RiRi’s, which has brown ceiling stains and wall-to-wall.
But the way Coach—Colette—walks through it, her voice hushed, her feet treading so softly, it starts to seem like the whole place is glowing, like the spinning lantern in little Caitlin’s room, casting enchantment everywhere.
“Beautiful,” I say again, my fingers slipping around a curtain pull. “Beautiful.” That’s the word that keeps sliding from my mouth.
“Beautiful, beautiful,” she says, singsongy, as we walk past it all, as I lace my fingers through everything.
“And this is the last of it,” she says, and my feet are nestling in the bedroom carpet, which is deep, rich. It’s a quiet, caramely space, like a nice hotel room where everything feels soothing and featureless.
But then I think of how she chose it all, Coach—Colette—with fabric swatches, tile samples, paging endlessly through those thick magazines you see fanned on tables at the white-walled boutiques on Honeycutt Drive. From the wrought-iron chandelier, its arms looping up, nearly stroking the ceiling, to the sheer curtains dangling, twisting around the drooping spider plant. Everything touching everything else.
She made it up inside her head, and he made it real for her.
It starts to seem like so much more, swelling before my eyes. Like everything is throbbing lightly, and if you rested your forehead against it, you could feel its heart beating.
“This is my favorite room,” I say.
She looks at me, then looks around, like she’s already forgotten all of it. Like she hasn’t noticed any of it in years, since she tacked it together on her bulletin board. My House.
Our eyes float to the creampuff of a bed, its linen whipped up high. The princess and the pea.
Wearily, she sinks down into it, and everything seems to puff up, tiny cream-colored pillows scattering to the corners, the carpet.
“All these pillows,” she says. “Every morning I put them all back. He’s already at the office by six and I’m here, putting all these little pillows, these hundreds of pillows, back on the bed.”
I feel my foot sink into one of them as I stumble toward her. I’ve never seen so many pillows, every shade of brown, from pale honey to something the color of chicory, like the French teacher drinks every day at lunch.
She takes my hand and sets it on the duvet, soft as spun air. Her touch, a coach’s touch, Feel this. Now.
“Lie down,” she says. “Get under it.”
My bare legs cocooned under the filmy duvet, I want to kick them in circles. The bed is a tremendous cream-filled pillow, no, air-filled cream, and the tickling in my belly, unbearable.
“Pretend you’re me,” she says. I can barely see her over the frothy mound.
And it happens just like that.
A feeling of sinking, a falling deep inside.
And I’m her.
And this is my house, and Matt French is my husband, tallying columns all day, working late into the night for me, for me.
And here I am, my tight, perfect body, my pretty, perfect face, and nothing could ever be wrong with me, or my life, not even the sorrow that is plainly right there in the center of it. Oh, Colette, it’s right there in the center of you, and some kind of despair too. Colette—
—that silk sucking into my mouth, the weight of it now, and I can’t catch my breath, my breath, my breath.
Everything’s changing in me.
I guess I’d been waiting forever, my palm raised. Waiting for someone to take my girl body and turn it out, steel me from the inside, make things matter for me, like never before.
Like love can.
8
Noonish, at the Guard recruitment table, we’re watching the bet unfold.
All week, Beth has kept Sarge Will in her sights, determined to take RiRi down. They both agreed: whoever can get him to do a below-the-waist touch.
Beth works those school corridors like a gunslinger, spurred boots click-clacking. They lip over her knees, tall and shiny, and you’re not supposed to wear boots with your cheer
But the way Coach—Colette—walks through it, her voice hushed, her feet treading so softly, it starts to seem like the whole place is glowing, like the spinning lantern in little Caitlin’s room, casting enchantment everywhere.
“Beautiful,” I say again, my fingers slipping around a curtain pull. “Beautiful.” That’s the word that keeps sliding from my mouth.
“Beautiful, beautiful,” she says, singsongy, as we walk past it all, as I lace my fingers through everything.
“And this is the last of it,” she says, and my feet are nestling in the bedroom carpet, which is deep, rich. It’s a quiet, caramely space, like a nice hotel room where everything feels soothing and featureless.
But then I think of how she chose it all, Coach—Colette—with fabric swatches, tile samples, paging endlessly through those thick magazines you see fanned on tables at the white-walled boutiques on Honeycutt Drive. From the wrought-iron chandelier, its arms looping up, nearly stroking the ceiling, to the sheer curtains dangling, twisting around the drooping spider plant. Everything touching everything else.
She made it up inside her head, and he made it real for her.
It starts to seem like so much more, swelling before my eyes. Like everything is throbbing lightly, and if you rested your forehead against it, you could feel its heart beating.
“This is my favorite room,” I say.
She looks at me, then looks around, like she’s already forgotten all of it. Like she hasn’t noticed any of it in years, since she tacked it together on her bulletin board. My House.
Our eyes float to the creampuff of a bed, its linen whipped up high. The princess and the pea.
Wearily, she sinks down into it, and everything seems to puff up, tiny cream-colored pillows scattering to the corners, the carpet.
“All these pillows,” she says. “Every morning I put them all back. He’s already at the office by six and I’m here, putting all these little pillows, these hundreds of pillows, back on the bed.”
I feel my foot sink into one of them as I stumble toward her. I’ve never seen so many pillows, every shade of brown, from pale honey to something the color of chicory, like the French teacher drinks every day at lunch.
She takes my hand and sets it on the duvet, soft as spun air. Her touch, a coach’s touch, Feel this. Now.
“Lie down,” she says. “Get under it.”
My bare legs cocooned under the filmy duvet, I want to kick them in circles. The bed is a tremendous cream-filled pillow, no, air-filled cream, and the tickling in my belly, unbearable.
“Pretend you’re me,” she says. I can barely see her over the frothy mound.
And it happens just like that.
A feeling of sinking, a falling deep inside.
And I’m her.
And this is my house, and Matt French is my husband, tallying columns all day, working late into the night for me, for me.
And here I am, my tight, perfect body, my pretty, perfect face, and nothing could ever be wrong with me, or my life, not even the sorrow that is plainly right there in the center of it. Oh, Colette, it’s right there in the center of you, and some kind of despair too. Colette—
—that silk sucking into my mouth, the weight of it now, and I can’t catch my breath, my breath, my breath.
Everything’s changing in me.
I guess I’d been waiting forever, my palm raised. Waiting for someone to take my girl body and turn it out, steel me from the inside, make things matter for me, like never before.
Like love can.
8
Noonish, at the Guard recruitment table, we’re watching the bet unfold.
All week, Beth has kept Sarge Will in her sights, determined to take RiRi down. They both agreed: whoever can get him to do a below-the-waist touch.
Beth works those school corridors like a gunslinger, spurred boots click-clacking. They lip over her knees, tall and shiny, and you’re not supposed to wear boots with your cheer
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