Girl Mans Up (18 page)

I WAKE UP TO DOORS SLAMMING AND TOO MANY
voices talking and laughing. It's almost dinnertime, but I'm still groggy. My house is full of Portuguese people. No one in my family ever discusses visiting beforehand. We all just show up at each other's homes whenever. It smells like sweet bread's been in the oven. I make a stop to the bathroom to brush my teeth and de-crustify my face, then I head down.

“Hey, Pen!” my cousin Constance says.

“Hi. What are all of you guys doing here?” They're about a week late for Thanksgiving—not that we even make a big deal about Thanksgiving. We're more about Christmas and Easter than anything.

“We heard about your brother's head—it sounded pretty serious when your mom called. So my mom said we should maybe visit, and then my dad said it was a great idea. I figured what the hell. Phil's working anyway.” She fluffs her big black curls, then pats my head. “Johnny's not here, though. We didn't know he moved out!”

“Yeah. I thought my mom was over there.”

“She's here, in the kitchen. Making bread.”

Constance smiles and rubs my shoulder. I start in the
living room, where my uncle Adão, my aunt Joana, and my cousin Paulo are sitting with my dad. My cousin Marc's leaning over the arm of the couch, checking out the apps on the TV.

“Hey, Small One Johnny!”
Tio
Adão says to me. “You tough girl. What you do today?”

“Just . . . sleep.”

I make the rounds, kissing everyone on the cheeks. My cousin Paulo is from my aunt Joana's side of the family, so we're not technically related, but he's always been around. He's close to my parents' age, which makes him a pretty old cousin.

“You eat?”
Tia
Joana asks.

“I'm not hungry yet.”

In the kitchen, Constance is helping my mom peel potatoes. There's a big pot in the oven, and when Mom opens the oven door to check on it, the stench tells me it's pigs' feet stew. I hate pigs' feet. I don't think feet of any kind should be eaten, ever. My mom notices me making a face and scowls.

“What?” I say. “You know I don't like that.”

“You think I forget you go out yesterday and no ask me? No ask you
pai
?” she says. Constance makes an uncomfortable face and drifts off. Mom points at the pot. “You wanna do what you wanna do? Why you no make you
comida
, huh?”

I thought with what happened to Johnny last night and today's surprise visit, my parents might've forgotten about all the stuff I did wrong yesterday.

“That's okay. I don't need to eat,” I say.

“Stop, you. I make you
chee
-ken.” She lifts the lid off a
casserole where breaded chicken is frying. Okay, that I can deal with.

“When are we eating? I gotta go take a shower.”

“Soon,” she says.

“Are you taking some of this to Johnny?”

She ignores me. I jog back up to my room and pick out some clothes, then head for the shower. Just as I finish gelling my hair, my mom yells, “Penelope! You come now!”

With my foot on the first step going down, I see Constance at the front door, doing cheek kisses with Colby.

“Come in, Colby! You have to stay for dinner,” Constance says, pulling at Colby's leather jacket.

We exchange this look, Colby and I, and I don't know what's passing from his eyes to mine, but it feels weird so I look away.

“Yeah, okay. It smells awesome,” Colby says, slipping his jacket off. “As usual.”

“Oh good!” Constance pulls him by the sleeve and Colby nods at me on his way to the living room.

COLBY LIKES PIGS' FEET.
Watching him chew on the meat is making me want to puke. We're all sitting around the dining room table, and there's a butt-load of food on it. Everyone squeezed over to allow me to sit beside my best friend, which sucks. I keep picturing myself smashing his face down into the bowl of mashed potatoes. My uncle's downing the beers and getting louder by the minute. He tells the same stories, and everyone laughs at the right places. Especially Colby.

“Hey, Koo
bee
,” my uncle says. “What you do, huh?”

“Oh, you know.” Colby gives a smirk and a shrug, then shoves a forkful of potatoes in his mouth. He cuts a wedge of corn bread to soak up the stew juice.

“Where Johnny, huh?” my uncle asks.

