Saving Ruth (15 page)

“Thanks, Jason, it should be cool.” David was smiling. Jason got up to gather his things, and I stood up and stretched my arms to the sky.

“What are you going to paint?” I asked.

“Not sure yet.”

“Remember when you won that craft show contest in elementary school and some lady bought your painting for, like, sixty bucks?”

“Yeah. It was a charcoal drawing, actually. Of a blue heron. I thought I was a millionaire.” He smiled.

“Hey, can I get a ride home?”

“Shit, Ruth, I'm sorry. I'm going out.”

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You can't drive me home when it's, like, a minute and a half out of your way, tops?”

“Dude, you have your bike here! What's the big deal? You'll be home in two seconds.”

“Maybe I'm tired!”

“Ruth, what the hell?”

“Hey hey, Wassermans!” Jason approached us with the keys in hand. “No cursing. Peace and love.”

“Jason, can you give this little baby a ride home?” asked David.

“Fuck you.” I grabbed my backpack and walked out.

“I thought you would want to ride your bike—you know, to burn off the imaginary calories from your nonexistent dinner!” yelled David as I walked my bike up the hill. I wished that I had the strength to tackle him to the ground and scratch the life out of him the way I had when we were kids. It was amazing how he could be so endearing one minute and then a completely selfish prick the next. I got on my bike, but immediately thought better of it and turned around. Jason and David were getting into their cars.

“Oh shit, you're not going to shoot me, are you?” asked David, throwing his arms up to the sky in mock surrender.

“You're a totally subpar artist, by the way!” I yelled. “I was just being nice. That mural is going to be a joke!”

I hopped back on my bike and wobbled away, tears rolling down my cheeks. Why had I yelled that? It wasn't even true. What was true was that I had saved his pot-smoking ass from who knows what by rescuing Tanisha. This was how he repaid me? By embarrassing me in front of Jason and then refusing to go two minutes out of his way to drive me home?

I made a left and headed toward M.K.'s house. My exhaustion was replaced by a manic rush of adrenaline. I tore up her driveway and parked my bike as the garage light went on. The back door opened, and M.K. appeared in a green face mask.

“Wass?” She came closer. “You've been crying! What's wrong?” She went to hug me, but I bobbed out of her grasp.

“Easy, Kermit,” I sniffled.

“Oh! I totally forgot about this crusty thing! Come in, come in.” She held the door open for me, and I followed her into the kitchen. The counters were strewn with face masks and nail polishes. “It's beauty night,” she explained. “Sheila's on a date. Here, make yourself at home while I wash this mess off in the bathroom.”

I dug in her purse and grabbed a cigarette while simultaneously opening the fridge to look for alcohol. Pink wine. Perfect. I poured myself a glass.

“I'm on the back porch!” I yelled. I sat on the swing and lit up.

“So, Wass, what's the deal?” M.K. joined me, her face scrubbed and glowing like a nightlight. “You okay?” She took a sip of my wine.

“I just—David is such a jerk.” I fought back another round of tears with an inhale of nicotine.

“What happened?” I explained the story to her as we rocked. “See, now when I tell it, it sounds like I overreacted,” I said when I was done.

“Maybe a little. But he's really been acting like a douche.”

I put my cigarette out in the ashtray and sat back with a giant exhale. “There are just so many things that suck about our relationship. Other brothers and sisters don't act like this.”

“How do you know?”

I sighed. “I feel bad for saying that about his art. That was rude.”

“Yeah, but who cares. Jason would let him paint the Mona Lisa on his ass if David asked. He's, like, in love with him.”

“True.”

“Do you think he'll ice you out now?”

“Who knows. I guess I should probably apologize.”

“Why should you have to apologize? He was the dick. Make him sweat it out.”

“Are we talking about my brother or my boyfriend?” I shook my head. “What is wrong with me? Why do I care so much?”

“Because you love him, I guess.”

“I guess.”

M.K. lit a cigarette, and we swung.

