Girlchild (9 page)
O
n the night I discovered mirrors, I was at Grandma’s in the bedroom of her single-wide Regal, a bedroom I’d shared with one graveyard-shift-abandoned child after another. Mama had been working worried evenings at the Truck Stop, worried because of the quiet that still had such a hold on me, because I should have been getting old enough to watch myself but still seemed to forget how. Because I forgot to walk myself home, or walked myself to the wrong house, to the Hardware Man’s empty trailer, pressed my forehead against the windows, and whispered apologies to Carol’s shadow, sure as I was that she was getting all the punishment I deserved for not keeping my mouth shut, for not keeping the secret about her bad daddy in the safe, silent dark. Because I’d sit on the porch waiting until Mama found me there and, without saying a word, took me home or to Grandma’s. Because Grandma, despite her own record of forgetful tendencies when her gambling hand itched, was once again the best bet for childcare on the Calle, so there I was in her back bedroom, her mirror in my hand, and Timmy was there too, playing with his favorite toy truck on the floor.
n the night I discovered mirrors, I was at Grandma’s in the bedroom of her single-wide Regal, a bedroom I’d shared with one graveyard-shift-abandoned child after another. Mama had been working worried evenings at the Truck Stop, worried because of the quiet that still had such a hold on me, because I should have been getting old enough to watch myself but still seemed to forget how. Because I forgot to walk myself home, or walked myself to the wrong house, to the Hardware Man’s empty trailer, pressed my forehead against the windows, and whispered apologies to Carol’s shadow, sure as I was that she was getting all the punishment I deserved for not keeping my mouth shut, for not keeping the secret about her bad daddy in the safe, silent dark. Because I’d sit on the porch waiting until Mama found me there and, without saying a word, took me home or to Grandma’s. Because Grandma, despite her own record of forgetful tendencies when her gambling hand itched, was once again the best bet for childcare on the Calle, so there I was in her back bedroom, her mirror in my hand, and Timmy was there too, playing with his favorite toy truck on the floor.
The mirror was a red-handled plastic affair, and I watched my face in the square glass, blue eyes, near-white hair, and a closed mouth, no wide red hole, a mouth very closed against the redness that still traced around it from the scabs I had made keeping myself quiet. I was running my tongue over the few scabs left, seeing
which were loosening, and then, suddenly, over my shoulder, little Timmy. I was surprised that this could happen all at once, my face, my blue, my blond, and his face too, his lips vibrating with the noise of his truck’s motor. I could see him without turning to look, so I took a tour through the rest of the room too. The permanent beds for the temporary kids separated by the nightstand that had the lamp coming right up through holes in its two levels, the light switch always too far for one of us to reach without getting out of bed to turn it off. Above the nightstand I could see the window whose curtains were always tied open because it faced the empty back lot. I tried not to look out there at night but the mirror made me feel brave, so I did. And that’s when I saw that someone was looking in, watching us.
which were loosening, and then, suddenly, over my shoulder, little Timmy. I was surprised that this could happen all at once, my face, my blue, my blond, and his face too, his lips vibrating with the noise of his truck’s motor. I could see him without turning to look, so I took a tour through the rest of the room too. The permanent beds for the temporary kids separated by the nightstand that had the lamp coming right up through holes in its two levels, the light switch always too far for one of us to reach without getting out of bed to turn it off. Above the nightstand I could see the window whose curtains were always tied open because it faced the empty back lot. I tried not to look out there at night but the mirror made me feel brave, so I did. And that’s when I saw that someone was looking in, watching us.
It was a girl with big curls and a lace collar. Viv. She looked different, though, and I saw why, a stiff Girl Scout sash full of patches ran from her right shoulder to her left hip. I’ll never catch up, I thought, seeing their number, all the different shapes, and how proud she looked, and then she raised three fingers, her thumb and pinky joined in her palm, and touched her fingers to her forehead. When I saluted back she waved at me, and it looked like she was waving good-bye.
“Viv!” I dropped the mirror and ran to the window, barely missing knocking over a scared Timmy who’d gotten so used to not hearing my voice since the Hardware Man left that my scream had stopped him still. He sat cross-legged on the floor, one hand still on his truck, its wheels come to a sudden stop on their imaginary road.
