What Every Girl (except me) Knows by Nora Raleigh Baskin Page A

frothing our mouths full of toothpaste and making faces in the mirror.
    Taylor used the toilet first while I waited in her room, carefully sitting on the bed, afraid to pull down the covers until I saw Taylor do it.
    “Your turn,” Taylor said when she came into the room.
    I got up and went into the bathroom. When I finished and came out, Taylor was hanging upside down. She was lying across the bed on her back and her head was nearly touching the floor, her hair spread out loosely like it was floating underwater.
    “Look at this,” she called. She covered the top half of her head, her eyes and nose, with her hand. “Pretend this is right-side up and my chin is the top of my head.”
    It took me a while to get what she was doing. Taylor kept talking, reciting the Gettysburg Address, exaggerating her mouth movements. Finally her face started to look like a long, bald head with no eyes and a crooked mouth. It looked so bizarre, then so real. If you looked at it long enough your mind adjusted to the optical illusion and made it appear a correct face, right-side up.
    “You try it,” Taylor insisted.
    We took turns hanging over the beds and making each other laugh. We did it at the same time, while the blood weighed down our heads and made us dizzy.
    “You two better not still be awake!” Mrs. Tyler called out from somewhere in the house.
    We quickly flipped back, and I dove under the covers. Taylor got up to shut out the light. She kept her door open just a little so that a shaft of light from the hall lay across her floor. I could hear a shower running from the bathroom in the master bedroom.
    Taylor and I talked about school, about the other kids, about The Ones, and about Amber, who did finally come to school in new platform sneakers, not black but red.
    Then the water shut off, and a few minutes later Mrs. Tyler appeared at the door. She wore a white terry cloth bathrobe, long to the floor. A white towel was turbaned on top of her head. She looked like a queen. (I silently noted to myself that I would have to add this to my list. I swore to myself that one day I would own a bathrobe like that.) She came into the room and sat at the end of Taylor’s bed.
    “Try and get a good night’s sleep,” she told Taylor. She patted Taylor’s feet through the thick blankets.
    “We will,” Taylor answered.
    Mrs. Tyler kissed her daughter on the top of her head and then stood up. She paused in the doorway, backlit by the hall light, creating a tall, graceful silhouette.
    “Good night, Taylor,” she called softly.
    “Good night, Mommy,” Taylor said.
    “Good night, Gabby.”
    “Good night, Mrs. Tyler.”
    And she left. Her footsteps padded away from our door.
    I was seized with a pang of jealousy that I had never felt so strongly before. It wasn’t as much that Taylor said “Good night, Mommy ” as what I had said: “Good night, Mrs. Tyler .”
    Had I ever said “Good night, Mommy” to anyone?
    It reminded me of my dream, the one I had about Taylor’s house. The mother’s voice calling out but not to me. In my dream I had been crying, but now, awake, I could not.
    I lay quiet, but I didn’t fall asleep. Some time passed in the darkness. I heard Taylor crying softly.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were sleeping,” Taylor said.
    “No, I’m awake. What’s wrong?” I pushed myself up and crossed my legs.
    “I miss my father,” Taylor confessed. She remained lying down, staring up at the ceiling while she spoke. “I know I always say how happy I am that my mom is happy and about Richard and everything…but I miss my dad so much.”
    I tried to think of what I could say to comfort her. After all, I of all people, should be able to understand.
    “I know it’s hard,” I said.
    “I always miss him at night. He used to tell me stories before I went to bed.”
    “My dad does that, too,” I said. As I thought of it, I started feeling homesick.
    Taylor wasn’t really listening. It