At last Perry emerged. Waved a Pop-Tart in the air like a stolen wallet, all Look what I got.
“We’re going to school,” Baby Girl said, but it wasn’t clear if Jim heard. Perry got in, didn’t offer the Pop-Tart. As they backed up she said, “Are we really, though?”
JAMEY STOOD in his hiding spot, watched them pull out. Perry licked her fingers, that friend of hers bobbing her head, the loud, thumping beat hitting him in his sinuses, then fading as they drove off. When he was a teenager he hated school, never hardly went, but now he felt envious that they had somewhere to go, somewhere they were expected. In jail it was the same way. Eat every day at the same time. Shit when it’s your turn to shit. It got to where he depended on that kind of schedule, got lulled into it like a hammock he didn’t even have to rock himself. Even now, on Tuesdays, he got a taste for green Jell-O, one of the surprise desserts they were allowed if no one had fucked up too bad.
It was anyone’s guess where them two were headed, though. Maybe school, maybe not. He texted the both of them. He knew that Dayna bitch would get back to him, in one way or another, she was so grateful to have his attention.
“Jameson,” his momma called. If she didn’t see him right in front of her, she started calling his name. He could be three counties over, for all she knew. She’d just keep calling until he showed up, or until she gave herself a stroke.
Worse, she was calling his name with that little baby-doll voice, that voice he’d heard her use on any man she wanted something from, didn’t matter if it was her son or just some crotch rocket she met at a bar. But her bar days were long gone, now that she couldn’t hardly get herself out of bed or off the couch. So that voice was all for him.
“Jameson!” It was the kind of voice he wouldn’t mind hearing from Perry, yearning, husky, afraid even. He walked quickly back, took the steps all at once.
“Jameson,” she said when she saw him. She’d worked some lipstick out of that nearly empty tube she kept under the cushion, he could see how the orange smeared on her lips matched the orange all around the tip of her finger. “You’ll rub my feet?”
If he said no, she’d make him regret it. On the occasions he did refuse, like when she wanted him to bathe her, or help her pick out an outfit she’d only be wearing to the couch, she’d thrown a tantrum she’d cooked up special for him, thrashing and yelling and even once flopping to the floor like all the life had gone out of her.
He had been a difficult son. He hadn’t made it easy on her. Had abandoned her when he went to jail. He knew this was her way of paying him back. He hated the thing she’d become, this sickly whale, hated that he’d been any reason for it. One hate repulsed him, one drew him nearer.
“My feet?” she said, that squeaking in her voice, that sexual squeak; she was begging.
Sometimes he hated her for being weak enough to conceive him in the first place. “Just let me get the lotion,” he told her.
“I have some,” she said. That plump claw going under the cushion, her mouth wet, excited. “It’s Jergens,” she said, holding it out to him. He didn’t know how she could lie comfortably with it stashed under her cushion like it was, but then again it was only one of many treasures she nested upon.
She hefted her legs up so he could sit, brought them down upon him. “Don’t be no skimp,” she said.
His momma’s feet were soft, white, thick, and as unlined as a baby’s. Ragged patches of polish dotted her toenails. He’d have to see about Perry’s feet. Did she keep them up, or was she the kind to pay no mind to stuff like that? It suddenly felt very important. He squiggled some Jergens into his palm, began working it into the tops of his momma’s feet. He tried not to watch his hands.
“I said don’t be no skimp!” She swatted at his arm and missed. Jamey pressed harder. “Mm,” she said, relaxing back into her cushion. “My boy’s got strong hands, don’t he?”
Jamey figured that Perry and Dayna must be at school by now, or still in the car on their way to somewhere, the windows down, air smelling like exhaust or biscuits or honeysuckle, depending on where they were. Here in his momma’s trailer it smelled sour, the sourness of a woman who didn’t move all that much, the sourness of her skin and breath and fear. The Jergens tendriled through, did its best. It smelled clean and plastic, and Jamey pretended like that was all there was to smell. He made another mound of lotion in his palm, ground it into his momma’s feet.
