Ugly Girls: A Novel (11 page)

“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 believe 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.

When she finished her shift she’d get Jim a present. A candy bar or an ice cream. Maybe even get Perry something, too. A magazine. A box of condoms. She laughed to herself. It was good to be able to laugh about shit that wasn’t under your control. And she’d treat herself, too: a six-pack. She could already hear the way the bottles clinked against each other, could see the way the sun would catch the amber bottles just so. And why not? She’d drank the other night, had, with the help of her new friend, finished off all the beer in the fridge. And she felt like a new woman. So la-di-da, she thought to herself.

La-di-da. They were like magic words or something, because no sooner had Myra thought them than the man she’d been thinking of as well walked through the door, in a different sleeveless shirt this time, a blank electric blue. The electronic bells chimed and he stopped, half in and half out, looking up like he’d be able to see them up there.

“Well, hey, Pete,” Myra called over to him. She was behind the counter, working at facing all the bills in the drawer the same way, organizing the coins into little even piles in their trays.

“Hey,” he said, walking over. Myra could see that his shirt was the mesh kind, the kind football players wore, or bodybuilders. Or rednecks. He didn’t seem surprised to see her, but then again she’d probably told him where she worked. Or he’d seen her before. This was the only truck stop on this side of the highway for miles. Why was she trying so hard to convince herself he hadn’t been meaning to see her?

He was right at the counter now. Myra could smell lotion on him, Jergens, the same kind she used after a bath. He was the type to wear mesh sleeveless shirts and lotion himself up, an odd mix of vanities. It sent a little flare, a fiery wing, right up through her, knowing this about him.

“What can I do you for?” This was a saying she’d often heard Marshall use, a saying she hated. Marshall was the other cashier on busy mornings, a small man in huge glasses, his waxy fingers and effeminate voice also not doing him any favors.
What can I do you for?
It was like his shield, stopped customers in their tracks, usually made them smile. And now Myra was using it. What had gotten into her? She was not attracted to this man, this pudgy boy, as far as she knew. But she also knew that she wanted
him
to be attracted to
her
.

“I’m just here for some gas,” he said.

“And to see me?” she said, before she could stop herself. Still, it felt dangerous, the fun kind of dangerous, blurting things at this stranger. Seeing how he’d react.

“Well, of course,” he said. He put his elbows on the counter, leaned over. A gold cross on a thin chain, a woman’s necklace, really, spilled out of his shirt. In the clear light of day Myra could see how that cleft scar had made his upper lip look unnaturally full. She imagined kissing it, imagined it moving around her body like a bloated earthworm. She smiled to herself.

“You happy to see me?” he asked. Myra considered it. No, she didn’t feel happy. His presence made her nervous, the way she used to feel before Jim, when every man that came through the truck stop seemed like a real possibility. She liked having that back in her life, Lord help her.

“Not as happy as you are to see me, I see,” Myra answered, mirroring the close-lipped smile he wore, trying to look as confident as he did.

“I’m always happy to see pretty ladies,” he said, tucking the cross back inside his shirt.

Myra laughed. “You’re up to your elbows in bullshit, boy,” she said, but she knew it was clear he’d flattered her. Breaking her down inch by inch.
Baby steps.
Who used to say that? Jim. About her not drinking.
Be patient, Myra. Baby steps.
Thinking of him now was like seeing a fly drowned in your beer glass. It tainted the whole thing. The light coming in through the windows even seemed dulled by it, less sharp, less pleasing.

Pete spoke, and Myra snapped out of it, though she hadn’t heard him.

“I was asking if your daughter got to school this morning,” he said.

“So she said,” Myra answered. This man-boy was attracted to her daughter, that was clear. The thought didn’t alarm Myra. If he wanted to try something with Perry he’d have another think coming. Instead, she was starting to feel put off, like she was the momma he had to be polite to in order to get anywhere with her daughter. Like she was just something he had to get past.

“You sure do like asking about my daughter,” Myra said. Fun dangerous.

He backed up, straightened. “I’m just making small talk,” he said. “Plus you said how you worry about her, how she lies all the time.”

Myra didn’t remember saying anything like that. She also didn’t quite remember how she ended up in the bathtub, so it was possible. It was something she often thought about Perry, and so might very well confess it if she was relaxed enough. She walked from behind the counter, pretended to wipe down the doughnut case again. She wanted Pete to ask her about
her
, was what it really came down to. And because of that, she wanted him to leave. No longer the fun kind of dangerous, having these thoughts.

“These doughnuts sure do look good,” he said. “They look like just the thing.”

She didn’t remember telling him she worked here. And yet here he was, stopping in for a visit. What else didn’t she remember saying? Doing?

He moved toward her, putting his hand over her hand, which was on the door handle. He didn’t even use the wax paper, just reached in with his bare hand and took a glazed and a strawberry frosted, put his finger through their holes and held them up, stacked one on top of the other. Myra didn’t know if she was supposed to see something sexual in what he’d done, his finger in the holes, but she felt hot all over, she felt the flood of fever that always started a hangover. So here it was.

The phone was ringing, it was already past the second ring now. The sun had pulled up its ties. The truck stop looked dingy, tired. The smell of gasoline everywhere. The rag in Myra’s hand felt oily. The mercy had been fleeting.

“Ain’t you going to get that?” Pete asked.

She realized it was the perfect way to get rid of him, to answer the phone and tend to whoever it was with such thoroughness that he had no choice but to leave her to it. She walked around the counter, lifted up the receiver. “Byron’s Truck Stop, Myra speaking,” she said, forcing a shard of cheeriness into her voice.