“Is there somebody outside?” he asked me in a quiet voice, a voice too small to ever power a truck over Grandma’s carpet. It was a voice I recognized for how low it got, like it was getting ready to crawl under the bed, trying to hide itself and its owner, and as I looked out the window, trying to see around the reflection of the light and my face in it, to see a dress running away in the darkness,
a sash’s tail flowing behind, I remembered Carol. I thought of how she would’ve answered Timmy now once she’d caught wind of his fear, how she would have kept scaring him and kept scaring him until he cried with it, just like she used to scare me.
a sash’s tail flowing behind, I remembered Carol. I thought of how she would’ve answered Timmy now once she’d caught wind of his fear, how she would have kept scaring him and kept scaring him until he cried with it, just like she used to scare me.
“Nope,” I said, making myself sound very sure even though I wasn’t. “Just my imagination.”
I
t’s duck duck goosestep till the bell rings: I march from can to can, take the orange peels from today’s lunch out of the trash when no one’s looking, and drop them one by one on the ground behind me, a trail from swings to slide, monkey bars to water fountain, circle around the tetherball, cross the four square, through dirt and over cement, orange marks the spot. That’s how you make things grow, garbage in the ground, it makes dirt strong. Grandma understands the dirt and what’s good for it and so do I. And when the Recess Monitors finally see me, because they don’t notice me unless I’m taking tests, because they don’t notice me unless the alphabet is dancing out of my mouth, my mouth still red like a clown’s, like bad lipstick around my lips and no washing it off, they miss the connection. Because they don’t like to look at that either. When the Monitors finally see all the orange peels spread out over the white desert dirt of the playground they blow their whistles and ask who did this. But it’s too late, there’s no way to tell where it began except for the orange smell on my hands but no one gets close enough to know. No one could tell now that it was me.
t’s duck duck goosestep till the bell rings: I march from can to can, take the orange peels from today’s lunch out of the trash when no one’s looking, and drop them one by one on the ground behind me, a trail from swings to slide, monkey bars to water fountain, circle around the tetherball, cross the four square, through dirt and over cement, orange marks the spot. That’s how you make things grow, garbage in the ground, it makes dirt strong. Grandma understands the dirt and what’s good for it and so do I. And when the Recess Monitors finally see me, because they don’t notice me unless I’m taking tests, because they don’t notice me unless the alphabet is dancing out of my mouth, my mouth still red like a clown’s, like bad lipstick around my lips and no washing it off, they miss the connection. Because they don’t like to look at that either. When the Monitors finally see all the orange peels spread out over the white desert dirt of the playground they blow their whistles and ask who did this. But it’s too late, there’s no way to tell where it began except for the orange smell on my hands but no one gets close enough to know. No one could tell now that it was me.
Now, if anything grows out of the Roscoe playground dirt it’ll be because of what Grandma taught me. If the sand won’t accept them and the orange peels dry and curl in the sun and blow away, nobody will look at them and think of me ’cause I never get in trouble, because I’m the star student at Roscoe and as long as I can
spell and recite, multiply and divide, and comprehend every last word I read, it doesn’t matter how quiet I am or how weird I act and I won’t get in trouble for anything, not even for
i hate Rory D
. on the bathroom wall. Star student or not, nobody washes that off and nobody corrects it either. There’s a difference between trash and trash, that’s what Grandma says, and learning which is which is the best education you can get, but nobody ever writes something nice about
Rory D
., even though I leave a marker there so someone can, so they can add just one
why not
, one reason why anyone shouldn’t, and that’s because the only friend I’ve ever had has gone away.
spell and recite, multiply and divide, and comprehend every last word I read, it doesn’t matter how quiet I am or how weird I act and I won’t get in trouble for anything, not even for
i hate Rory D
. on the bathroom wall. Star student or not, nobody washes that off and nobody corrects it either. There’s a difference between trash and trash, that’s what Grandma says, and learning which is which is the best education you can get, but nobody ever writes something nice about
Rory D
., even though I leave a marker there so someone can, so they can add just one
why not
, one reason why anyone shouldn’t, and that’s because the only friend I’ve ever had has gone away.
Children run from swings to slide to water fountain on a white dirt playground. Adults blow whistles and point to a trail of orange peels littering the ground. The trail moves in a cursive line and takes the shape of three letters with an exclamation point at the end:
Bye!
The girl with the white-blond hair stands alone by the trash can, orange peels fall from her hand.
Bye!
The girl with the white-blond hair stands alone by the trash can, orange peels fall from her hand.