“He come later,” my dad says. Then he says Johnny's always late but this time he's got an excuse. “He
cabeça
is broke.”

“Koo
bee
, you want this?” My uncle Adão reaches across the table to offer Colby a bottle of beer. “This is family good time. We drink, we talk, we laugh. You drink this. The man all drink for the good time.”

Colby reaches for the bottle and twists off the cap. No one thinks anything of this because that's how it is in my family: no one likes a drunk, but no one thinks it's dumb to keep bringing my uncle fresh beers, or to offer teenage guys a drink during family good times.

When dinner's over, Mom tells me to bring the dirty dishes to the sink and she'll deal with them. Colby brings the heavy stuff to the counter, then he makes a sideways peace sign and bounces it against his lips, meaning he wants to go out for a smoke. I shrug like,
Go, I don't care.
He tips his head and his face goes hard.

Loud enough for anyone around to hear, I say, “Ma, can I go out with Colby?”

“You watch out now,” she says.

She was supposed to say no—I was
counting
on her saying no. But she said yes, and now I have to follow Colby.

WE HEAD OUT INTO
the cold. Colby goes between my house and the neighbor's and gets his smokes. For a second, I wonder if by the end of this conversation Colby and I will have figured things out. If we'll have settled things enough to stop with the bull.

“Your uncle's awesome,” Colby says.

“Yeah, no. Not really.”

“He's hilarious.”

“He's just a drunk who repeats the same stories over and over and tells everyone else what to do.”

“Well, I think he's pretty badass, all right?”

“Yeah, I guess you would,” I say. “What do you want?”

“Did you tell your little girlfriend about what happened?” he asks.

“What?”

“I just wanna know if you told her about what happened.”

What's he talking about right now? Does he know that I know about Olivia?

“No. I didn't.” I cross my arms so my hands won't shake.

He looks even more serious now. “Did you tell Olivia?”

“Tell Olivia what?”

His face bends under the WTF glare he gives me. “About us. You and me. What happened.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a chill go through me. Not that again. “No. No way.”

“You're lying.”

We're all lying. We're all holding on to bits of the truth. About this, though, there's no lying on my end. “No! Why would I ever want to—no. Just no.”

He lets go of the breath he'd been holding, and his eyes blink seconds too long. He believes me, and he's relieved. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No,” I say. “Why would I want to talk about it again?”

“To mess with me.”

“You're paranoid.”

“I'm not gonna have everyone think I'm a fag just because you want to get back at me.”

“Get back at you for what? For being a douche? It's not like I'm just finding out now what you're like.”

“You think I haven't figured out Olivia's telling you things?” he says, and he looks pissed off about that most of all, like it's killing him. He whips his cigarette butt against the brick of my house and paces back and forth. “You think I don't know you have things you could be telling her, too—just to make sure I'm gone for good, huh? I know everything. I see everything. I saw you swoop in there.”

“Because you left her hanging, okay? You took off, but you kept her hanging just enough so you could mess with her. Why? What's the point of doing that?”

“The point is, it's mine!” He glances at the street and lowers his voice. “It's my territory. I can do what I want with what's mine, you got that?”

It's like he really thinks his pissing on things means they're his—including people. “If you're going to be a douche
to people, they're going to leave. Might take them a while, but eventually they're going to grow some balls and tell you to suck it, Colby.”

He snorts, and his pacing gets quicker before it stops altogether. Then he's nodding, shaking his head, nodding again—like he's making decisions. I'm just standing there, three feet away, waiting. Finally, he goes, “All right, let me tell you how it is: if you say anything, I'll come at you—”

“Colby, come on—”

“For real, this time. If you and Olivia try to get together with your lies and get in my way, I'll make you regret it so bad, you have no idea. I'm talking about rocking some real shit here. Everything I know about you, your parents can easily find out. One word from me and my dad cancels his business's contract with your brother.”

He says anything he can think up when he's this desperate. But that's my brother's business. That's his reputation, and it's a big contract. I can't believe he'd even go there.

