her jacket. She asks me to fix her eyeliner smudge because her fake nails are too long—and as I’m doing it, she grumbles at my loose jeans and bulky sweatshirt, “Like my fucking grandmother,” she moans. I tell her they’re the tightest pants I have, which seems to be an acceptable response because she backs off.
When we arrive it’s as if Jasmyn suddenly has cozy sponges on her feet. She bounces in the door, flipping her head back and laughing hysterically as if I just told her the funniest joke. Everyone in the bar turns to look at us and she pretends she’s all embarrassed, puts her hand gracefully up to her mouth as if to cover her vulgarly exposed teeth. Her entrance is spectacular, and I don’t tell her I see her practising in the mirror late at night. “I’m gonna be an actress,” she says all the time, “a fuckin’ star.”
Dan gives us beers and a group of older regulars immediately call us over to the corner pool table. Most of the men are Italian, standing around smoking cigarettes, hairy stomachs popping through buttons sewed on again and again by dutiful fingers. Those same fingers that tap on the Virgin Mary’s porcelain head in the front window, waiting for their husbands to come home. The way I’ve seen Carla’s mom do. Jasmyn flirts, sticks her ass so high in the air you can see the edge of her underwear when she aims her cue. As she’s waiting her turn, I see her rub her fingers up and down the cue all erotic-like, then press it tight up against her crotch. I laugh and pretend I’m having a good time, but really all I’m thinking about is my pregnancy. And all I want to do is go home, go to bed, and stop my mind from thinking.
The men can’t take their eyes off Jasmyn. Within an hour, Jasmyn’s drinks line the bar ledge like trophies. She offers me one of her Singapore Slings, all proud as if I’m the ugly duckling under her wing. I take it and drink it like it’s a shot, slamming it down on the counter when I’m done, and the men around me cheer and buy me another. They start crowding around me, fat stomachs rubbing against me, thinking they’re going to get some action, but I tell most of them straight up I think they’re losers, so they back off. I feel sorry for one guy though, who seems pretty nice, so I don’t mind when he sits beside me at the bar, telling me about how bad his marriage is and how I remind him of his daughter, his sweet daughter. He says he hasn’t seen her in three years and tells me all the things he’d like to say to her. I start to pretend he really is my father, pretend the words are coming from my own dad’s lips. But then, just when I’m feeling close to it being real, he tries to slide his hand up my top. And I get so mad at him for ruining a good moment that I grab his fingers and snap them back until he falls off the bar stool, squatting and squirming and pleading for me to let go. “Fuckin’ pervert,” I mumble and then flick him away like an annoying insect.
But I am luckier than most. I know this. While Jasmyn spends her life trying to forget her father, I can create mine out of the infinity of things I don’t know. How he’s the kind of man whoplays football on Sunday afternoons with his buddies. Or that he’s a great cook and can make chocolate cake from scratch. Or how every now and then, he stops in the middle of an ordinary moment and senses something missing, as if a part of him were walking around out there, somewhere.
Jasmyn waves from across the bar. “I’m going for a walk,” she shouts, giggling and tripping over her stiletto heels. She trails behind the man who holds her hand as if she were a schoolgirl at the crosswalk. I wait about twenty minutes, till midnight, then Dan slips me five bucks and calls me a cab because I don’t want to be late for curfew.
Back at the group home I lie in bed with my clothes on, my belt buckle digging into my stomach. The ceiling spins and I happily get lost in its dizziness. I
When we arrive it’s as if Jasmyn suddenly has cozy sponges on her feet. She bounces in the door, flipping her head back and laughing hysterically as if I just told her the funniest joke. Everyone in the bar turns to look at us and she pretends she’s all embarrassed, puts her hand gracefully up to her mouth as if to cover her vulgarly exposed teeth. Her entrance is spectacular, and I don’t tell her I see her practising in the mirror late at night. “I’m gonna be an actress,” she says all the time, “a fuckin’ star.”
Dan gives us beers and a group of older regulars immediately call us over to the corner pool table. Most of the men are Italian, standing around smoking cigarettes, hairy stomachs popping through buttons sewed on again and again by dutiful fingers. Those same fingers that tap on the Virgin Mary’s porcelain head in the front window, waiting for their husbands to come home. The way I’ve seen Carla’s mom do. Jasmyn flirts, sticks her ass so high in the air you can see the edge of her underwear when she aims her cue. As she’s waiting her turn, I see her rub her fingers up and down the cue all erotic-like, then press it tight up against her crotch. I laugh and pretend I’m having a good time, but really all I’m thinking about is my pregnancy. And all I want to do is go home, go to bed, and stop my mind from thinking.
The men can’t take their eyes off Jasmyn. Within an hour, Jasmyn’s drinks line the bar ledge like trophies. She offers me one of her Singapore Slings, all proud as if I’m the ugly duckling under her wing. I take it and drink it like it’s a shot, slamming it down on the counter when I’m done, and the men around me cheer and buy me another. They start crowding around me, fat stomachs rubbing against me, thinking they’re going to get some action, but I tell most of them straight up I think they’re losers, so they back off. I feel sorry for one guy though, who seems pretty nice, so I don’t mind when he sits beside me at the bar, telling me about how bad his marriage is and how I remind him of his daughter, his sweet daughter. He says he hasn’t seen her in three years and tells me all the things he’d like to say to her. I start to pretend he really is my father, pretend the words are coming from my own dad’s lips. But then, just when I’m feeling close to it being real, he tries to slide his hand up my top. And I get so mad at him for ruining a good moment that I grab his fingers and snap them back until he falls off the bar stool, squatting and squirming and pleading for me to let go. “Fuckin’ pervert,” I mumble and then flick him away like an annoying insect.
But I am luckier than most. I know this. While Jasmyn spends her life trying to forget her father, I can create mine out of the infinity of things I don’t know. How he’s the kind of man whoplays football on Sunday afternoons with his buddies. Or that he’s a great cook and can make chocolate cake from scratch. Or how every now and then, he stops in the middle of an ordinary moment and senses something missing, as if a part of him were walking around out there, somewhere.
Jasmyn waves from across the bar. “I’m going for a walk,” she shouts, giggling and tripping over her stiletto heels. She trails behind the man who holds her hand as if she were a schoolgirl at the crosswalk. I wait about twenty minutes, till midnight, then Dan slips me five bucks and calls me a cab because I don’t want to be late for curfew.
Back at the group home I lie in bed with my clothes on, my belt buckle digging into my stomach. The ceiling spins and I happily get lost in its dizziness. I
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