older, and because of that, smarter.
“We’ll never be equals,” she says.
At thirteen she’s got a mind of her own. I heard our mother say that about her.
Camille says, “You’ll always be running to catch up to me.”
When I mention God knowing everything we do to my mother, she says, “That’s some imagination, Chloe-girl. That’s really something. What a thing to turn on your mother.”
Then she thinks about it and says, “You know, I think you’re right. Something that off the wall’s got to be true. I guess I better think twice before I eat those grapes in the supermarket. Money first, then nibble. Huh, Chloe? You think I should think twice?”
Her laugh gets caught in her throat. “You think God knows where your father is? I’d love back pay.”
She wears her black dress with the silver bows at the waist and leaves us with a bowl of popcorn and Pepsi and the TV until the houses and the street are quiet, then she comes home, falling on the steps and laughing and saying, “Shh . . . my girls . . .” And there’s a man’s voice, crashing like thunder, laughing with her.
They make kissing-smacking sounds while Camille and I scrunch down under our covers. And in the morning his car is still in the driveway.
This, I think, is one of the things God knows about that our mother wishes He didn’t. In the morning, our mother shows the man to the door then comes into the kitchen bundled in her bathrobe and white in the face, even with her makeup still on. She sits down at the table and says, “Get me a cup of coffee, will you, Camille?” Then she looks at me, in that quiet way of hers. Her eyes get small and the lines under them deepen. “How about that, Chloe?” she says. “You think your mother might have a screw loose?” She tries to light a cigarette but her hands shake and she drops the match. “I think I might. Yeah. That would explain some of the things I do.
“I hope God’s given the two of you a little more sense than He gave me.”
She looks at Camille, sipping her orange juice. “I worry about you, girlie-girl. A train won’t take you where you want to go.”
Faith
O ur second one-to-one, he’s waiting for me. The chairs are arranged so that two face each other, with enough room between them an elephant could pass through and fart and we wouldn’t hear it. I sit down, in my hospital greens, and really look at him. It’s possible he could change my life. I haven’t forgotten the way he jumped under my skin, pushed at my soft spots so that I left feeling like a car wreck. No one’s ever done that before, gone after me fast and furious and got a hit.
Part of me wants to run, but even I know I wouldn’t get far.
He tells me I’m looking better.
My cheeks have filled out some and I’ve graduated from tissue paper to cotton the color of puke.
“You brushed your hair,” I say. I liked it better when it flew away from his head like a scream.
In the week since I’ve seen him I forgot a lot of details, including the fact that he wears glasses and has a nose a bird could build a nest on. But the hair, I remembered.
“So did you.”
“Yeah. They let me have a brush today. A loaner.” They don’t know about lice here. How easy it is to give each other bugs and infections.
By next week, he says, I could have enough points to buy my own.
“Maybe.”
I don’t like the point system, that someone else decides the worth of every action and reaction. In a game like this, it’s easy for the other side to always be ahead. I told the nurses that. I said, “There’s no winning when you’re the underdog.” They said, “You know the rules,” but gave me enough toothpaste to see me through the day, to try and tempt my participation with a taste of the rewards. But I’m not that easy.
“What do you want to talk about today?”
Like he doesn’t already have it planned.
“Don’t you know?” I ask him.
“I only know what I want to talk about, and we’ll get to
“We’ll never be equals,” she says.
At thirteen she’s got a mind of her own. I heard our mother say that about her.
Camille says, “You’ll always be running to catch up to me.”
When I mention God knowing everything we do to my mother, she says, “That’s some imagination, Chloe-girl. That’s really something. What a thing to turn on your mother.”
Then she thinks about it and says, “You know, I think you’re right. Something that off the wall’s got to be true. I guess I better think twice before I eat those grapes in the supermarket. Money first, then nibble. Huh, Chloe? You think I should think twice?”
Her laugh gets caught in her throat. “You think God knows where your father is? I’d love back pay.”
She wears her black dress with the silver bows at the waist and leaves us with a bowl of popcorn and Pepsi and the TV until the houses and the street are quiet, then she comes home, falling on the steps and laughing and saying, “Shh . . . my girls . . .” And there’s a man’s voice, crashing like thunder, laughing with her.
They make kissing-smacking sounds while Camille and I scrunch down under our covers. And in the morning his car is still in the driveway.
This, I think, is one of the things God knows about that our mother wishes He didn’t. In the morning, our mother shows the man to the door then comes into the kitchen bundled in her bathrobe and white in the face, even with her makeup still on. She sits down at the table and says, “Get me a cup of coffee, will you, Camille?” Then she looks at me, in that quiet way of hers. Her eyes get small and the lines under them deepen. “How about that, Chloe?” she says. “You think your mother might have a screw loose?” She tries to light a cigarette but her hands shake and she drops the match. “I think I might. Yeah. That would explain some of the things I do.
“I hope God’s given the two of you a little more sense than He gave me.”
She looks at Camille, sipping her orange juice. “I worry about you, girlie-girl. A train won’t take you where you want to go.”
Faith
O ur second one-to-one, he’s waiting for me. The chairs are arranged so that two face each other, with enough room between them an elephant could pass through and fart and we wouldn’t hear it. I sit down, in my hospital greens, and really look at him. It’s possible he could change my life. I haven’t forgotten the way he jumped under my skin, pushed at my soft spots so that I left feeling like a car wreck. No one’s ever done that before, gone after me fast and furious and got a hit.
Part of me wants to run, but even I know I wouldn’t get far.
He tells me I’m looking better.
My cheeks have filled out some and I’ve graduated from tissue paper to cotton the color of puke.
“You brushed your hair,” I say. I liked it better when it flew away from his head like a scream.
In the week since I’ve seen him I forgot a lot of details, including the fact that he wears glasses and has a nose a bird could build a nest on. But the hair, I remembered.
“So did you.”
“Yeah. They let me have a brush today. A loaner.” They don’t know about lice here. How easy it is to give each other bugs and infections.
By next week, he says, I could have enough points to buy my own.
“Maybe.”
I don’t like the point system, that someone else decides the worth of every action and reaction. In a game like this, it’s easy for the other side to always be ahead. I told the nurses that. I said, “There’s no winning when you’re the underdog.” They said, “You know the rules,” but gave me enough toothpaste to see me through the day, to try and tempt my participation with a taste of the rewards. But I’m not that easy.
“What do you want to talk about today?”
Like he doesn’t already have it planned.
“Don’t you know?” I ask him.
“I only know what I want to talk about, and we’ll get to
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