T
immy and I walk to the playground. Timmy’s running ahead, pulling his truck along on a string behind him, so he doesn’t see an odd patch of green against the desert dirt of the walkway. It’s a green, folded-up bill, a one-dollar bill. George Washington’s face is wrinkly and his forehead is huge and he’s not smiling but I’m not putting him back. I stuff the dollar into my pocket and run after Timmy. When we play on the swings, Timmy holds his truck on his lap and I check my pocket after each new height to make sure the dollar is still there.
immy and I walk to the playground. Timmy’s running ahead, pulling his truck along on a string behind him, so he doesn’t see an odd patch of green against the desert dirt of the walkway. It’s a green, folded-up bill, a one-dollar bill. George Washington’s face is wrinkly and his forehead is huge and he’s not smiling but I’m not putting him back. I stuff the dollar into my pocket and run after Timmy. When we play on the swings, Timmy holds his truck on his lap and I check my pocket after each new height to make sure the dollar is still there.
When we get back to Grandma’s, I go to her bed and try to tell her that I found a dollar. The words stick like they have been, so I hold it out to her but she doesn’t understand me. She says, “Timothy, what’s this about?” He shrugs and rolls his truck back and forth on his leg. His mom is due any minute to drive down the Calle and take him home. All his attention is on the curve in the road where the next car will appear and I know how that feels, I know that curve well myself, how the mailboxes at that corner will take just the right shape of the car you want, the arms you want behind its wheel, and make you think your waiting is over when it isn’t. Timmy’s busy. He’s not going to speak for me and Grandma knows it. She says, “I’m sorry Rory D., I can’t figure this one out.”
I look at the hanging baskets over her shoulder, the baskets that hang over her bed. The bottom basket is full of skeins of yarn, crochet hooks, balls of yarn rolled from skein scraps, a word-find puzzle
book, the middle basket has onions. I crumple the bill in my hand until it’s warm and moist, like a tissue held too long. Grandma picks up the ball of yarn and the hook she laid down when we came in, and I never even guess that she is tricking me, teasing me into reopening my mouth that I’ve held too quiet for too long. Grandma’s been waiting for the right moment, for something worthwhile that I needed to say and couldn’t get help with, and I squeeze the dollar tight and say—and I do say, because I can even hear me saying it—“For your money basket, Grandma.”
book, the middle basket has onions. I crumple the bill in my hand until it’s warm and moist, like a tissue held too long. Grandma picks up the ball of yarn and the hook she laid down when we came in, and I never even guess that she is tricking me, teasing me into reopening my mouth that I’ve held too quiet for too long. Grandma’s been waiting for the right moment, for something worthwhile that I needed to say and couldn’t get help with, and I squeeze the dollar tight and say—and I do say, because I can even hear me saying it—“For your money basket, Grandma.”
Grandma smiles and opens my fist. I watch as she uncrumples the bill, straightens it smooth, and puts it high up in the top basket next to the decks of cards. The baskets disappear behind her shirt, green and white, soft over bony shoulder, as she leans down, holds me close, and says, “I sure missed hearing that voice, R.D. Don’t let it get away again.”
T
hat night, when Mama’s car is the one coming around the curve, and she comes in to get me, Grandma asks if she has time for a quick game of Yahtzee. It’s a surprise because Grandma hates playing Yahtzee with Mama, says that Mama is the devil’s own daughter when it comes to rolling dice. If they sit down to play anything, it’s cards only, because Grandma says she loses enough on the Strip, she should have at least half a chance at home, and it’s cards that listen to her best, whisper in her ear about what else is happening in the pack and where the aces are hid.
hat night, when Mama’s car is the one coming around the curve, and she comes in to get me, Grandma asks if she has time for a quick game of Yahtzee. It’s a surprise because Grandma hates playing Yahtzee with Mama, says that Mama is the devil’s own daughter when it comes to rolling dice. If they sit down to play anything, it’s cards only, because Grandma says she loses enough on the Strip, she should have at least half a chance at home, and it’s cards that listen to her best, whisper in her ear about what else is happening in the pack and where the aces are hid.
Mama kisses me on the head but her eyes are already on the game. “I always have time to win,” she says. Grandma pulls the old giant clipboard out from the side of the couch that they use for cards and dice, and then, except for the sound of the dice rattling in the cups, of them falling on the board, there’s no noise. They really get into it and I really get bored, and find my place in
The Phantom Tollbooth
where Milo and Tock are being arrested by short Officer Shrift.
The Phantom Tollbooth
where Milo and Tock are being arrested by short Officer Shrift.
“How’d they treat you today, Jo?” Grandma asks. By “they” she means the customers at the Truck Stop and by “treat” she means, did anyone try to grab Mama’s ass or leave her high and dry tip-wise.
