invisible, but still spreading along the length of the island that was us. I only hoped Julian could mend it. Or give me something to swim towards should I find myself splintered off in strange waters.
Julian. Frock. I had to get ready.
CHAPTER 5
seeing double
I could barely move, let alone breathe, by the time I’d squeezed, squinched, and prodded myself into the Style Child ensemble. I must have looked like a preview for yet another Mission: Impossible in the process, but fortunately no one was watching but me. I zipped myself up in a coverall coat before stepping out the door: There was no way my parents would buy the movies-with-Gwyn story if they saw this outfit.
My mother stared at me a long moment with a half-quizzical, half-knowing look on her face. Did my own read night-of-debauchery-and-potential-liplocking ahead? Oh, no—it was the coat. It had to be the coat that’d tipped her off.
—What is it? I said nervously.
—It’s just that. I don’t know. You’re wearing a bindi. I’m just a little surprised.
Frock! She was definitely on to me.
—That Gwyn is such a good influence on you, she said. Then she brushed my hair out of my eyes, ruining an hour’s worth of carefully choreographed facial coverage.
—You look just beautiful, she smiled.—You shouldn’t hide your face.
—What’s so great about my face?
—Beta, when you insult yourself you insult me.
She tried to look cross, but only half meant it.
—No, I don’t.
—So—you’re beautiful. Now say it.
—You’re beautiful, I said. She gave me an and you’re impossible look, but she was still smiling.
—Oh go on. Have a good time. I love you.
—Love you, too, Ma, I said, air-kissing her to leave my gloss intact.
She kept watching from the screen door as my father and I swapped places and I got in the driver’s seat, her hand frozen in a Queen of England salute, as if I were going far far away, to a place from where no one would ever be able to retrieve me. She’d been doing this since I started high school. And tonight part of me hoped she was right. And I tried to ignore the other part, the part that wanted to run back to her, leap into her open arms and never leave them.
The sweat was spouting down my face the second I got behind the wheel.
—Don’t forget to check all the mirrors, my father said.
Don’t worry. I was checking them. Did I have too much makeup on? Now, in real daylight, I looked far faker than I’d intended. My dad started looking at me funny, too, which only made the base pour down harder.
—What? I said.
—I don’t know, he said.—It’s just, you look so uncomfortable. Why don’t you take off your coat? Why are you even wearing a coat in this heat?
—I’m really cold.
—Look at you, you’re sweating. How can you be cold?
—I just am!
—How?
—It’s a woman thing, I said.
He clammed up, lifting his hands as if to say sorry I went there. I used his shyness mercilessly against him.
I was already feeling thoroughly exhausted and he tense and sheepish and we hadn’t even exited the driveway yet.
I turned the key and checked for my blind spot, which I was convinced was a moving thing, tracking me just about everywhere I went from every conceivable angle, and not necessarily limited to the automotive sphere. Then we were off like a turd of hurdles, my spindly heels tripping me off the gas and brakes in turn.
As we curved up the road and out to the main street, I started to look for a sign from the gods that everything was going to be okay. I decided red was good, and was encouraged by several auspicious sightings: a kid’s wagon in a driveway, a brick house, a redskirted woman unloading groceries from her trunk, and scores of American flags star-spangling the rooftops. Hinduism had its advantages; with its many deities there was bound to be one who would be in the office.
By the time I was actually careening down the grim aisle of the dim mall, my feet were throbbing and I was
Julian. Frock. I had to get ready.
CHAPTER 5
seeing double
I could barely move, let alone breathe, by the time I’d squeezed, squinched, and prodded myself into the Style Child ensemble. I must have looked like a preview for yet another Mission: Impossible in the process, but fortunately no one was watching but me. I zipped myself up in a coverall coat before stepping out the door: There was no way my parents would buy the movies-with-Gwyn story if they saw this outfit.
My mother stared at me a long moment with a half-quizzical, half-knowing look on her face. Did my own read night-of-debauchery-and-potential-liplocking ahead? Oh, no—it was the coat. It had to be the coat that’d tipped her off.
—What is it? I said nervously.
—It’s just that. I don’t know. You’re wearing a bindi. I’m just a little surprised.
Frock! She was definitely on to me.
—That Gwyn is such a good influence on you, she said. Then she brushed my hair out of my eyes, ruining an hour’s worth of carefully choreographed facial coverage.
—You look just beautiful, she smiled.—You shouldn’t hide your face.
—What’s so great about my face?
—Beta, when you insult yourself you insult me.
She tried to look cross, but only half meant it.
—No, I don’t.
—So—you’re beautiful. Now say it.
—You’re beautiful, I said. She gave me an and you’re impossible look, but she was still smiling.
—Oh go on. Have a good time. I love you.
—Love you, too, Ma, I said, air-kissing her to leave my gloss intact.
She kept watching from the screen door as my father and I swapped places and I got in the driver’s seat, her hand frozen in a Queen of England salute, as if I were going far far away, to a place from where no one would ever be able to retrieve me. She’d been doing this since I started high school. And tonight part of me hoped she was right. And I tried to ignore the other part, the part that wanted to run back to her, leap into her open arms and never leave them.
The sweat was spouting down my face the second I got behind the wheel.
—Don’t forget to check all the mirrors, my father said.
Don’t worry. I was checking them. Did I have too much makeup on? Now, in real daylight, I looked far faker than I’d intended. My dad started looking at me funny, too, which only made the base pour down harder.
—What? I said.
—I don’t know, he said.—It’s just, you look so uncomfortable. Why don’t you take off your coat? Why are you even wearing a coat in this heat?
—I’m really cold.
—Look at you, you’re sweating. How can you be cold?
—I just am!
—How?
—It’s a woman thing, I said.
He clammed up, lifting his hands as if to say sorry I went there. I used his shyness mercilessly against him.
I was already feeling thoroughly exhausted and he tense and sheepish and we hadn’t even exited the driveway yet.
I turned the key and checked for my blind spot, which I was convinced was a moving thing, tracking me just about everywhere I went from every conceivable angle, and not necessarily limited to the automotive sphere. Then we were off like a turd of hurdles, my spindly heels tripping me off the gas and brakes in turn.
As we curved up the road and out to the main street, I started to look for a sign from the gods that everything was going to be okay. I decided red was good, and was encouraged by several auspicious sightings: a kid’s wagon in a driveway, a brick house, a redskirted woman unloading groceries from her trunk, and scores of American flags star-spangling the rooftops. Hinduism had its advantages; with its many deities there was bound to be one who would be in the office.
By the time I was actually careening down the grim aisle of the dim mall, my feet were throbbing and I was
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