16

I
lay in bed, staring at the ceiling in the early morning light. I had another Khaki lesson today. My second foray into the world of an exercise and diet coach, and my stomach was empty save for a handful of Skittles and maybe some leftover globs of hot dog bun. I slowly sat up. Tiny white stars danced in front of my eyes.

I pushed my sheet off and placed my feet on the floor. Immediately, they were licked by Maddie's sandpapery tongue.

“Maddie.” I reached down, scooped her up, and kissed her on her wet nose. “Mornin'.” I put her on the bed and lay down beside her. “I haven't been paying enough attention to you.”

She panted, patiently waiting for a more profuse apology. “I'm sorry, Maddie Mae.” She flipped onto her back and offered up a pink belly for scratching.

I ran my fingers back and forth in her fur and listened to my stomach growl. “Okay, that's a wrap.” She looked at me accusingly. “Sorry, Mads, I have to eat some breakfast before I keel over and die.”

I stood up, closing my eyes for a moment in an attempt to clear my head. I made my way to the kitchen with Maddie following behind me—her nails tickling the tile floor.

“Morning, Dad.” I made a beeline for the refrigerator. I grabbed the milk, cereal, and a bowl. I wistfully measured my one cup of flakes, then carried the bowl to the table.

“I love cereal,” I announced breathlessly three minutes later when every last flake was gone.

“I can see that.” He pushed his own empty bowl away and grabbed his basket of pills. He pulled a bottle of multivitamins out and unscrewed the cap.

“There are a whole lot of bottles in there, huh?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He patiently unscrewed each bottle, extracted a pill, and placed the pills in a precise line.

“How come you don't get one of those weekly pill containers? You know, the ones with a pod for each day of the week?”

“Too depressing. Besides, I like the ritual.” He eyed my bowl. “You gonna drink your milk?”

I looked down at my bowl and then back up at him. “Of course.” I dutifully poured its contents into my mouth.

“Are you working today?” he asked.

“Later. But you're never gonna guess what my new side gig is.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Please tell me it's legal.”

“Very funny.” I took a sip of his water. “You know Laney Moorehouse? From the pool?”

“Does she live up the block? Over on Maple?”

“Yeah. With the frosted hair?”

“What does frosted hair mean?”

“Never mind. She drives that convertible Beemer?”

“Oh yes. The one with the Saban/Palin sticker plastered across its bumper?”

“Dad! You're joking.”

“Wish I was, Ruthie. Wish I was.”

“Shit.” I sighed. “She's asked me to walk her daughter a couple times a week.”

“Walk her daughter?”

“Yeah, take her for walks, maybe a bike ride or two. She wants me to get her excited about exercise and stuff.”

“Her daughter is overweight?”

“Yeah. Strange, right?”

“It doesn't sound strange so much as sad. That poor little girl is probably tortured by her mother night and day about her weight.” He shook his head and began placing his bottles back into the basket. “Did we ever make you feel badly?”

“Dad, I've already been through this with Mom.” I looked up to meet his eyes, which glistened back at me.

“But did we do this to you? Make you obsessed with food?”

I had thought about it a bit since the mall and come to the conclusion that my mom wasn't the only Wasserman at fault, that it had a little to do with all of them. How many times had David made fun of my belly or my dad demanded I go on a jog with him? They'd never made me feel fat per se, but they'd definitely instilled in me a general embarrassment about the way I looked.

“I mean, yeah, you guys weren't exactly shy about mentioning my weight, but I know that you were only trying to help. Plenty of other people gave me grief, don't worry.”

“We were trying to help, that's true, but maybe it wasn't for us to say that you even needed it. When you're a parent, sometimes you just want your kids to be happy so badly that you don't stop to think that maybe they can figure out their happiness on their own.” He smiled weakly at me and let go of my hand. “I love you so much, Ruthie.”

“Dad, I love you too!” I stood up, my chair scraping loudly on the tile floor. “And by the way, I'm fine! It's called a diet, for chrissake! I don't know why everyone is so dramatic about it.” I hugged him. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to walk a kid.”