“Why don’t you have no girlfriend?” his momma asked. Her eyes were closed, the back of her hand across her forehead like she was bravely enduring whatever.
“How you know I don’t?”
His momma snorted. “Okay,” she said. “You don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I’m just saying I know a man’s got frustrations, and you ain’t taking those frustrations out on me.”
You wish, Jamey thought. She moved her toes, their sour smell familiar to Jamey, the definitive scent of his momma. He dumped on more Jergens.
“I’m working on it,” he said. “I got my eye on someone. She’s acting hard to get but I know she’ll give in. She’s nearly mine.”
“Good,” his momma said. “That’s real good, baby.” She flexed and pointed her toes, her voice that squeak again, that girlish hidden promise.
Jamey closed his eyes, tried to imagine it was Perry’s feet he was working on. She’s nearly mine, he thought again. He knew it was true, too, that it was flimsy, whatever was keeping Perry from him, delicate as a diary lock, and he just had to find the key. Or something proper to smash it with.
THEY WERE AT THE DRUGSTORE. Baby Girl had driven right past the school, right past the entrance to the highway, right past the turn they’d have to take if they wanted to hide out all day in the woods or hang out by the quarry. Plenty of kids did it—you just drove in as far as you could go, parked your car off the side of the road, and then plunged in on foot. If anyone was determined enough to drive in and go looking for someone, they’d only find your car, and they’d assume you was just someone who lived in one of the shacks or huts or tents way back there. Most people would assume, anyway. And then you’d just spend your whole day in there, sitting around, daring each other to run hard toward the quarry, and only stop just short of tumbling in, ha-ha, close one. Throw your old cigarette packs in, or someone’s shoes if they were dumb enough to lose sight of them for a second. Perry wouldn’t have minded going there, being outside, daring Baby Girl to lumber to the edge. But Baby Girl had kept driving.
“What you wanna do?” Perry asked her, three times, and each time Baby Girl just shrugged, but it was clear she had a plan. Hadn’t even slowed in indecision. And then finally she’d pulled into the parking lot out front of the Walgreens.
“I got an idea,” she said.
The plan was for Perry to distract the cashier. They were counting on the cashier being male, so Perry wouldn’t have to work too hard to keep his attention. Just push her hair around, cross her arms so her shirt got tight over her chest, ask what time it is.
They’d walked in separately, Baby Girl about thirty seconds after Perry. Once inside, Perry saw that the cashier was an old woman, her hair a pink-tinged cloud, her mouth so beset with lines it looked like she’d once had her lips sewn shut and the scars had never healed. Perry texted Baby Girl: This bitch looks mean.
Itll be fine, Baby Girl texted back. Go to plan B. Plan B was for a female cashier. “Ask about pregnancy tests,” Baby Girl had said. “Lady cashiers will either want to lecture you or else they’ll want to take you in the bathroom, help you unzip, and pat your head while you pee on the stick.”
She was in one of her moods, Perry could tell. Couldn’t take her eyes off the goal, which Perry wasn’t even clear on to begin with. Distract the cashier. Wait for Baby Girl to walk out. Wait for her cell to ring, pretend like it’s urgent, walk out fast with her phone to her ear, get in the car.
But what was Baby Girl even doing? Obviously stealing something, but what? She’d find out soon enough, she figured.
The old woman finished with the man, looked at Perry with her eyebrows arched. They were mostly drawn on, Perry could now see, in a navy blue pencil. Her lips just lines of orange. Perry felt for the woman, all those colors that didn’t go.
“You buying something?” the woman asked. “I can’t sell you no cigarettes unless you got an I.D.”
“No, ma’am,” Perry said, using her best I’m scared voice. “I’m not a smoker.”
“Not here to judge you,” the woman said.
“Thank you, ma’am. No, I’m, I need help with, pregnancy tests?”
The woman watched her, those two orange lines moving like the woman was working her answer around in her mouth first, making it smooth and clean, before spitting it at Perry.
