Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters (12 page)

“I didn’t hit my head,” Sassy said. “Really, I’m okay. She didn’t hit me very hard.”

“Who hit you?” I asked. “Was it Mrs. Vreeland?” Mrs. Vreeland lives around the corner on Northway. Sometimes, when we were little and playing with other kids in the neighborhood, we ran through her yard as a shortcut. She called the police on us every time. I hate Mrs. Vreeland.

“No. Some lady I didn’t know.”

“But you’re sure you’re not hurt?” Now Norrie was shaking Sassy’s arms and legs, checking for broken bones. Sassy lay limp as a rag doll. “Did you tell Ginger and Daddy-o?”

“No. What could they do?”

“I don’t know,” Norrie said. “But, I mean, they’re our parents….”

We all burst out laughing. Ginger and Daddy-o are not exactly helpful during emergencies. Remember when Takey was two and he fell off your piano stool and broke his nose? Daddy-o couldn’t remember the number for 911. And Ginger—when one of us complains of being sick, she says drily, “I’ll start making funeral arrangements.”

“Really, Norrie, I promise I’m not hurt.” Sassy sat up and made a muscle to prove it.

“Okay.” Norrie leaned back against her headboard and propped her feet on Sassy’s legs, pretending not to be worried anymore. “Maybe you should make Sassy one of your saints,” she said to me. “She can get hit by a car without getting hurt. She’s indestructible.”

“Saints aren’t indestructible,” I said. “Haven’t you ever looked at the windows in church? The saints are always getting shot by arrows or beheaded or burned to death. That’s what makes them saints. You’re thinking of a superhero, not a saint.”

“All right then, maybe she’s an angel,” Norrie said. “They can’t die, right? ’Cause they’re already dead?”

“You mean like ghosts?”

“No, I mean like angels.”

“Stop it, you guys,” Sassy said. “I’m not a saint or an angel. I’m just lucky. Really, really lucky.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” I said. I got off the bed and went back to the desk to work on St. Joan’s flames. I wanted to make them hotter.

“Norrie’s going to the Holman dance with Brooks this Friday,” I shouted to Bridget in the lunchroom. “You know—BROOKS OVERBECK!”

I had to shout because the lunchroom is like an echo chamber in hell—screechingly noisy. Boys are loud, but girls’ voices with no bass line to counterbalance them are earsplitting. So it wasn’t really my fault if Bibi happened to overhear my little announcement. I didn’t shout it on purpose just because she was sitting at the table behind me, I swear.

I got a D on my St. Joan icon and an F on my twenty-first-century icon, St. Lux Interior. Sister Mary Joseph didn’t like that I drew a speech bubble with “I’m a badass” coming out of Joan’s mouth. She said I could redo St. Joan if I wanted to try to make up the grade. Also, if I wanted to erase Lux Interior’s F (she’s never heard of the Cramps! The inventors of horror-punk! What do they teach in those convents anyway?), I could write a history of Catholicism in Maryland. Like that was going to happen.

Bridget came over that Saturday night for a sleepover. Ginger and Daddy-o had gone out and Miss Maura had the night off so Sassy was having a Wii burp-off with Takey in the den. Norrie was out on a date with Robbie, though I didn’t know he was Robbie at the time, like THE Robbie. I just thought of him as some guy in her Speed Reading class that she was acting all mysterious about.

Bridget and I took advantage of Norrie’s absence to use her room as a tattoo parlor. Everything is always more fun in the Tower Room; maybe it’s the atmosphere of Evil.

We sketched out what kind of tattoos we wanted. Don’t worry, they weren’t real tats—we drew them on with felt-tip pens. But for at least as long as we didn’t wash—and I planned not to wash for as long as I could get away with it—we would look like badass girls with forbidden tattoos.

I was going to do Bridget’s and she was going to do mine. At first I thought of making Bridget copy my St. Joan icon onto my back, but she isn’t that great an artist and I was afraid she’d screw it up. “Stick with something simple,” I told her, because I didn’t want to spend all night drawing on her.

She toyed with a cow and a milk pail for St. Brigid but I convinced her that there could not be a lamer idea for a tattoo than a cow. Besides, I can’t draw cows. So she chose a shamrock (also lame, but I didn’t say so because it’s easy to draw), and I chose a skull and crossbones—the universal symbol of danger, poison, and pirates.

I did Bridget first. I took an emerald-green felt-tip and practiced making shamrocks on a piece of paper until she was satisfied. Then she pulled off her sock and I drew a shamrock on her ankle.

“My turn,” I said. “Use black. The darkest black pen in there.”

While Bridget sorted through pens, I pulled my hair into a high ponytail to get it out of the way. I wanted the tattoo on the back of my neck. I bent my head down and she got to work.