“Ruth, would you come to services with me next Friday?” He looked small and tired, shrunken somehow by our conversation. How could I say no?

“Sure.”

He lit up. “That's great. Very good. I'll talk to David and your mother too. We'll make a night of it—services and dinner.”

“Okay, Dad.” I smiled at him and trudged back to my room to change.

“S
o, if you were an animal, what would you want to be?” I asked Khaki as we rode our bikes side by side down the street.

“Hmmm. A dolphin, I guess. They're super smart and cute, and everybody likes them.”

“That's true. Good call.”

“What would you want to be?”

“I'm not sure.” I stood up and pumped the pedals vigorously. “Maybe a leopard? Or a lion?”

“No offense, Ruth, but that's pretty predictable.” I'd told her to lose the “Miss.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, it's true. Every girl wants to be a cat of some . . . sort,” she panted as she tried to keep up. “Bor-ing.”

“Are you kidding me? A nine-year-old is schooling me on being boring?” I reached over and wiggled the handlebar of her bike.

“Hey! I'm gonna fall!” she shrieked, laughing.

“Okay, you're right. That is boring. What about a giraffe?”

“That works. Much better.” She snuck a sideways glance at me. “You have a long neck.” A steep hill loomed in front of us. Khaki came to a stop.

“Come on, let's tackle this,” I urged, circling back. She looked at me with wide eyes.

“I don't wanna.”

“C'mon,” I ribbed.

“I said I don't want to.” She dismounted completely and released the kickstand with an angry shove. I got off my bike too.

“So what do you suggest we do instead? Walk up?”

“I guess.” She pouted.

“Seems like it would be a lot faster if we rode it. Probably would take about half the time.”

“Yeah, for you,” she mumbled.

“What does that mean?”

“You're skinny!” she whispered accusingly.

“I'm not—” I stopped myself from arguing. She looked up at me with tired eyes, her cheeks flushed crimson from exertion. “Well, I haven't always been skinny.” She considered this while a car approached behind us.

“C'mon, let's pull over and cop a squat,” I said. We wheeled ourselves over to the shoulder and planted ourselves in a lush yard. “I was just like you when I was little.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I swear. Scout's honor.”

“Then how come you look like this now?”

“Well, first of all, I grew into my skin. My mom called me a late bloomer.”

“That's what mine says I'm gonna be.”

I nodded. “See? So there's that. But I also exercise and watch what I eat.”
That's one way to put it.

“But I like food,” she whimpered. “I don't want to eat those dumb salads my mother makes me, or have an apple for dessert.” She pulled a clump of grass out of the lawn, leaving a brown, bald patch behind. “I hate almonds,” she declared.

“You don't have to eat almonds. And you can still have dessert sometimes. You just have to be more mindful about what you're putting in your body. And you have to—
have to
—exercise.” She sighed heavily. “It's not so much about losing weight, Khaki, it's about feeling better.”

“I feel fine.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“What do you feel like?”

“I dunno.” She stopped pulling the grass and splayed her hand out on top of the ground. Something about the combination of her chipped blue nail polish and seemingly knuckle-less digits made my heart break a little bit. “I feel loose, I guess.”

“Loose, huh? What does that mean?”

“Like when I'm walking or something. My thighs rub together. They're
loose
.” She looked up at me. “I get a rash from it,” she whispered. “And my pants—the ones with the buttons? Sometimes they hurt my stomach.”

“I know what that feels like,” I said. “They hurt so badly by the end of the day that you can't think about anything but taking them off.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “And at school I always get picked last for stuff,” she confessed.

“Like what?”

“Kickball and Red Rover and stuff. Nobody wants me on their team. They think I'm fat.”

“That's not true. Maybe they don't pick you because they're intimidated by you.”

“Give me a break.”

“Well, I picked you to be my exercise buddy.”

“Laney paid you to pick me. It's not the same.”

