myself.
“There’s some cute tanks over there, too,” she said, pointing toward the back. Her fingers were long and very graceful, their rounded nails painted black. “Sometimes they have good stuff, sometimes just crap. Do you shop here a lot?”
“No,” I said quickly.
“I didn’t think so,” she answered, lowering her heavily lined eyelids. “Though you do seem to have a little more, what? Individuality? Than the others. But still, I didn’t figure you for thrift shop.”
I shook my head and stood up next to Daddy. “No. I’m not—”
“Hi,” Daddy said to Bridget, who was still kneeling on the floor, picking through our stuff. “You look familiar. Are you a friend of Phoebe’s?”
She planted one long bony hand on the hip of her faded jeans. “We go to school together.”
Daddy pulled his eyes away from her and asked me, “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
I died a little inside. How can he be so thick and embarrassing? “Bridget Burgess, this is Jed Avery, my father.”
“Hi, Bridget,” my father said, smiling. “Good to meet you.”
Bridget looked at him steadily and said, “Hi, Jed Avery.” Then she bent over the Neiman Marcus bag to her right and pulled out my yellow shorts that I was looking for just the other day. “Do you think these are cute or too short?”
“Too short,” I said quickly. Just what I need is Bridget Burgess slinking around school in my favorite shorts.
“Really?” she asked, inspecting them. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She dropped my shorts disdainfully onto the pile. “Some of this stuff is beyond, huh?”
Daddy laughed. “I thought you loved those!”
“Daddy!” I balled up the jeans and purple shirt a little tighter in my fist. “Let’s go. Come on.”
“Are you buying those or no?” Bridget asked, standing up and pushing her long bangs out of her actually kind of beautiful almond-shaped eyes, then pointing at Quinn’s jeans.
I couldn’t even look at her anymore. What was I going to do? Explain? Buy the jeans we just donated? I shook my head and handed the jeans over to her, and the purple shirt, too.
“Really? Thanks!”
I waved my hand like don’t mention it. Please don’t mention it. And please don’t be like every other suck-up in school and ask me about the party!
She didn’t. She just said, “Later.”
Heading straight to the door, I was trying my hardest not to turn back and yell at Bridget Burgess, I don’t shop here. I shop at Neiman Marcus. I am not like you! I pushed through the door and went out into the gray drizzle. I tipped my face up to the sky and let the rain join the tears cruising down my face.
I was never like her, I thought, even before. Bridget Burgess lives down on Maple Lane. I am not like her.
The memory of our one playdate crashed around in my mind, despite all my years of practice, since that afternoon in third grade, at blocking it out. We had walked there alone after school. I had never walked home even with my sisters, so I was scared from the outset. Then we got to Bridget’s house, there was a rusty bicycle on the patchy brown lawn next to some tires and some other junk, and a broken screen door she let slam after us when we went in. A huge amorphous mother overflowed a shredding upholstered chair in the living room, smoking cigarettes and coughing horribly. I felt like I had wandered into the opening scene of a scary movie. She barked at Bridget to get her a drink and Bridget said, I will never forget, “All right, all right, keep yer pants on.” To her mother! I was only in third grade so I didn’t know that was an expression, and the horror of the thought that if we didn’t hurry and get her a drink, she might actually take off her pants for some reason made me feel like I was going to throw up.
We went into the kitchen and there were dirty dishes piled in the sink, on the counters, everywhere, and food out, unwrapped, even an open container of milk. Bridget asked me if I
“There’s some cute tanks over there, too,” she said, pointing toward the back. Her fingers were long and very graceful, their rounded nails painted black. “Sometimes they have good stuff, sometimes just crap. Do you shop here a lot?”
“No,” I said quickly.
“I didn’t think so,” she answered, lowering her heavily lined eyelids. “Though you do seem to have a little more, what? Individuality? Than the others. But still, I didn’t figure you for thrift shop.”
I shook my head and stood up next to Daddy. “No. I’m not—”
“Hi,” Daddy said to Bridget, who was still kneeling on the floor, picking through our stuff. “You look familiar. Are you a friend of Phoebe’s?”
She planted one long bony hand on the hip of her faded jeans. “We go to school together.”
Daddy pulled his eyes away from her and asked me, “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
I died a little inside. How can he be so thick and embarrassing? “Bridget Burgess, this is Jed Avery, my father.”
“Hi, Bridget,” my father said, smiling. “Good to meet you.”
Bridget looked at him steadily and said, “Hi, Jed Avery.” Then she bent over the Neiman Marcus bag to her right and pulled out my yellow shorts that I was looking for just the other day. “Do you think these are cute or too short?”
“Too short,” I said quickly. Just what I need is Bridget Burgess slinking around school in my favorite shorts.
“Really?” she asked, inspecting them. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She dropped my shorts disdainfully onto the pile. “Some of this stuff is beyond, huh?”
Daddy laughed. “I thought you loved those!”
“Daddy!” I balled up the jeans and purple shirt a little tighter in my fist. “Let’s go. Come on.”
“Are you buying those or no?” Bridget asked, standing up and pushing her long bangs out of her actually kind of beautiful almond-shaped eyes, then pointing at Quinn’s jeans.
I couldn’t even look at her anymore. What was I going to do? Explain? Buy the jeans we just donated? I shook my head and handed the jeans over to her, and the purple shirt, too.
“Really? Thanks!”
I waved my hand like don’t mention it. Please don’t mention it. And please don’t be like every other suck-up in school and ask me about the party!
She didn’t. She just said, “Later.”
Heading straight to the door, I was trying my hardest not to turn back and yell at Bridget Burgess, I don’t shop here. I shop at Neiman Marcus. I am not like you! I pushed through the door and went out into the gray drizzle. I tipped my face up to the sky and let the rain join the tears cruising down my face.
I was never like her, I thought, even before. Bridget Burgess lives down on Maple Lane. I am not like her.
The memory of our one playdate crashed around in my mind, despite all my years of practice, since that afternoon in third grade, at blocking it out. We had walked there alone after school. I had never walked home even with my sisters, so I was scared from the outset. Then we got to Bridget’s house, there was a rusty bicycle on the patchy brown lawn next to some tires and some other junk, and a broken screen door she let slam after us when we went in. A huge amorphous mother overflowed a shredding upholstered chair in the living room, smoking cigarettes and coughing horribly. I felt like I had wandered into the opening scene of a scary movie. She barked at Bridget to get her a drink and Bridget said, I will never forget, “All right, all right, keep yer pants on.” To her mother! I was only in third grade so I didn’t know that was an expression, and the horror of the thought that if we didn’t hurry and get her a drink, she might actually take off her pants for some reason made me feel like I was going to throw up.
We went into the kitchen and there were dirty dishes piled in the sink, on the counters, everywhere, and food out, unwrapped, even an open container of milk. Bridget asked me if I
Similar Books
