgle. “They’re found in any drugstore. Any idiot can buy one.”
“I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.”
“Jesus, you’re such a goddam hypochondriac.” She lowers herself onto the couch with conspicuous gingerness. “For such a healthy person, you’re pretty goddam sick.”
“That’s a compliment, right?” My stomach cramps, and secretively I slide a hand over my abdomen.
“No, it’s not a fucking compliment.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sick of hearing about your goddam lymph nodes. All you do is worry about your body, do you know that? Jesus, you act like any minute it’s going to goddam fall apart.”
“How do you know it won’t?”
“You’re twenty-one years old! You’re a kid!” she screams. “Stop worrying about every single twinge, for Christ’s sake.” She waves her arms in exasperation. “I swear, you’re worse than my crazy old grandmother. Every time she loses a fucking eyelash she runs crying to her doctor, begging him to surgically glue it back on again.”
“I see.” My head droops, and I prop it up by cupping my chin in my hand.
“These are the best goddam years of our lives, and all you do is complain,” Jessica rages on. “You’re always feeling so goddam sorry for yourself.”
I look at her through my eyelashes. “Somebody has to.”
After a moment she laughs disagreeably. “I haven’t slept in three days, I’m living on Spaghetti Os and granola bars, I’m surrounded by three balding cats who keep trying to hump my leg, and you’re feeling sorry for yourself?”
>
“Why are you living on Spaghetti Os and granola bars?”
“That’s all there is in my thesis adviser’s goddam apartment. That’s what the goddam cats eat too.”
“Why don’t you buy some groceries?”
“Because, in case you haven’t noticed,” she replies icily, “I’ve got a thesis to write.”
“Then why are you wasting time fighting with me?”
“I came back for some clean towels. I suppose you’ve used them already too?”
“You’re in luck.” Goddam. I can’t take aspirin, now that I’ve already taken the Midol. “I haven’t had a chance to sink my fangs into your washcloths yet.”
“Aren’t you flip.” She gives that scathing laugh again. “Her royal highness, the queen of the fast comeback.”
There is a silence. Involuntarily I sniffle, softly.
“Don’t just sit there sniffing down your nose at me, you shit.”
“I need to blow my nose.” I glance at her. “But I’m afraid you’ll start calling me names again.”
“Go ahead,” she screams. “Use my Kleenex, why don’t you?”
I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “Are you through hollering? For the moment?”
“Why?” She eyes me suspiciously.
“Just asking.”
“Why? What do you want to take now?”
I stand up. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to my room.”
“That’s right,” she calls after me. “Go feel sorry for yourself.”
My hand on the doorknob, I pause. “Jessica?”
“What? What the fuck is it now?”
“You probably won’t take this in the right spirit, but—” I look at her for a long moment. “Good luck with your thesis.” Quietly I shut the door.
8
WEDNESDAY
Eyes closed, I lie in bed with my hands on my thighs, trying to detect the presence of new fat. Have my muscles gone slack? Have they begun to atrophy yet? I squeeze my quadriceps, recalling a magazine article I read somewhere about how inactivity reduces fitness at a geometric rate more or less approximating the speed of light.
Wincing, I pull the covers closer around my shoulders. I hear my next-door neighbor in C-41 laughing shrilly. How long have I been in bed?
I open my eyes and look over at the clock. It’s four-thirty. I’ve been lying here for almost fifteen hours. Folding my arms behind my head, I gaze up at the light fixture. Taking twice the recommended dosage of Nyquil, it seems, results in a proportionate amount of sleep.