Alrite wel l lets talk l8r u got school
Okay I’ll text you l8r, you fuckin dork. Something Baby Girl would never have typed normally. But it was cute, he was cute, he wanted to meet up with her. With her.
Lookin fwd
Jamey has signed off.
Baby Girl scrolled back up, reread their brief chat. I stil wana meetup u know? She felt like she could jump high as the roof. She felt … wanted. Attractive, even. Got up and threw her cereal bowl against the wall without even thinking why, just had to do something. Watched the sludge drip down in gory streams, puddle on the linoleum, her heart racing her lungs. She waited till she heard Charles turn the water off, then went over to clean up her mess. ’Cause one thing about Baby Girl she cherished was the thing that separated her from Charles, even before his accident: she could clean up her mess.
MYRA WOKE UP with a yolky taste in her mouth. She tried licking her lips but that only spread the yolk around, and the yolk dried fast. She was holding her glass from last night up against her heart and now she tipped it at her lips, but it was also dry. And then that carpet of regret started creeping up her body, moving rough and fast up her feet legs hips breasts neck head. Coating her in a raw rushing heat she did not welcome. Add to that how her stomach had nothing in it. That was going to be a problem.
She hadn’t even needed the beer last night. Only drinking when a drink was needed was one of her rules. She had said this to Perry, and then Jim, many times over the years. Don’t worry. It’s only when I need it. She had just been bored, and a little disappointed. Most of the time the disappointment wasn’t an issue. But then other times, like last night, with that boy, Pete, this young man interested in what she had to say, she’d find herself thinking of Jim and the flat plane of her life. How it was mostly defined now, no more surprises on the way, how Jim felt just fine with that, and her throat would close in like she’d swallowed a cherry pit and her throat didn’t know was it better to swallow it down or cough it up.
Last night, before her first beer, she had come up behind Jim. Put her hands around his chest and rubbed his shirtfront. But he had already been dressed for work, and he didn’t want to get undressed, then redressed. He’d turned and kissed her, as fast as a hummingbird’s wing, on the lips. Didn’t he know what that did to a woman? Maybe that was why she’d let Pete sit awhile. It hadn’t helped, though.
Had Perry come home? She hadn’t heard her come home or leave for school. Which meant Jim hadn’t come in to wake her when he got home, before driving Perry. Which meant Jim was annoyed with her, because she’d asked him to pour her a glass before he left. Well, it served him right.
She wished, sometimes, that Jim would get mad. But all he ever got worked up to was a mild kind of annoyance. She had once been pushed out of a moving car by a man angry with her, so most of the time Jim’s mild, dulled reactions were just fine by her.
But they also added to the disappointment. They were small things that added up, like toothpicks in a Dixie cup, but still, they could stick you.
Shit. She had to get something in her stomach. She braced herself with her hand on the nightstand, knocking some bottles to the floor, but, a mercy, none broke. Still, the clattering sound ripped through her and instead of heading toward the kitchen, she headed for the bathroom. Knelt before the toilet. Heaved and spat.
When the heaving stopped, her knees singing with the pain, Myra got up, went into the kitchen to make some toast and coffee. Called Bill at the truck stop to apologize for not making her shift, explain that she was ill and couldn’t come in.
“Mm-hmm,” Bill said. “Well, we’ll see you tomorrow, anyway.” Myra knew he didn’t believe her, but she was grateful for him playing along all the same.
She sat in the chair at the computer, dipped her toast into her coffee. Her neighbor had her music on, a constant cheerful braying that hammered Myra’s skull. She must have bumped the mouse somehow because the computer screen suddenly flashed on. Perry’s Facebook page was open. A boy named Jamey had called her beautiful. The picture he said it about was of Perry in a hat Jim had bought at the truck stop one day when he and Perry stopped by after school. The hat was as green as a leaf and there was a real golf tee balancing a real golf ball on the bill. Perry was smiling calmly, like it wasn’t nothing more than a hair barrette. She could see why Perry had uploaded it. The green in the hat, the green in her eyes. She was beautiful. Too much eyeliner but that was a teenager’s way. Myra swelled with pride.
