who rented it before us. I found it first and it’s mine. Besides, Camille’s talking like she has a secret, low and choked, like she does when she’s in trouble and worried about it.
I turn on the lamp.
“Mind your own business, Baby-Know-It-All.”
Camille climbs back into bed and curls up on her side. Her small hands clutch the sheet.
“What are you hiding?” I stand up and look behind the dresser. “What is it?”
“Your bloody underpants.”
I stare at her.
“Idiots stare,” Camille says. “Bennie Munger.”
Bennie Munger is the retarded boy who lives down the street.
Soon my mouth will hang open, and I’ll spit when I talk. “You will,” Camille says. “Just like Bennie Munger.
“I’m doing you a favor,” she says, but she’s crying. Not the whole-body sobs I cry, but the pretty, quiet tears. “We wouldn’t want Mom to know, would we?” she says. “We wouldn’t want her to find them.”
“They’re not mine.”
“Yes, they are. You’re a woman now, Chloe. You’re all grown up.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You can’t hide from it. There’s no escaping it. It finds you no matter what.”
“Liar!”
“It’s true. Our Chloe is a woman. Welcome to the club.” Camille sniffs and wipes under her nose with the edge of the sheet.
“You’re a liar,” I say.
“We’ll see.”
“I’m telling Mom. Then we’ll see. We’ll see who’s all grown up.”
“Mom will yell.”
“At you. They’re
your
underpants.”
She jumps onto my bed and pins me to the mattress with her arm on my throat.
“Never tell, never tell, never tell.” She chants our voodoo. I feel a tear drop on my face and run into my ear.
“They’re
your
underpants,” I say, but my voice is weak and I can feel the fight drain out of me. I want to know. I’m ready to admit to anything so long as Camille’ll tell me about her body’s change. Our mother warned us about this event just weeks ago:
“You two are growing up,” she said, turning away from the sink, where she was washing the dinner dishes. “No doubt about that.” She shook her head, then looked down at me and Camille, still sitting at the table. “You know that, I bet. Jesus, Camille’s got boobs.” Our mother laughed a little and Camille frowned and started saying how she didn’t like the word
boobs,
and could we please call them something else, when our mother said, “Yes, OK, breasts. Camille, you’re growing real fast. I think I was fourteen before I had anything to show for it.
“And you’re almost eleven now, Chloe-girl. You want to show us what you got? See if maybe it’s time for a bra?” I shook my head and felt my cheeks heat up. Our mother reached down and stretched the T-shirt I was wearing tight across my chest. “Almost,” she said. “A couple more months.” She let go of my shirt and reached for her cigarettes. She lit one and blew the smoke out in a long cloud over our heads. “Hmm,” she said, eyeing me and Camille through the smoke. “You got your period yet, Cammy?”
Camille hates her nickname, but our mother insists on it half the time. She also hates talking about her boobs, unless it’s to flaunt them at me.
Camille sank lower in her chair. I heard her feet tap on the linoleum floor, once, twice, three times. “No, I’m not that grown yet.”
Our mother thought about this, tilting her head to one side and considering Camille from that angle. She took another drag off her cigarette and flicked the ash into the sink. “You’d tell me though, wouldn’t you, girl?” She blew smoke rings at Camille. “Wouldn’t you, hon?”
Camille didn’t say anything. She kept looking at the tabletop, turning her fork in circles.
“Of course, you’d have to. I mean, you’ll need some things.” She put her cigarette down on the edge of the sink and walked over to us. “It’s just that I started mine by this time. I’m just wondering is all, Cammy.”
“I won’t tell you if you keep
I turn on the lamp.
“Mind your own business, Baby-Know-It-All.”
Camille climbs back into bed and curls up on her side. Her small hands clutch the sheet.
“What are you hiding?” I stand up and look behind the dresser. “What is it?”
“Your bloody underpants.”
I stare at her.
“Idiots stare,” Camille says. “Bennie Munger.”
Bennie Munger is the retarded boy who lives down the street.
Soon my mouth will hang open, and I’ll spit when I talk. “You will,” Camille says. “Just like Bennie Munger.
“I’m doing you a favor,” she says, but she’s crying. Not the whole-body sobs I cry, but the pretty, quiet tears. “We wouldn’t want Mom to know, would we?” she says. “We wouldn’t want her to find them.”
“They’re not mine.”
“Yes, they are. You’re a woman now, Chloe. You’re all grown up.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You can’t hide from it. There’s no escaping it. It finds you no matter what.”
“Liar!”
“It’s true. Our Chloe is a woman. Welcome to the club.” Camille sniffs and wipes under her nose with the edge of the sheet.
“You’re a liar,” I say.
“We’ll see.”
“I’m telling Mom. Then we’ll see. We’ll see who’s all grown up.”
“Mom will yell.”
“At you. They’re
your
underpants.”
She jumps onto my bed and pins me to the mattress with her arm on my throat.
“Never tell, never tell, never tell.” She chants our voodoo. I feel a tear drop on my face and run into my ear.
“They’re
your
underpants,” I say, but my voice is weak and I can feel the fight drain out of me. I want to know. I’m ready to admit to anything so long as Camille’ll tell me about her body’s change. Our mother warned us about this event just weeks ago:
“You two are growing up,” she said, turning away from the sink, where she was washing the dinner dishes. “No doubt about that.” She shook her head, then looked down at me and Camille, still sitting at the table. “You know that, I bet. Jesus, Camille’s got boobs.” Our mother laughed a little and Camille frowned and started saying how she didn’t like the word
boobs,
and could we please call them something else, when our mother said, “Yes, OK, breasts. Camille, you’re growing real fast. I think I was fourteen before I had anything to show for it.
“And you’re almost eleven now, Chloe-girl. You want to show us what you got? See if maybe it’s time for a bra?” I shook my head and felt my cheeks heat up. Our mother reached down and stretched the T-shirt I was wearing tight across my chest. “Almost,” she said. “A couple more months.” She let go of my shirt and reached for her cigarettes. She lit one and blew the smoke out in a long cloud over our heads. “Hmm,” she said, eyeing me and Camille through the smoke. “You got your period yet, Cammy?”
Camille hates her nickname, but our mother insists on it half the time. She also hates talking about her boobs, unless it’s to flaunt them at me.
Camille sank lower in her chair. I heard her feet tap on the linoleum floor, once, twice, three times. “No, I’m not that grown yet.”
Our mother thought about this, tilting her head to one side and considering Camille from that angle. She took another drag off her cigarette and flicked the ash into the sink. “You’d tell me though, wouldn’t you, girl?” She blew smoke rings at Camille. “Wouldn’t you, hon?”
Camille didn’t say anything. She kept looking at the tabletop, turning her fork in circles.
“Of course, you’d have to. I mean, you’ll need some things.” She put her cigarette down on the edge of the sink and walked over to us. “It’s just that I started mine by this time. I’m just wondering is all, Cammy.”
“I won’t tell you if you keep
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