He’s wearing a Bauhaus T-shirt with blue
jeans and Converse sneakers and his car’s dirty, but in a college student kind of
way with books and magazines and papers. Best of all, the camp counselor has a guitar
case in the back, and in that way she has, Toy suggests that they go park by the lake
and play his guitar.
Now is Toy’s favorite part of the story. “It’s the dress,” she reprises. At an isolated
bus stop, cast in miniature against a background of dark green pines, in a black dress,
squinting at oncoming traffic, Toy is a skinny, third-grade girl all grown up. The
camp counselor takes her to the lake and teaches her chords on the guitar. Everything
glitters in the strong sunlight and when she closes her eyes and lies back against
the grass, she feels his hand brushing the side of her cheek. And when she opens her
eyes, he’s looking down at her with a kind of wonder. He kisses her in a way that’s
tender and full of promise.
Toy squints at me in the mirror. I’ve dropped my shoulders, straightened my back and
thrust my chest forward. I can feel the camp counselor’s hand on the side of my cheek.
My eyes are dropping closed and I can feel his breath next to my mouth. I put my hand
out on the countertop.
In the mirror Toy is working on her lipstick. With the chords the camp counselor taught
her, she says, she can play three new songs on the guitar.
mom’s boyfriends
“It’s nice you have a friend,” my mom says. She comes home like a tourist. She changes
her clothes and leaves. She doesn’t ask where I was or where I’m going or who I’m
with. She wants me to rinse the dishes before they go in the dishwasher. She wants
me to take off my shoes before I come in the house. Sometimes she brings a man home
and he waits in the kitchen while she changes her clothes. He’s an Anthony or a Glenn.
I’m polite. I stand with my hands by my side.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. We’re in the kitchen where Joey liked to take off my shirt
and kiss my chest. I’m making a bowl of cereal and Anthony is reaching out to shake
my hand.
“Nice to meet you,” I say again.
get out of the suburbs as fast as you can
Toy and I wear each other’s clothes. I wear hers and roll up the sleeves. She wears
mine and they look like doll’s clothes on her. We buy dresses and share them. We shop
at every thrift store in Portland. We take the bus to the east side, to the Salvation
Army on Hawthorne or the Goodwill on Division. We’re looking for the perfect dress,
the one that will transform us.
And the city. The city! Only a bus ride away and full of possibilities. We get dressed
up and do our makeup. We go downtown and stand around.
I belong here, I tell Toy. I’m hungry for every city block. Every brick building.
Every crowded intersection. Electric. I feel brand new. My hair is shaggy and getting
longer and I wear the wingtips with dresses from the forties and old-man cardigans.
A broken leather belt knotted around my waist. Toy wears tunics over skinny jeans
with high heels and thick socks.
“The city will transform us,” I explain. “We’ll never be alone.”
But Toy’s not alone. She has Seth. “And the camp counselor,” she adds.
“He could come with us,” I say. Sometimes about one and sometimes about the other.
“They’re busy,” Toy says. And I know what she means. She means they’re only interested
in her.
Sometimes, after I’ve gone home, one of them will pick up Toy and they’ll go out.
“Seth took me to his apartment,” Toy will say the next morning, or she’ll say something
about the camp counselor, the way he holds her and how it makes her feel like it’s
only the two of them in the whole world.
I don’t know what to say. Sometimes I forget about the city. Sometimes I want what
Toy has. My life will never compare to Toy’s. I feel sick with a fever of want.
the boys skate around us
In the
jeans and Converse sneakers and his car’s dirty, but in a college student kind of
way with books and magazines and papers. Best of all, the camp counselor has a guitar
case in the back, and in that way she has, Toy suggests that they go park by the lake
and play his guitar.
Now is Toy’s favorite part of the story. “It’s the dress,” she reprises. At an isolated
bus stop, cast in miniature against a background of dark green pines, in a black dress,
squinting at oncoming traffic, Toy is a skinny, third-grade girl all grown up. The
camp counselor takes her to the lake and teaches her chords on the guitar. Everything
glitters in the strong sunlight and when she closes her eyes and lies back against
the grass, she feels his hand brushing the side of her cheek. And when she opens her
eyes, he’s looking down at her with a kind of wonder. He kisses her in a way that’s
tender and full of promise.
Toy squints at me in the mirror. I’ve dropped my shoulders, straightened my back and
thrust my chest forward. I can feel the camp counselor’s hand on the side of my cheek.
My eyes are dropping closed and I can feel his breath next to my mouth. I put my hand
out on the countertop.
In the mirror Toy is working on her lipstick. With the chords the camp counselor taught
her, she says, she can play three new songs on the guitar.
mom’s boyfriends
“It’s nice you have a friend,” my mom says. She comes home like a tourist. She changes
her clothes and leaves. She doesn’t ask where I was or where I’m going or who I’m
with. She wants me to rinse the dishes before they go in the dishwasher. She wants
me to take off my shoes before I come in the house. Sometimes she brings a man home
and he waits in the kitchen while she changes her clothes. He’s an Anthony or a Glenn.
I’m polite. I stand with my hands by my side.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. We’re in the kitchen where Joey liked to take off my shirt
and kiss my chest. I’m making a bowl of cereal and Anthony is reaching out to shake
my hand.
“Nice to meet you,” I say again.
get out of the suburbs as fast as you can
Toy and I wear each other’s clothes. I wear hers and roll up the sleeves. She wears
mine and they look like doll’s clothes on her. We buy dresses and share them. We shop
at every thrift store in Portland. We take the bus to the east side, to the Salvation
Army on Hawthorne or the Goodwill on Division. We’re looking for the perfect dress,
the one that will transform us.
And the city. The city! Only a bus ride away and full of possibilities. We get dressed
up and do our makeup. We go downtown and stand around.
I belong here, I tell Toy. I’m hungry for every city block. Every brick building.
Every crowded intersection. Electric. I feel brand new. My hair is shaggy and getting
longer and I wear the wingtips with dresses from the forties and old-man cardigans.
A broken leather belt knotted around my waist. Toy wears tunics over skinny jeans
with high heels and thick socks.
“The city will transform us,” I explain. “We’ll never be alone.”
But Toy’s not alone. She has Seth. “And the camp counselor,” she adds.
“He could come with us,” I say. Sometimes about one and sometimes about the other.
“They’re busy,” Toy says. And I know what she means. She means they’re only interested
in her.
Sometimes, after I’ve gone home, one of them will pick up Toy and they’ll go out.
“Seth took me to his apartment,” Toy will say the next morning, or she’ll say something
about the camp counselor, the way he holds her and how it makes her feel like it’s
only the two of them in the whole world.
I don’t know what to say. Sometimes I forget about the city. Sometimes I want what
Toy has. My life will never compare to Toy’s. I feel sick with a fever of want.
the boys skate around us
In the
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