you?”
“No. But I shaved my chin yesterday.” He turned around at the foot of the stairs with his hand on the banister. “Do you want to feel it?”
“I’ll pass.”
He took the steps two at a time. My parents’ bedroom door was open; Jimmy walked in. The room was neat. The bed was made and each of the dressers had only a few simple things on its surface: a wooden tray for my father, and for my mother, a jewelry box, a jar of lotion, and a brush and comb. Jimmy picked up a stack of books on the bedside table.
Your Depressed Adolescent
.
A Guide to Psychiatric Drugs. Your Difficult Teen
. “Good reading,” he said. He tested the mattress with his hand. “Firm. That’s good for your back. Which one is your room?”
“I don’t want you in my bedroom, Jimmy.”
He paused at the laundry chute, opened it, and peered inside. “Then where
do
you want me? Just kidding.” He walked down the hall, paused briefly at the doorway of my room, and kept on walking. “This is Dora’s room, right? I’m good at guessing.”
“You had a fifty-fifty chance. Where are you going?” I followed him into my sister’s room. About a year earlier Dora had painted the walls a deep purple; even with the light on, the room was gloomy. “We’re not allowed to have guys upstairs, Jimmy.”
“Does she keep a diary?” he asked.
Dora’s desk was about fourteen inches deep in paper. “I wouldn’t read it if she did,” I said.
Jimmy ran a hand over the bristles on his head and looked around. The room was crowded with stuff, the bed and the floor piled deep with clothes. Over the bed Dora had hung her favorite poster—a picture of the Eiffel Tower at night, frayed at the bottom from being touched. On the other walls were a row of beaded purses she had collected from various thrift stores; a clock in the shape of a cat, the eyes moving back and forth in time with its rhinestone tail; a Tinker Bell mirror on which Tinker Bell’s clothes had all been painted black with indelible marker; and a lamp with a dented shade on which Dora had written in purple nail polish DORA ROCKS .
Jimmy waded through the piles of clothes to the dresser, then picked up the metal box where Dora kept her jewelry.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He looked in the box, closed it, and put it back down. He took the plug out of Dora’s piggy bank and stuck his finger inside, then opened a plastic container full of makeup, spilling half of it onto the floor. He opened her sock drawer and rifled through it, then opened the drawer where she kept her brightly colored bras.
“Jimmy, stop.”
He ignored me, combing through the rest of Dora’s drawers; he opened her closet and poked through her bookshelf. He picked her shoes up and shook them, and lifted the pillows on her bed.
“You’re being a jerk, Jimmy,” I said. “I really hate you right now.”
He saw me glance at the clock with the cat’s tail ticking away underneath it. He gently lifted the clock from the wall and turned it over. Taped to the inside was a plastic bag.
“What is that?” I asked.
Jimmy held the bag open: inside it were about a hundred little white pills.
I held out my hand, even though I didn’t want to touch what he was holding.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” Jimmy said.
59
When Dora and my mother got home (Jimmy had already gone), Dora announced that she was starving and was going to make grilled cheese for dinner. And I was going to help her with her homework while she cooked.
“That sounds good to me.” My mother looked cheerful. She got out the electric griddle and a can of soup.
Dora slapped her open history book on the table and pointed to a paragraph in the middle of a chapter. “Here you go, Elvin. Have a seat and start reading. I’ve got to get me an education.”
I sat down. I had the bag of pills in my pocket.
“What’s the matter?” Dora asked.
“Nothing.”
My mother got out the broom, humming to herself.
I started to read.
“No. But I shaved my chin yesterday.” He turned around at the foot of the stairs with his hand on the banister. “Do you want to feel it?”
“I’ll pass.”
He took the steps two at a time. My parents’ bedroom door was open; Jimmy walked in. The room was neat. The bed was made and each of the dressers had only a few simple things on its surface: a wooden tray for my father, and for my mother, a jewelry box, a jar of lotion, and a brush and comb. Jimmy picked up a stack of books on the bedside table.
Your Depressed Adolescent
.
A Guide to Psychiatric Drugs. Your Difficult Teen
. “Good reading,” he said. He tested the mattress with his hand. “Firm. That’s good for your back. Which one is your room?”
“I don’t want you in my bedroom, Jimmy.”
He paused at the laundry chute, opened it, and peered inside. “Then where
do
you want me? Just kidding.” He walked down the hall, paused briefly at the doorway of my room, and kept on walking. “This is Dora’s room, right? I’m good at guessing.”
“You had a fifty-fifty chance. Where are you going?” I followed him into my sister’s room. About a year earlier Dora had painted the walls a deep purple; even with the light on, the room was gloomy. “We’re not allowed to have guys upstairs, Jimmy.”
“Does she keep a diary?” he asked.
Dora’s desk was about fourteen inches deep in paper. “I wouldn’t read it if she did,” I said.
Jimmy ran a hand over the bristles on his head and looked around. The room was crowded with stuff, the bed and the floor piled deep with clothes. Over the bed Dora had hung her favorite poster—a picture of the Eiffel Tower at night, frayed at the bottom from being touched. On the other walls were a row of beaded purses she had collected from various thrift stores; a clock in the shape of a cat, the eyes moving back and forth in time with its rhinestone tail; a Tinker Bell mirror on which Tinker Bell’s clothes had all been painted black with indelible marker; and a lamp with a dented shade on which Dora had written in purple nail polish DORA ROCKS .
Jimmy waded through the piles of clothes to the dresser, then picked up the metal box where Dora kept her jewelry.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He looked in the box, closed it, and put it back down. He took the plug out of Dora’s piggy bank and stuck his finger inside, then opened a plastic container full of makeup, spilling half of it onto the floor. He opened her sock drawer and rifled through it, then opened the drawer where she kept her brightly colored bras.
“Jimmy, stop.”
He ignored me, combing through the rest of Dora’s drawers; he opened her closet and poked through her bookshelf. He picked her shoes up and shook them, and lifted the pillows on her bed.
“You’re being a jerk, Jimmy,” I said. “I really hate you right now.”
He saw me glance at the clock with the cat’s tail ticking away underneath it. He gently lifted the clock from the wall and turned it over. Taped to the inside was a plastic bag.
“What is that?” I asked.
Jimmy held the bag open: inside it were about a hundred little white pills.
I held out my hand, even though I didn’t want to touch what he was holding.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” Jimmy said.
59
When Dora and my mother got home (Jimmy had already gone), Dora announced that she was starving and was going to make grilled cheese for dinner. And I was going to help her with her homework while she cooked.
“That sounds good to me.” My mother looked cheerful. She got out the electric griddle and a can of soup.
Dora slapped her open history book on the table and pointed to a paragraph in the middle of a chapter. “Here you go, Elvin. Have a seat and start reading. I’ve got to get me an education.”
I sat down. I had the bag of pills in my pocket.
“What’s the matter?” Dora asked.
“Nothing.”
My mother got out the broom, humming to herself.
I started to read.
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