She clicked on the boy’s name. His page was empty, not much activity. A few days back he had liked a page about bass fishing. There was only a single photo of him and it was of the back of his head. He was facing a wide green field. His shoulders looked strong. He had seventeen Facebook friends. To Myra’s knowledge, kids usually had “friends” in the thousands. Perry had more than two thousand herself. But then again, Perry was a girl. It seemed natural that a boy, a boy who liked bass fishing, wouldn’t be as involved in some website. Myra guessed he joined just so he could get in touch with Perry. And that was sweet.
She closed the window, pushed herself away from the computer. Jim would be back from dropping Perry off soon. She’d have to look better than she did now. She didn’t want him to think she was some kind of drunk, all her luster lost. She didn’t want to be no toothpick in his Dixie cup.
DURING HOMEROOM the vice principal came on the intercom and announced that someone had set a fire out back of the Walmart, had melted a cart to uselessness, and there was tire track evidence so if anyone knew anything they’d better come forward. Perry wanted to laugh but everyone was listening real serious, even Ronny, who was the loudmouth in class and who did the kind of shit she and Baby Girl did nearly every weekend. Once, at a house party hosted by one of the junior girls, he called and ordered all the porn channels, just so he could watch them in the two hours he’d be there. Even he was listening politely, eyes cast down at his desk, acting like a serious crime had occurred.
Perry texted Baby Girl. You hear that?? Fuckin classic. It was like taking a temperature, holding the phone still, waiting for the vibration of her reply, waiting to see how bad the fever was.
Tire track evidence. That was the beauty of stealing cars. It wasn’t their car, so even if they found the Mazda, it’d never be connected to them. They always wiped everything down. Last night they’d used wet wipes they’d found in the glove compartment.
Still no reply from Baby Girl. She could get like that, Perry knew. Real careful. She’d just take it up with her later. They needed to be on the same page. They needed to iron it all out.
“Students,” Mrs. Gutherton said, “get out your homework. Or read a book. Do something so I don’t have to get on you about doing something. Spend your time wisely.”
Mrs. Gutherton had short curls that were always flattened in the back, and she wore turtlenecks every day, and her bra made her boobs look like two lumpy scoops of mashed potatoes, and she was never not up to here with her students. Being a teacher seemed like such an oh well kind of life.
Perry wanted her life to be purposeful. When she was a kid she thought becoming an adult meant you just found the right door and walked through it into a burst of light. Everything was easier through that door, because you’d found the answer.
Now that she was older, she knew it wasn’t like that. She knew people sometimes came up to the door and kept walking right on past it. People like Baby Girl. Perry had narrowed it down to three doors. And Teacher sure as hell wasn’t the name on any one of them.
“What, Ronny?” Mrs. Gutherton asked. He’d raised his hand, and now gripped the sides of his desk, bore down, released a long machine-gunning fart. A few boys laughed. The girl behind him threw a pencil at his head, ran for a seat three rows over. Sometimes school felt like a scene in a terrible sitcom, one that had a catchphrase and at least two fart jokes per episode.
Mrs. Gutherton looked like she might be considering what Ronny did, like he’d asked a question or said someth
ing worth pondering. “Okay, Ronny,” she said. “You may be dismissed. Give the principal my regards.” More sitcom talk. She patted at the back of her head. Just making it worse and worse. Perry had a pick comb in her purse, truly wanted to offer it up, but figured it would get her an invitation to the principal’s office, too, or make the teacher think they could be friends.
“Man, it was just a joke,” Ronny said. He was ignored. He shuffled out like his ankles were shackled.
That was another lesson Perry and Baby Girl had learned: Don’t be caught off guard when the shit comes back on you. Expect that it will.
Baby Girl still hadn’t replied. Perry passed the note she’d written over to Shanna, a girl with hair that looked pasted over her right eye, her left eye thickly lined in blue eyeliner. She was wearing a tight sparkly shirt like the kind Myra bought in bulk, back in the day. A momma-trying-to-be-sexy shirt. Shanna’s tits looking more like pecs than anything. So many things to feel sorry over. In her note, Perry had written:
Hey—I saw on fbook that u know Jamey. What’s his deal? He’s clingy right??
