choice. My secret.
“Funny situation over there.” Mrs. Gogglio’s voice was conversational, inviting me to respond.
I glanced at her. She knew.
“You mean, with that … guy?” I threw and then slackened the line, waiting for her next tug.
“Mmm. Jim.”
“Jin.”
“Right. He lives there, you know. In that guest house or garage, but that’s close as close gets. My friend Nancy Krause takes tickets at the Cineplex, she says they come in every Saturday night. The mother and her beau, and him barely out of some art school in New York City.” Mrs. Gogglio clucked her tongue. “The times we live in.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I said. “Everyone gets along okay.”
“It’s not natural.”
“He’s nice. Nice means a lot,” I added, borrowing her phrase.
Her mouth pursed into a bud of doubt. But now I was glad Mrs. Gogglio knew about the Frightful Fun House. Otherwise, it all might have felt like a dream, something false and unsettling that I had made up in my head.
She changed the subject by telling me a story about poor old Miss Benedict over at Sunrise Assisted, who kept a box of fabric scraps on her bedside table. The weekend duty nurse accidentally had emptied the box on Saturday, and Miss Benedict had sunk into a deep depression.
“I got the call yesterday,” said Mrs. Gogglio. “She’s been real blue. All that needs being done, I told Jenny—Jenny’s on my routines for the weekend—all that needs being done is to replace the lost scraps with some new ones, you get to be as old as Miss Benedict, it’s not about the actual things themselves, it’s about hanging on to what you think is yours. Gives a person a sense of belonging to the world and vice versa, you see?” I nodded. I could see that.
Spring fitness was scheduled Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons. It was a class designed for the kids who did not play the “real” spring sports, which were softball, track, or soccer. The class was filled with kids like Eddie Patimkin, who used an inhaler, or Marissa Ruiz, who wore a back brace.
I took spring fitness by choice, because being on teams made me nervous, and Amandine took it because of her shinsplints. The class was supposed to satisfy the state physical fitness requirement, but I don’t know how. We were always doing corny activities like square dancing or obstacle-course hopscotch. Things that didn’t feel like sports at all. Still, I hated it—the damp-towel smell of the gym, the itchy nylon shorts we had to wear, the uncomfortable quiver in my stomach that lingered after the exercise was over. My face always heated up when I sweat, too, and Amandine would make fun of me.
“Wee wee wee, all the way home,” was her joke. “That’s you, Delia. “You get as pink as a little piggy.”
When Mom picked me up early that Tuesday for an orthodontist appointment, I was so happy to be getting out of spring fitness that I forgot to tell Amandine. It wasn’t until I was in the car that it hit me.
“I need to go back in,” I said uneasily. “I forgot something.”
Mom’s cheeks puffed in a show of impatience. “Is it absolutely dire?” she asked.
I thought. “I guess not.”
“Because we’re late already.”
“Then forget it,” I said, biting my lip. I didn’t owe Amandine any explanation. She wasn’t my boss. “Let’s just go. Let’s go.”
For once, I had done something right.
“Everything looks wonderful,” said Dr. Ang. She leaned forward across her desk and smiled from Mom to me and back again. Pretty and serene and a little bit remote, she did not seem to be the type to give compliments. But she was the type who had a passion for her job, and she stared admiringly at the X ray as she slid it to Mom. I could tell Mom did not want to linger over the ghostly imprints of my teeth.
“No, no, no,” Dr. Ang reprimanded. “Look at it.” She turned her attention to me. “You’ve been wearing the appliance for twelve hours a day,
“Funny situation over there.” Mrs. Gogglio’s voice was conversational, inviting me to respond.
I glanced at her. She knew.
“You mean, with that … guy?” I threw and then slackened the line, waiting for her next tug.
“Mmm. Jim.”
“Jin.”
“Right. He lives there, you know. In that guest house or garage, but that’s close as close gets. My friend Nancy Krause takes tickets at the Cineplex, she says they come in every Saturday night. The mother and her beau, and him barely out of some art school in New York City.” Mrs. Gogglio clucked her tongue. “The times we live in.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I said. “Everyone gets along okay.”
“It’s not natural.”
“He’s nice. Nice means a lot,” I added, borrowing her phrase.
Her mouth pursed into a bud of doubt. But now I was glad Mrs. Gogglio knew about the Frightful Fun House. Otherwise, it all might have felt like a dream, something false and unsettling that I had made up in my head.
She changed the subject by telling me a story about poor old Miss Benedict over at Sunrise Assisted, who kept a box of fabric scraps on her bedside table. The weekend duty nurse accidentally had emptied the box on Saturday, and Miss Benedict had sunk into a deep depression.
“I got the call yesterday,” said Mrs. Gogglio. “She’s been real blue. All that needs being done, I told Jenny—Jenny’s on my routines for the weekend—all that needs being done is to replace the lost scraps with some new ones, you get to be as old as Miss Benedict, it’s not about the actual things themselves, it’s about hanging on to what you think is yours. Gives a person a sense of belonging to the world and vice versa, you see?” I nodded. I could see that.
Spring fitness was scheduled Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons. It was a class designed for the kids who did not play the “real” spring sports, which were softball, track, or soccer. The class was filled with kids like Eddie Patimkin, who used an inhaler, or Marissa Ruiz, who wore a back brace.
I took spring fitness by choice, because being on teams made me nervous, and Amandine took it because of her shinsplints. The class was supposed to satisfy the state physical fitness requirement, but I don’t know how. We were always doing corny activities like square dancing or obstacle-course hopscotch. Things that didn’t feel like sports at all. Still, I hated it—the damp-towel smell of the gym, the itchy nylon shorts we had to wear, the uncomfortable quiver in my stomach that lingered after the exercise was over. My face always heated up when I sweat, too, and Amandine would make fun of me.
“Wee wee wee, all the way home,” was her joke. “That’s you, Delia. “You get as pink as a little piggy.”
When Mom picked me up early that Tuesday for an orthodontist appointment, I was so happy to be getting out of spring fitness that I forgot to tell Amandine. It wasn’t until I was in the car that it hit me.
“I need to go back in,” I said uneasily. “I forgot something.”
Mom’s cheeks puffed in a show of impatience. “Is it absolutely dire?” she asked.
I thought. “I guess not.”
“Because we’re late already.”
“Then forget it,” I said, biting my lip. I didn’t owe Amandine any explanation. She wasn’t my boss. “Let’s just go. Let’s go.”
For once, I had done something right.
“Everything looks wonderful,” said Dr. Ang. She leaned forward across her desk and smiled from Mom to me and back again. Pretty and serene and a little bit remote, she did not seem to be the type to give compliments. But she was the type who had a passion for her job, and she stared admiringly at the X ray as she slid it to Mom. I could tell Mom did not want to linger over the ghostly imprints of my teeth.
“No, no, no,” Dr. Ang reprimanded. “Look at it.” She turned her attention to me. “You’ve been wearing the appliance for twelve hours a day,
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