“I’m not saying I am pregnant,” Perry said. “I just need to know.”
Finally the woman answered. “Well,” she said, “what do you need help with? Are you asking do we sell them?”
Perry hadn’t prepared for this. The woman’s eyes were pale blue, like they’d been put through the wash too many times. They glittered at Perry, watching her act like an idiot.
“I know you sell them,” Perry said. She hoped it hadn’t sounded too bitchy. Where in the hell was Baby Girl? “I’m just asking if you know which is the best one. And also what aisle?”
“Sweetheart,” the woman said, but it was clear she didn’t feel like Perry was no sweetheart. “I am seventy-two years old. When I was the age to have babies they didn’t have no tests. You just waited for the doctor to nod or shake his head. Aisle three. As to which is the best brand, your guess is as good as mine.”
“Well, thank you, I guess,” Perry said, and this time she hoped it did sound bitchy. Fucking Baby Girl. Now Perry wasn’t sure what to do. This woman had clearly dismissed her but her job was to distract the woman, not go off to aisle three and stare at the pregnancy tests. In fact, she hoped to never have to look at a pregnancy test, ever in her life.
“What else?” the woman asked. Perry looked at her nametag. Mabel.
“Well, Mabel,” Perry said. “How about condoms? You got any advice on those?”
The woman laughed, so hard that Perry could see a gold crown at the back of her mouth.
“You got it backward, young lady. You should’ve asked about condoms a long time ago.”
That was it. Perry would rather be at school, would rather be licking the floor of her math class than standing here getting lip from this old lady while Baby Girl did God knows what.
Perry picked up a slim pack of gum and threw it at the woman. It thumped her on the chest and fell to the floor. The woman flinched, made a sharp oh sound. “I guess I’ll just buy this pack of gum and hope for the best, you old bitch.” It was exactly what Baby Girl would have done. She felt like laughing.
The woman was reaching for the phone. “Need a manager up here,” she said. “Repeat. Need a manager at the front cash register.”
That was the last thing Perry needed. She turned and ran out the door to the car. Baby Girl had parked in the closest spot to the front door she could get, but the doors were locked. Perry crouched on the passenger side, hidden from the entrance. Where the fuck are you??? she texted Baby Girl. Come outside I fucked up we have to GO!!
There was no answer. Perry stayed in her crouch. If she got up to run, it might be at the very moment the manager was coming out to find her. If she stayed put, there was a chance he’d just come out the front door, look around, go back inside when he didn’t see anyone.
Perry checked her phone. Still no answer. Two minutes had passed, but it felt like two weeks. Her legs started to ache, she could feel her heartbeat behind her knees. It’d be second period now, English class. She hadn’t read shit in the book they were studying. Still, she imagined herself in class, the sunlight coming through the windows all warm and friendly, her teacher waiting for answers instead of calling on people, Perry where she was supposed to be for once. Travis with his head down, taking notes. Travis.
She checked her phone again. Another two minutes gone, still nothing. Maybe there wasn’t no cell service in that store, way in the back. If that’s even where Baby Girl was. The parking lot was quiet. Every once in a while a car drove by, a rising sigh and then a hush. In the distance a siren was going, but it was so far away it was almost soothing. She shifted from a crouch to a sitting position, her butt on the hot asphalt of the parking lot, her legs filling with blood, a relief.
School was about a mile back, give or take. Her book bag was locked in Baby Girl’s car. Oh well. It wasn’t like she’d done any of her work anyway. Someone would let her borrow a pen and paper.
She was in the middle of texting Baby Girl Fuck this, see you at school when she realized the siren was getting closer, was practically on top of the drugstore. Right then it was all clear: Baby Girl had also fucked up, the cops were coming for her, would get Perry, too, if she didn’t get going. She stood up, her legs stiff, her right foot all pins and needles. The car was already there, was pulling in on the driver’s side of Baby Girl’s car. Perry crouched down again, even though she knew she’d been seen, had looked right into the passenger seat of the cop car and met the cop’s eyes, had looked long enough to see that the cop was a woman.