The pen felt cool and ticklish on my skin, especially when it touched my spine. “Why are you taking so long?” I asked.

“I’m being careful. Don’t you want me to do a good job?”

“Yes. Please do a good job.”

“Okay, then shut up.”

“You’re not allowed to say shut up in our house.”

“Fuck off.”

“That you’re allowed to say.”

Sorry if that offended you, Almighty, but I’m only quoting Bridget.

Bridget pressed hard on the pen while she filled in the outline. A few more endless minutes spent bent over, and she was done. My head felt heavy as I lifted it. “How does it look?”

“Heinous. Look in the mirror.”

I went to Norrie’s dresser and tried to see the back of my neck in the mirror, but it was impossible. Stupid, I thought. Why did I decide to put the tattoo someplace where I couldn’t see it?

“Here.” Bridget gave me Norrie’s hand mirror. I held it up the way they do at the hair salon so you can see the back of your fabulous new do. There it was. Inky black and evil-looking: the skull and crossbones.

“Doesn’t it look cool?” Bridget tugged up one leg of her jeans to get another peek at her shamrock.

“I wish it was a real tattoo,” I said. “I won’t wash the back of my neck for a long time.”

“It could still smear.” Bridget’s tattoo had already smeared slightly.

“I’ll be careful.” I really liked it. I thought,
When I turn eighteen and graduate from St. Maggie’s Reformatory I am definitely going to get a real tattoo.

“What’s that thing on the back of your neck?” Norrie asked at breakfast the next morning. “You’ve got some kind of black splotch.”

Sassy pulled my hair aside for a better look. “Is it real?”

“Of course it’s real,” I said.

“But it’s not permanent,” Bridget added. “It’s just felt-tip.”

“You drew fake tats with felt-tip?” Norrie said. “That’s mature.”

Sassy let my hair drop. “I’m glad it’s not real. It’s scary-looking.”

“It’s supposed to be scary-looking.”

“Your hair covers it pretty well,” Norrie said. “The nuns might not even notice it.”

“Look at mine.” Bridget lifted her ankle to show off her shamrock just as Miss Maura came into the breakfast nook with a plate of eggs.

“No feet on the table,” Miss Maura said.

“Will you draw a tattoo on me?” Takey asked me.

“Sure. What do you want?”

“A gun.”

“No guns. I’ll do almost anything else.”

Takey made a pistol with his right hand, aimed it at me, and shot. “Ka-ping! You’re dead.”

Miss Maura shook her head and clucked back to the kitchen.

“I’ll draw you a goldfish,” I offered him. “I’ll make him look just like Bubbles.”

Takey shot me again, right between the eyes, before saying, “Okay.”

At school on Monday, I was trying to make the bad girl bathroom badder by covering the stalls with graffiti when Bibi and Tasha came in. I tucked my feet up on the toilet seat so they wouldn’t see me.

“You had him,” Bibi was saying to Tasha. “If Shea hadn’t shown up, he would have been yours.”

“Okay, but what does that say about him?” Tasha said. “Given the choice between me and Shea, he picks Shea?”

“It’s not that he
picked
Shea,” Bibi said. “He just knew what she’d do and what you wouldn’t do, and he was in the mood for some action that night. I guess.”

“Still, it makes me wonder what kind of guy he is,” Tasha said. “How did Shea end up at your house anyway? You didn’t invite her, did you?”

“Fuck no,” Bibi said. (Again, just quoting.) “Somebody brought her.”

“Somebody always brings her.”

They were quiet for a second. I stayed perfectly still.

“Hey,” Bibi said. “Is anybody in here?”

I held my breath.

“That stall door is closed,” Tasha said. “I don’t see any feet, but…” She pushed on the door of my stall. I’d locked it. She pushed on it again. I shut my eyes. When I opened them, Tasha’s head was blinking at me from under the stall door.

“Jane, are you spying on us?”

“It’s Jane?” Bibi said. “Come out of there. We won’t bite.” I
heard her snap her teeth together a few times. They laughed. I scribbled
B.B. + TASHA 4EVER
on the stall wall before I came out.

“I wasn’t spying,” I said. “Can’t a girl get some privacy around here?”

“I heard your sister left Ryan Gornick’s party with Shea on Friday night,” Bibi said.

“I don’t know who she left with,” I said. “She went with Brooks. You like him, don’t you?”

“No,” Bibi said unconvincingly. “I’m just letting you know: People are starting to talk about your sister and Shea in the same breath. Like they’re the same kind of person. Which would be a slutty person.”

“Slut schmut,” I said. “Nobody cares.”

“Brooks does.”

“You’re just jealous because Brooks likes Norrie and not you,” I said.