“Colby,” I say, and my knees lock into place, my fingers curling into fists, “back off. Don't even try to mess with my brother right now.”

“I'm serious, Pen. I'm not gonna have you running your mouth off about me. Telling people I'm some queer douche who likes dudes. I'm not gonna have you telling Olivia that about me. I'm not gonna have her think that!”

“I just told you I never told her. I never told anyone! You think you'd feel like a fag? How do you think I feel?”

It's like we're arguing about too many things at once. I
don't know where I end and where Olivia begins. I don't know what to defend myself against. A punch—a nice clean punch in the mouth would probably say all the right things.

“I'm just letting you know right now, okay? This is how it's gonna be: all this better stay dead. You don't tell Olivia anything, and you don't let her run her mouth off either. If not, shit might go down.”

“Stop threatening me! Stop telling me what to do.”

“What—are you going to run to your mommy? You gonna get Johnny? Where's he been, huh?” Colby flashes me a twisted grin. “Face it. You're on your own.”

Ass—I just can't even.

“You got nothing, Pen,” he says. “So you're gonna keep your mouth shut and not get in my way.”

“I'll keep my mouth shut,” I say, letting my hands spread out at my sides. “If you swear you'll leave Olivia and Blake alone.”

“Just watch your back, all right?” He laughs, flicking his cigarette somewhere at my feet. Then I watch him stroll away, his back to me like he knows, without a doubt, that I'm no threat at all. I'm just a girl.

MONDAY, COLBY AND HIS BUDDIES FIND ME AT
school, swarm me without saying anything, then seconds later they take off. I should be glad they don't say anything, that they don't try shoving me around, but it's awkward as hell. I end up standing there, never looking any of them in the eye, and just waiting for it to end.

Tuesday, Blake and I are so busy with our project that it makes lunchtime easy to deal with. We go around asking people for their truth. Olivia usually holds the truth box, because it's not like we're going to let her spend her lunch period sitting in front of her locker.

“Why don't you just get back on the project?” Blake tells Olivia. “We could be a threesome.”

Olivia's cheeks redden, which makes me laugh. What a prude.

“It's cool,” I say. “Olivia can be our secret little helper. She's already all right with us taking all the credit for the work.”

I give people these cue cards and Blake asks them to write down one sentence with a truth about their life as a high school student in our community. They fold the piece of paper and put it into the box. It's all anonymous, but a lot of people still
say no. By the time lunch is close to ending, we have a total of thirteen truths. Olivia and I sit at a table to shove our lunches down our throats before the bell rings. Blake and Robyn took off early for art class because of some sculpting project.

I stare at the stuff on Olivia's fork. “What the hell are you eating?”

“It's a seven-grain salad.”

“It's yellow and weird.”

“Yes, I guess it is compared to a bun with fancy cheese.”

I wave the sandwich in front of her face so she can get a good whiff of smelly Portuguese St. Jorge cheese. “If you promise not to puke, I'll give you half.”

“Really?” She takes the piece I offer, then she pushes her container over to me. “Try it. I offer you the same deal.”

“Uh, no. Well, yeah, okay,” I say, taking her fork. “Aren't you afraid of my germs? Queer cooties and all.”

“I've had worse cooties.”

“Yeah, like what?”

She munches on the other half of my sandwich for a minute while I try her salad. I nod like,
It's not bad
, before handing her fork back. Then Olivia says, “Okay, this is gross, but the first guy I ever kissed, like with tongue—his name was Johan, and we were in grade eight—well, I found out, like, a month later that although he was super cute, he would also pick his nose.” She takes this deep breath and closes her eyes. “He would pick it . . . and eat it.”

“Oh, ha! That's totally nasty!”

“I know. It was a complete betrayal,” she says, shaking her head.

The box of truths is sitting between us. I nod toward it. “I totally want to know what people wrote.”

“Me too! But that's just curiosity. We can't give in or a cat will die,” she says, stabbing her fork into her weird grain salad. “Have you two started taking the photos yet?”

“Not even a little bit.”