“Get that one, too,” she heard Mabel yell. “She came with the bald one and assaulted me with some merchandise.”
Perry stood, walked over to the lady cop. It felt good to walk after crouching for so long. And plus she knew that old lady cashier wouldn’t expect her to, would be expecting her to try to run. And she’d be damned if she’d let that old bitch feel such a triumph.
The lady cop had a paunch, her zipper almost bursting with it. Flat-chested. Needed to pluck her eyebrows. Her partner, a man, was walking over to Mabel. The lady cop held her hand out, took Perry by the elbow. Her fingers were cool and firm. She opened the back door to the squad car, said, “Have a seat.” Placed a gentle hand on the top of Perry’s head, shut the door with a click as soon as Perry was settled.
Perry watched her walk inside. Her pants were too tight, her ass the shape of a pear. Perry still had her cell phone. The cop’s hand on her head had been so gentle, so caring. She hadn’t wanted Perry to hit her head, hadn’t wanted her to feel that pain. Even though she deserved it, and at this thought Perry felt like she might cry, though no tears came, her throat revving and revving like a car with no gas.
JIM HAD HEARD the two delicate beeps of a text coming through, had been lying on the couch staring out the window, the TV on mute, a pretty Asian lady interviewing an old man in an apron the last time Jim cared to look. He rarely got texts. Myra didn’t enjoy it and work usually called, unless it was one of the younger guards, hungover, too sheepish to ask with their own voice if Jim could take a shift. It was his day off, a whole twenty-four hours of not being there. So it was either a guard asking for his mercy, or it was Perry. Either way, he didn’t want to know.
The man in the apron put a whole bag of spinach into a blender, topped that with an avalanche of fruit. The Asian woman’s mouth opened wide, a shocked smile, how clever! Outside Jim could see a line of sky above his neighbor’s trailer, had watched a patchy cloud move into that line and slowly out. Now it was just blue. Myra had gone off to work, he was alone. A wayward couch spring knuckled into his lower back, but if he worked it just right it felt almost like a massage.
He’d seen the look in Perry’s eye that morning. Knew she didn’t have any grand designs on being at school. We’re going to school, Dayna had said. Like she wanted it to be true, or at least had wanted him to beli
eve it.
Now the man appeared to be making a salsa. The Asian lady stared off, her lips in a tight smile, like she was listening to someone in the audience. Jim realized it was an infomercial, not the morning show like he’d originally thought. He got up, snapped off the TV. His lower back felt bruised, like the couch spring was inside him now, trying hard to burst out.
He checked his phone, saw Perry’s text. I’m getting arrested. I’m sorry. It would be a while before he could convince himself to go outside, get into the truck, see what he could do about saving her.
THE SUN WAS COMING IN through the wall of windows facing out to the gas pumps like it was putting down ties, like the truck stop was just the east wall of a big-ass tent the sun was pitching. Normally Myra would have felt sick inside, like the sun had tentacles and they were messing with her stomach, mixing up the dregs of last night’s beer, pushing on her gag reflex. Normally her eyes would have felt like they could pop out, into her hand, still throbbing.
But this morning was a mercy. The window cleaners had come the day before, so it was like there wasn’t even any glass separating the inside from the outside, the sunshine warm but not hot, every car pulling in seeming to sparkle, the radio turned down just low enough. No one had even tried to pay with change, or traveler’s checks, or a coupon for a different brand of truck stop. And Myra felt clearheaded, straight-backed, awake. Alive. Had made the doughnuts with extra care. Each one with the perfect amount of glaze or frosting or sprinkles. Put the stale ones in a basket by the cash register at twenty-five cents apiece. Pulled all the ice creams and cold drinks to the front of the cooler, wiped the door to the doughnut case in wide circles until there wasn’t a fingerprint, not a smudge of frosting to be seen. Filled the change tray with money from her own wallet. Answered the phone by the second ring, every time. The day was a gift, a miracle even. Myra knew better than to let it pass by unappreciated.
Ugly Girls Page 8