“No highlights, no lowlights, Ma.” Mama shakes her cup when
she talks but only rolls the dice out when she pauses. On other nights she tells stories about customers but this isn’t like other nights, this is all part of the game, the old one I’ve been watching and learning since before I can remember. Small talk is how you get into the other guy’s head and how he gets into yours and Grandma’s an expert at it. Mama ignores her, concentrates on the numbers she needs, mouthing them before each roll. “How’d they treat you around here?” she asks.
she talks but only rolls the dice out when she pauses. On other nights she tells stories about customers but this isn’t like other nights, this is all part of the game, the old one I’ve been watching and learning since before I can remember. Small talk is how you get into the other guy’s head and how he gets into yours and Grandma’s an expert at it. Mama ignores her, concentrates on the numbers she needs, mouthing them before each roll. “How’d they treat you around here?” she asks.
“Fair to middling.” I can feel Grandma nodding at me even though I’m not looking at them and even though I’m obviously very interested in Milo’s adventure and praying there’s a tollbooth waiting in my room when I get home. “That one found a dollar on her way to the playground.”
Mama’s shaking her cup again, hard, like she always does, like she thinks that’s how the luck gets in the dice, but when Grandma says this, she stops, even before she rolls them out. Grandma pauses too and I can see the numbers adding up on that other score sheet, the game that’s played inside of every game, and I can tell Grandma’s winning all of a sudden, whether she rolled any Yahtzees or not, because when she adds, “Told me so herself,” Mama puts down her cup with the dice still inside.
The room is quiet until Mama says, “Well aren’t you having good luck tonight,” but her voice doesn’t have that gambler’s edge I’m used to hearing. There’s a smile in it, and relief, and when she picks up her cup again, she rolls out her dice without another shake, says, “Would you look at that, just what I needed.”
On the way home, Mama asks me if I want to talk about anything, like she’s been asking me every night, and I don’t think I do but then I decide to tell her.
“Viv moved away.”
And Mama does something she’s never done before. She reaches over and takes my hand and she holds it all the way to our driveway. Her hand is bigger than I think and stronger than it looks but her voice is gentle when she says, “It’s hard to let go of a friend, R.D., even when it’s for the best. I bet you’ll see her again.”
M
ama is working some day shifts, and on those mornings not connected to the night before by headache and regret, she leans in my door and says, “Good morning, Sunshine.” I’m surprised to hear that word, and even more to feel it. My room is full of the bright morning light that never made its way under the top bunk of Carol’s bed, the morning light that rises on the wrong side of Grandma’s trailer, and right outside my window I hear Mama as she dumps her coffee grounds and eggshells into the garden, rakes them in, blends them with the dirt and grounds and shells from mornings past.
ama is working some day shifts, and on those mornings not connected to the night before by headache and regret, she leans in my door and says, “Good morning, Sunshine.” I’m surprised to hear that word, and even more to feel it. My room is full of the bright morning light that never made its way under the top bunk of Carol’s bed, the morning light that rises on the wrong side of Grandma’s trailer, and right outside my window I hear Mama as she dumps her coffee grounds and eggshells into the garden, rakes them in, blends them with the dirt and grounds and shells from mornings past.
Mama on days means no more nights away from home, and Mama on days means she can come to all the parent-teacher conferences they want, and do they ever. Bar graphs bleed to the tops of the pages held in Mr. Lombroso’s hands, and our gladiolas grow tall in the small run of garden that is on the sunshine side, the morning side, of our trailer. Mama exclaims at the heights of my scores and her flowers, and asks her most honest question, “What does it mean?”
I sit at my desk and feel my cheeks, stinging and hot, while Mr. Lombroso explains the test scores again.
Percentages
and
peculiarities
,
these words are about me and they buddy up and crawl across my desk. I touch the tip of my Number Two pencil to their bellies and watch them snap shut like roly-polies do. They are the same gray as roly-polies, like Ticonderoga lead, and I color them in, to hide them, cover them completely so no one will see. I do it without going outside the lines and then I wait for Mama’s next question.
Percentages
and
peculiarities
,
these words are about me and they buddy up and crawl across my desk. I touch the tip of my Number Two pencil to their bellies and watch them snap shut like roly-polies do. They are the same gray as roly-polies, like Ticonderoga lead, and I color them in, to hide them, cover them completely so no one will see. I do it without going outside the lines and then I wait for Mama’s next question.
There’s no explaining the test scores and nothing to do about it. As far as Mama’s concerned, my IQ grows right out of the coffee grounds and eggshells tossed into the dirt on the side of our trailer. She’s not sure if it’s due to her tending, her carelessness, or some joke between God and the school board, but she does her part to keep it going by sending me to my teachers, the principal, and his secretary, with gladiolas wrapped in wet paper towel and tinfoil.
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