She gives this look like,
Tsk tsk.
“Do you have any photography skills?”

“I'm not amazing or anything. I just press the button and hope it didn't go blurry.”

“Well, I think that'll be enough. You can add effects and filters. Turn them black and white, and make them sort of blurry on purpose.”

“Are you sure you don't want to come back? Mr. Middleton would let us be a group of three.”

She shakes her head. “I don't think I can.” She frowns. “Pen?”

“Yeah.”

“I made an appointment,” she says. “Thursday next week, after lunch.”

“Oh.” Then I see her face. “Oh, man. Okay. Got it.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, yeah. For sure. I got this.”

I'd been wondering what was going on with that, but I sort of figure with this kind of thing, it's best if I don't talk
about it unless she brings it up. Maybe in my mind, I was hoping the whole thing just went away. But it didn't. Not until next Thursday.

AFTER SCHOOL, I GET
home to find two black T-shirts folded on my bed. They're not mine, and there are still tags hanging from the sleeves. Ever since Johnny left, finding clothes to wear has been a pain, especially when it comes to going out, because I don't want to be the dirtbag who rotates through the same three shirts all the time. So, two new T-shirts is a good thing. Black tees, too. I don't know what my mom's trying to say with this move.

I pick up the first one, flicking my wrists to unfold it.

My mom's message is printed all over the front of it. I throw both shirts over my arm and march downstairs. Mom's flipping through the newspaper in the living room.

“Why did you buy me this?”

“It's nice. You want the clothes.” Then she says I should just be grateful to be getting anything after the way I've been acting these days.

“I don't wear stuff like that. You know that.”

Mom puts the paper down next to her and gives me this long, up-and-down look. “This get worse, Penelope. I no like. You
pai
no like. You like the black, okay, I buy you the black. But this too much worse.”

“You bought me T-shirts with Disney Princesses on them, Ma! There's glitter and pink.”

“This too much. You not a boy. How you gonna get the nice
boyfriend?” Then she says Colby's not going to wait forever. “How you gonna get married?”

“Ma, please. That's nasty.”

“You big girl now.” She tells me I have to grow up and grow out of this tomboy stuff. This conversation would never have gone on this long if Johnny still lived here. I'd be smacking my foot on his ceiling right about now. “I try to be calm and wait. I try yell at you. Now I try talk to you like a big woman. We talk about real life.”

“Real life.” There are no other words inside me right now. Real life? What does my mom know about that? She's in the house most of the time.

“Maybe I did no good.” The look on her face is sour, like it stings for her to say this part. “Maybe I no do good job with you when you small one. Maybe I no teach you to be nice girl. I wait, and I wait. I be calm.” In Portuguese, she says she was hoping it would fix itself. “Maybe I give you too much.”

The T-shirts are still in my hands, and it feels like I could shred them right now, like I could make Wolverine claws bust out from between my knuckles. “It's not about you,” I tell her. “I decide.”

“You no decide nothing!” she snaps. “You stop this. It puts too much the stress. Too much the fighting.” She says Johnny's living his life now, and I need to start growing up, that life is easier when you do your best to be good.

“I
am
good. I'm only bad when I have to be.”

She shakes her head and waves her arms like she won't have this. “This nice shirts, you ask you Koo
bee
. This is nice
shirts. We go to store, we go see the lady with the makeup—”

“You don't get it, Ma. You don't get it,” I say.

“I get it!”

“No, you don't. I decide. Me. I get to decide.”

“This my house. I decide!” she says. “You a girl, Penelope. You be a girl now. You
mãe
decide. You gonna be a pretty girl.”

Everything inside me feels tight and ready to bust.

“I'd rather be a guy than be a girl who wears those shirts,” I say. “I'd rather be a guy than be a lady like you. I'm not a lady. I'm just whatever, Ma. I'm whatever. Leave me alone. I'm whatever!”

She's quiet for a second. Only for a second.

“You whatever? You wanna be whatever? You get outta
minha casa
!” She pushes to her feet and yanks the shirts out of my hands before storming off.