After a minute, Shanna passed it back.
I mean, I know him from fbook. He friended me a while back but I haven’t talked to him really all that much. He seemed nice tho. I like your top today!
Little hearts over every i. Smiley face at the end. Shanna was a real kiss-ass type, that one eye always wide and begging. Best not to stoke the flames by writing back and thanking her, especially since she didn’t know anything anyway.
Later, in math class, the window a/c unit rattled on and off in five-minute intervals. Off just long enough so everyone started smelling, on long enough to dry the sweat. Perry liked the way her sweat smelled. Her own specific scent. Like sugar, and like butter left out for too long. Kind of sweet and kind of nasty. Baby Girl smelled like a sliced onion if she got too sweaty, but Perry had seen her caking her pits with Secret, had seen her spritzing that perfume you could get for $1.29 at the drugstore under her shirt, so it wasn’t like Baby Girl wasn’t trying. They had to sit alphabetically according to last names, so Baby Girl was behind Perry and at a diagonal, seated in the row all the way against the wall. She was still in the same clothes from the night before, but her hair fell in wet lines down her forehead, and Perry couldn’t smell the onion yet, so it was clear she’d showered. Her lips outlined in brown and gleaming, like always. Perry looked at her, mouthed, Why didn’t you text me back?
Why the fuck would I? she mouthed back, real slow and deliberate, like she was tough, like she had no idea how dumb she looked with a mouth drawn around her mouth. Still, if Baby Girl was really disturbed by something she’d have ignored Perry outright. So they were cool.
Bitch, Perry mouthed, turned around before Baby Girl could say anything back.
Travis usually sat in the row on the other side of Perry, but today his desk was empty.
It was nearly one o’clock. Perry felt cored, and the shell that was left ached. The classroom was as warm as a kitchen, Mr. Clark talking about tangents and cotangents in a nasally drone. Perry felt her lids pulling down, her eyes nearly closed when he’d say tangent or cotangent again, getting too rough with his t’s. Bringing her right back to the ache.
Travis walked in ten minutes before class was over. Perry checked his shoes. Silvery sneakers, like they were spun from webs. Mr. Clark watched Travis take his seat, holding his chalk in front of him, like it was important, leaving a ghost of dust across his middle. “All right,” he said.
“Yeah,” Travis said. “I apologize, Mr. Clark.”
“All right,” Mr. Clark said again.
Travis didn’t have anything to write with, didn’t even have his book or his green book bag. She had noticed this happening to him before, and now that Perry knew he worked all night long it made sense. It was hard for her to remember to bring everything after a night out with Baby Girl. She’d had to borrow pens and paper countless times from the boy in front of her, Matt, who she usually tried to copy off during quizzes. She nudged him now, pushing her fingertips into the flesh at his back. His T-shirt was hot and moist, stuck to him. He turned, smiling, ready to help, and Perry tried not to gawk at the gap between his front teeth. “Give Travis your other pen,” she whispered. “And a piece of paper.”
Matt looked from her to Travis. “Sure,” he whispered, and quickly handed them over like Travis was mugging him. “But I need that pen back.” He had never said that to Perry before. She probably had a dozen of his pens in her locker, on the floor of Baby Girl’s car.
“Thanks,” Travis whispered. “I’ll make sure to give it back.” He bowed his head, started writing down the scraps of equations Mr. Clark had written on the board throughout the class. Going through the motions was what he seemed to be doing.
He must have felt Perry watching him. Looked up at her with his big cow’s eyes.
“You’re welcome,” she whispered. He nodded, and Perry was disappointed that he didn’t smile at her. In her mind he had smiled, and she had smiled, and after class they’d walked together in the hall, out the front doors, into the woods … but there she stopped herself. She wouldn’t be like that with him. And besides, he hadn’t even smiled at her.
But he was probably as tired as Perry was, more even, since he’d been working all night. Mopping and cooking and whatever else. Helping that old witch waitress adjust her wig just so. Pam. Again Perry found herself thinking how nice it’d be to go back to the trailer and have Myra and Jim be gone, lay down on her bed with Travis. Take a nap, nothing else.