“Well, fine. I guess that's technically true. I would pick you anyway, though. And that's why we're out here together, you know? So you can feel less
loose.
Biking and walking will make you feel better in the long run, I promise. Stronger. Tighter even.”

“It's not making me feel stronger right now.”

“I know, it's no fun in the beginning. But that's the thing about exercise. The more you do it the easier it becomes.” She eyed me warily. “I swear. Practice makes perfect. Well, not perfect. No one needs perfect. Better, though.” I thought about my dad and the way he would try to make me train for soccer season in high school.
C'mon, Ruth, let's run around the block
, he would say as I sprawled on the couch watching pregnant teenagers on MTV and eating fat-free Pringles. I'd roll my eyes and turn the volume up. Later, as I panted and wheezed my way through drills with the team, I would curse my own laziness. I had said no to him out of stubborn self-consciousness.
You think I'm out of shape and need to train, huh? I'll show you.

Khaki touched my hand. “Okay, let's try this stupid hill.”

“That's the spirit, Khak. If it doesn't work out, so what? We'll stop and walk the rest of the way.”

“Okay,” she mumbled. “But if I feel like stopping, I'm stopping!”

“You got it.” We wheeled our bikes back into the street and began the slow trek together.

“H
ey, you want the umbrella?” Kevin gazed up at me from below the stand, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

“Nah, I put on a ton of sunscreen. Thanks, though.”

“No problem. Although I don't know how you do it. When I come up, I'm definitely rollin' it out.”

“It's the whole olive skin thing. I don't roast as easily.” He regarded me with his token blank expression. I shifted focus to my crotch, suddenly paranoid that it was hanging out of my suit.

“Yeah, well, I'll be back in thirty. See ya.”

“See ya.” He walked away and blew his whistle at Crystal, who was standing on the side of the pool, bossing Melissa around. She jumped.

“I wasn't doin' nothin'!” she screeched in protest. Kevin kept his eyes ahead, unfazed by her reaction. She pouted and then jumped in, attempting a toe touch.

“That was good, Crystal,” Melissa said to her as she came up from the water. She nodded as if to say,
I know.
I wondered if Khaki had any friends.

Jill's VW bug turned into the pool parking lot. Malik, his dreads unmistakable, was in the passenger seat. They got out and waved. Jill didn't have a membership, but I always let her in. She loved to lie out more than anyone I had ever met. Her method of doing so went beyond OCD into a whole new realm. Once her sunscreen was applied evenly to the entire surface of her body—even those spots in no danger of sun exposure—her towel was adjusted just so, her chair was angled so that no rays would escape her, and her drink was positioned for optimal sippage, she would collapse in a heap of bliss. She roasted each side evenly, setting her flip to her phone alarm. I had always wondered secretly if her obsession with tanning went hand in hand with her preference for black men. I waved back.

As they made their way toward me, I scanned the crowd for any glances of disapproval.

“Hey, Wass!” Jill climbed up the ladder to give me a hug. “Thanks for lettin' us come here to tan.”

“Sure, no problem. Hey, Malik,” I added.

“Hey, Ruth. Long time no see,” he shouted up. “You look good!”

“You don't think she's a lil' skinny?” asked Jill. “I mean, come on.”

“Damn, girl! You can be salty as hell sometimes.” He scowled at her and then looked back at me. “You look great.”

“What? I don't say anything behind Ruth's back that I don't say to her face. Right, Ruth? We've been that way since first grade.” She smiled up at me in her Ray-Bans.

“Yeah, for better or for worse,” I answered. “Go grab some seats, and I'll come talk to you later. I kind of have to keep my eyes on the pool here.”

“Of course. Ruth, you know I love you, right?”

“I know, Jill.” She and Malik sauntered off to find seating suitable to Jill's optimum sun exposure standards, and I refocused on the diving board. Derrick was climbing the ladder—his adolescent awkwardness emanating from every pore. Slumped over like a ninety-year-old man, he carried himself as though he were apologizing.

“Do a flip, fat-ass!” yelled Julie from the shallow end. I blew my whistle.