“I don’t think he does like Norrie,” Bibi said. “I think his grandmother is making him pretend to like her.”

“Oh yeah? Well, maybe my grandmother is making Norrie pretend she likes Brooks.”

“They let their grandmothers tell them who to date?” Tasha said. “What century is this?”

“Exactly,” Bibi said.

“I totally agree,” I said.

“Then we’re all in agreement,” Tasha said.

“I guess so,” I said.

“All right then,” Bibi said. “See you in Religion. I look forward to watching Sister M-J eviscerate you.”

“So do I,” I said. “I enjoy pain.”

“You are so full of it,” Bibi said.

I miss being friends with Bibi. I really do. But if I said so out loud, she’d never believe me.

I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Almighty, but every Tuesday at tea you like to pick on one of us. That Tuesday you decided to pick on me. Here’s how I saw it. If you want to tell your side, feel free to write a rebuttal.

It started with, “Jane, what is the matter with your hair?” and went downhill from there. “It looks like a big, lank pile of worms.”

“Thank you,” I said. I’d actually tried to avoid being picked on by wearing a turtleneck so you wouldn’t see my tattoo, but that strategy didn’t work.

“She hasn’t washed it,” Norrie explained.

You poured yourself a cup of tea. “Why on earth not? You’ve got dishwater hair as it is. You’ve got to keep it clean so it shines, at least.”

“Her hair is perfectly hideous,” Ginger said. “I keep trying to get her to highlight it, but she doesn’t believe in chemicals. Can you imagine? What kind of life would we have without chemicals?”

So I don’t have beautiful blond hair like my sisters. So what. It all depends on how you look at it. You can call it dishwater, or you can call it “Proletariat Blond.”

Anyway, blonds are everywhere. St. Maggie’s is packed with blonds, natural and not. Why should I look like everybody else? I tried dying my hair black once, but it looked stupid on me because my eyebrows aren’t dark enough. And then when Bridget tried to darken my eyebrows with a pencil, I looked like Colin Farrell.

“I still don’t understand,” you said. “Jane, why haven’t you washed your hair?”

Silence. Norrie and Sassy loyally refused to tell on me. I didn’t want to wash off my tattoo; that was the reason. I’d tried that dry shampoo stuff but all it did was make my hair clumpy and hard to comb.

“Why does she do anything?” Ginger drawled. “It’s beyond our comprehension, Almighty. Best not to ask.”

“I don’t accept that,” you said. “I want an answer.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll wash it soon.” I picked up my knife and buttered a scone. You glared at my hands and gave one of your mighty dragon’s breath exhales.

“Jane Sullivan, you are sixteen years old, a full-grown young lady. Haven’t you learned to hold a knife properly by this time?”

I stopped and looked at the knife in my hand. I have to say I still don’t get it. You’re always after me about my knife. What am I doing wrong?

“Ginger, how could you have let this go on so long? She’s clutching that knife like a murderer. What are you going to do, stab the scone to death? This way.” For the thousandth time you demonstrated the proper way to hold a knife.

“I don’t see the difference,” I said.

“Honestly. Thumb here, forefinger here. Rest the end against your knuckles, not your palm.”

I adjusted my knife until you were satisfied. “Practice at home until you get it right,” you said. “No man will ever marry a girl who holds her knife like that.”

Like any boy notices how a girl holds her cutlery. I was afraid to look at Norrie or Sassy because we might all burst out laughing. I mean, come
on,
Almighty. You think Wallace married you for your table manners?

Speaking of Wallace: Just then he saw us through the glass door, gave us his little two-finger salute, and stepped inside to say hello, saving us from any more crazy cutlery talk.

“Having a nice tea today, ladies?” He carried a pot of orangey-yellow flowers. “I brought you some chrysanthemums to brighten up your table.”

“Thank you, dear.” You cleared away an empty plate to make room for the flowers. “Jane…”

Once again you fixated on the knife in my hand. I’m sorry I waved it in your face and pretended to threaten you, but you
drove me to it. “You’ll marry me, by God, if I have to force you to the altar at knifepoint!”

Norrie and Sassy and Ginger dissolved laughing. Wallace just looked confused. You rang for Bernice and got up from the table. “When you so-called
ladies
come back next week, I hope we can have a civilized tea. And Jane, I hope your hair will not look like an animal died on your head.” You clicked your tongue and Buffalo Bill trotted at your heels as you disappeared into your enormous house.

Here’s what happened after you left:

Bernice appeared to clear the table. “What did you all do to her? She had steam coming out her ears.”

“Jane threatened her with a knife,” Ginger replied.

“That’ll do it,” Bernice said.

Looking back, I guess you didn’t miss much. When you leave the room, Almighty, you take the drama with you; I’ll give you that.