Perry’s phone vibrated. A text from Baby Girl. Pay attention bitch! need 2 copy ur homework l8r!!
She clicked her pen, ready to take notes. It occurred to her that she wanted, very badly, for Travis to think she was smart.
IT WAS A THIRTY-MINUTE DRIVE to and back from the high school, so when Jim got home Myra had managed to shower and get into a clean dress; the white one with the tiny blue flowers dotted everywhere. Made Myra feel younger. Cleaner. The beery sheets she’d thrown into the small closet washing machine were frothed and rinsed, ready for the dryer, though Myra knew they’d have a better chance hung from a line, old as the dryer was. But that seemed like a lot today. Too much.
“Hey,” Jim said to her, standing at the front of the hallway, hands on his hips. “You eat?”
“Surely did,” she answered. They were out of fabric softener; they were always out of something. “Can I make you a bite?”
“Might make myself some eggs,” Jim said. Myra was no cook. Still, she wanted Jim to see that she’d offered. She followed him into the kitchen, sat at the tiny nook table to watch him. He cracked some eggs into Perry’s old plastic bowl. A chipped cartoon fish with a mouth full of teeth grinned from the bowl’s center.
“Myra,” Jim started to say, whipping the eggs with a fork. She loved the sound of her name when he said it. So serious. Like she was someone worth knowing.
“Mmm?” she asked. She felt lulled by the sound of the fork, tiny pings and the liquid swish of the eggs. “What is it?”
“I am pretty sure Perry was out all night last night,” Jim said, turning his back to her to pour the eggs into the pan. He was testing the waters, seeing how Myra would react. Because she knew she had done wrong last night, she gave him a taste of what he wanted.
“You’re kidding,” she said, working a thread of shock into her voice. “Again? And after all the talks you’ve had with her.”
It wasn’t that Myra didn’t worry for her child. She did. Only not for stuff like staying out all night. Instead, Myra worried Perry wouldn’t appreciate her youth, her beauty, all the chances she was being given to create moments she could hold on to. To make her life a jewelry box full of shiny things rather than a cabinet that rarely got dusted.
But Myra had gone too far. Or maybe she hadn’t gone far enough. Her words, instead of coming out sincere, had landed flat and unfeeling. She sat up straighter. She needed to pay better attention.
“An
yway,” Jim said, his back still turned. “She was in one piece and she went to school. So maybe I’m wrong and she was home after all.”
“I’m glad we have you to worry after us,” she said. “Jim,” she said, when he still hadn’t turned. When he did a moment later she shook some pepper into her hand, held it out to him.
“No thanks,” he said. His eyes held her face a beat too long; he was watching her, waiting to see if she knew Perry had been out. She couldn’t let on that she knew, couldn’t let him know a strange boy had been in the trailer drinking with her while her daughter was out in the night with that half-bald girl. Myra hated that she felt like she had to pretend in front of her husband.
Finally he turned back, raked a spatula through his eggs. “You sleep okay?” His way of dropping the subject. Myra felt tired. She knew Jim was tired. Perry was tired. They were on a carousel that wouldn’t stop.
“I might go over there and knock on her door,” Jim was saying. He meant the neighbor, the polka music. “I know she’s old and she enjoys it but we all need our sleep.” He was already halfway out the screen door; he closed it gently behind him.
Myra went to the bathroom, wet her hands, flicked water onto her face with her fingertips. The carpet of regret had returned, her face was as hot as a stone in the sun. She heard Jim knocking on the neighbor’s door, calling Mrs. Kozlowski? Mrs. Kozlowski? The music stopped. Jim and the neighbor murmured to each other. Myra looked into her own face in the mirror. Where Perry’s looks had come from, she didn’t know. She herself was blond and blue-eyed, and Perry’s father was Italian. Myra was pretty sure about that, anyway. It hadn’t been a long courtship.
But sometimes she saw Perry catching her own reflection in a window, that quick appraisal, and Myra could see how Perry was pleased with what she saw. That was what she had given to Perry.
She heard Jim come back in, remove the pan from the stove. The neighbor’s music started up again, turned down a smidge.
Ugly Girls Page 5