clothes still looked clean, and his black hair was shining in the early sun the way Rose’s did. That big mustache was something to see. He hitched up his pack and fastened a belt around his waist, then messed up my hair with his open palm, as if my hair needed more trouble.
“I thought of something you have no one else does,” he said, walking backward away from me.
“What’s that?” I yelled, even though he was still close.
“Your own hitchhiker,” George said, then turned around and walked away.
A Member of the Wedding
I never could get what was the big deal about being pretty, it all seemed like a bunch of hokum to me. Who had time to think about such things, and who would bother? I knew girls who even had those life-sized decapitated Barbie heads, and they would very concentratedly paint Barbie’s eyelids a shade of blue not seen on a human face since Mooreland’s too brief acquaintance with a town slut (or as my mother called her, man-dependent). And Barbie’s lips would get painted a cheap crayony pink, with lumps and streaks, and it was not many hours after Christmas morning that my toiletry-leaning friends discovered that no matter what one did with Barbie’s hair it turned out creepy and couldn’t be undone. Then there she sat, gathering dust on her cheerful, ruined face and chopped-up vinyl hair and I don’t know why my friends didn’t just get themselves a talking evil clown doll and be done with it.
But my sister was a different story. Rose said Lindy was the prettiest girl she’d ever seen, the prettiest of all their babysitters. I would have liked to say the same but I’d never had a babysitter in my life except Melinda herself, and generally our time together involved pinching (her) and being spun around in the rocking chair (me) until my eyes shook back and forth and I stumbled around the living room like a little drunk.
“Someday,” my brother commented, after seeing me walk directly into a doorframe, “we’re going to shake something permanently loose in there.”
“That’s the hope,” Melinda replied.
Melinda was pretty without meaning to be and without trying. She just couldn’t help it. Her hair was blue-black and her eyes were gray-green with long black lashes and she had the sweetest smile in the world. Never mind that she was made of pure Satan and that our family never had the money for clothes or makeup or Barbie skulls on which to practice. Melinda just was what she was, and the same went for me. (Actually, Melinda was what she was and I was not what I used to be, before she and my brother figured out that if they spun the rocker hard and fast enough, I
couldn’t
get out because of centrifugal force. But I was making the best of what was left of me, which wasn’t much.)
Both Dan and Melinda were in the marching band with the director who they called Mr. M. Mr. M. was in all ways the model of a band director, and by that I mean he could have led an assault on an innocent nation, enslaved its peoples, and had them marching in pinwheels, all in the course of one profoundly hot afternoon. Dan was a drummer — he marched with a snare, but could also play a kit — and Melinda played the clarinet. Dan had a genetic sense of rhythm (so did Dad, so did I) and marched in time as if his feet were machines. In this way the family was divided, as Mom could not keep time if there were a pistol held to the head of one of her beloveds, and Melinda was little better. Lindy couldn’t play the clarinet and march at the same time at all, so she had to choose. Mr. M. helped her choose by smacking the backs of her thighs with his baton when she fell out of step, which meant that for the four years she was in marching band, she fingered the notes and pursed her lips and never made a sound. And still sometimes she got smacked. I tried to feel sorry for her but mostly I just wanted to steal her clarinet case. I didn’t care about the instrument, but the purple velvet inside the case
“I thought of something you have no one else does,” he said, walking backward away from me.
“What’s that?” I yelled, even though he was still close.
“Your own hitchhiker,” George said, then turned around and walked away.
A Member of the Wedding
I never could get what was the big deal about being pretty, it all seemed like a bunch of hokum to me. Who had time to think about such things, and who would bother? I knew girls who even had those life-sized decapitated Barbie heads, and they would very concentratedly paint Barbie’s eyelids a shade of blue not seen on a human face since Mooreland’s too brief acquaintance with a town slut (or as my mother called her, man-dependent). And Barbie’s lips would get painted a cheap crayony pink, with lumps and streaks, and it was not many hours after Christmas morning that my toiletry-leaning friends discovered that no matter what one did with Barbie’s hair it turned out creepy and couldn’t be undone. Then there she sat, gathering dust on her cheerful, ruined face and chopped-up vinyl hair and I don’t know why my friends didn’t just get themselves a talking evil clown doll and be done with it.
But my sister was a different story. Rose said Lindy was the prettiest girl she’d ever seen, the prettiest of all their babysitters. I would have liked to say the same but I’d never had a babysitter in my life except Melinda herself, and generally our time together involved pinching (her) and being spun around in the rocking chair (me) until my eyes shook back and forth and I stumbled around the living room like a little drunk.
“Someday,” my brother commented, after seeing me walk directly into a doorframe, “we’re going to shake something permanently loose in there.”
“That’s the hope,” Melinda replied.
Melinda was pretty without meaning to be and without trying. She just couldn’t help it. Her hair was blue-black and her eyes were gray-green with long black lashes and she had the sweetest smile in the world. Never mind that she was made of pure Satan and that our family never had the money for clothes or makeup or Barbie skulls on which to practice. Melinda just was what she was, and the same went for me. (Actually, Melinda was what she was and I was not what I used to be, before she and my brother figured out that if they spun the rocker hard and fast enough, I
couldn’t
get out because of centrifugal force. But I was making the best of what was left of me, which wasn’t much.)
Both Dan and Melinda were in the marching band with the director who they called Mr. M. Mr. M. was in all ways the model of a band director, and by that I mean he could have led an assault on an innocent nation, enslaved its peoples, and had them marching in pinwheels, all in the course of one profoundly hot afternoon. Dan was a drummer — he marched with a snare, but could also play a kit — and Melinda played the clarinet. Dan had a genetic sense of rhythm (so did Dad, so did I) and marched in time as if his feet were machines. In this way the family was divided, as Mom could not keep time if there were a pistol held to the head of one of her beloveds, and Melinda was little better. Lindy couldn’t play the clarinet and march at the same time at all, so she had to choose. Mr. M. helped her choose by smacking the backs of her thighs with his baton when she fell out of step, which meant that for the four years she was in marching band, she fingered the notes and pursed her lips and never made a sound. And still sometimes she got smacked. I tried to feel sorry for her but mostly I just wanted to steal her clarinet case. I didn’t care about the instrument, but the purple velvet inside the case
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