and she was seven and Mom left.
âI did,â she said. âThatâs what you wanted, right?â She ran to her bedroom, where I guess sheâd been storing the little guy, and brought him down in a glass cage with a book of instructions for feeding and cleaning and general chameleon care.
âYes,â I said, staring at his scaly face, âthis is what I wanted.â If Mom had been around, maybe she would have remembered the chameleon too, but it didnât matter. I had Arizona for that. Dad was goodat being around and not leaving and finding random women to live with us, and asking us one million times a month if we were happy, even if he never explained quite what that meant. Arizona was good at filling in all the gaps that were left. And Mom was good at birthday cards and not much else.
I loved that chameleon hard and named him Lester. I stopped wanting anything that glinted in the sun or was meant to make me prettier. I stopped wanting Natasha around. Until after she and my dad broke up a couple of years later.
I keep my plastic surgery gift certificate in my desk drawer. I am positive Iâll never use it, but I keep it as a reminder of something. Iâm not sure what.
I thought Arizona was doing the same thing. Itâs uneasy, to be suddenly different from the person you thought you were exactly like.
Dadâs never mentioned it again, but Iâm sure heâs wondering how Iâm going to use it, checking my face to catalog the ugliest parts and make suggestions.
Meanwhile, my chameleon Lester died two years ago. They donât have very long life spans, as it turns out. Changing themselves that often, to fit every possible circumstance perfectly, exhausts them, I guess.
thirteen
These days Natasha lives in a big apartment on the Upper East Side with some burly lawyer guy and twin daughters, Victoria and Veronica.
And sometimes me.
Once every few weeks, I manage to convince my father Iâm with some friends from school who donât exist and convince Arizona Iâm on some adventure and convince Roxanne Iâm in for the night, and I stay at Natashaâs. Like itâs my home. Itâs been easier this year, of course, without Roxanne and Arizona watching and caring.
Iâd tell Roxanne, but I know sheâd tell Arizona. In the hierarchy of friendships that everyone pretends doesnât exist but everyone also knows does exist, Arizona loves me most and I love Arizona most but Roxanne loves Arizona most. Itâs a thing I always suspected but am now sure about.
Sometimes I think Arizona loves me most but likes Roxanne better. That stings too. To be unchosen. To not be anyoneâs favorite person.
So I stay sometimes on Natashaâs white leather couch under Victoriaâs gray cashmere blanket. Natasha has a tiny white dog named Oscar and more shoes than any of the other wives, and as soon as she and my dad were over, she got nice.
We started with coffee.
I went to her wedding.
I babysit her kids.
She cooks me dinner and gives me hand-me-downs and punks them up with me when theyâre too prissy.
She apologized for the gift certificate, for the things she didnât understand.
She is making plans to take out her implants.
She says she made a lot of mistakes and she is trying to unmake them or at least not make any more.
When she hugs me, she means it.
She is my big, unspeakable secret.
Once or twice a year I consider telling Arizona and letting her into the fold, but I canât seem to bring myself to admit Iâve broken one of our sister-promises. Or maybe I canât stand the thought that Natasha would like her better too. That there would be no one left who was mine.
I like to think itâs the first thing. That Iâm a girl ashamed to have broken a promise, and not that other girl whoâs all lame and selfish and needs more than Iâm supposed to.
After too much of everyone else, I find myself at her
âI did,â she said. âThatâs what you wanted, right?â She ran to her bedroom, where I guess sheâd been storing the little guy, and brought him down in a glass cage with a book of instructions for feeding and cleaning and general chameleon care.
âYes,â I said, staring at his scaly face, âthis is what I wanted.â If Mom had been around, maybe she would have remembered the chameleon too, but it didnât matter. I had Arizona for that. Dad was goodat being around and not leaving and finding random women to live with us, and asking us one million times a month if we were happy, even if he never explained quite what that meant. Arizona was good at filling in all the gaps that were left. And Mom was good at birthday cards and not much else.
I loved that chameleon hard and named him Lester. I stopped wanting anything that glinted in the sun or was meant to make me prettier. I stopped wanting Natasha around. Until after she and my dad broke up a couple of years later.
I keep my plastic surgery gift certificate in my desk drawer. I am positive Iâll never use it, but I keep it as a reminder of something. Iâm not sure what.
I thought Arizona was doing the same thing. Itâs uneasy, to be suddenly different from the person you thought you were exactly like.
Dadâs never mentioned it again, but Iâm sure heâs wondering how Iâm going to use it, checking my face to catalog the ugliest parts and make suggestions.
Meanwhile, my chameleon Lester died two years ago. They donât have very long life spans, as it turns out. Changing themselves that often, to fit every possible circumstance perfectly, exhausts them, I guess.
thirteen
These days Natasha lives in a big apartment on the Upper East Side with some burly lawyer guy and twin daughters, Victoria and Veronica.
And sometimes me.
Once every few weeks, I manage to convince my father Iâm with some friends from school who donât exist and convince Arizona Iâm on some adventure and convince Roxanne Iâm in for the night, and I stay at Natashaâs. Like itâs my home. Itâs been easier this year, of course, without Roxanne and Arizona watching and caring.
Iâd tell Roxanne, but I know sheâd tell Arizona. In the hierarchy of friendships that everyone pretends doesnât exist but everyone also knows does exist, Arizona loves me most and I love Arizona most but Roxanne loves Arizona most. Itâs a thing I always suspected but am now sure about.
Sometimes I think Arizona loves me most but likes Roxanne better. That stings too. To be unchosen. To not be anyoneâs favorite person.
So I stay sometimes on Natashaâs white leather couch under Victoriaâs gray cashmere blanket. Natasha has a tiny white dog named Oscar and more shoes than any of the other wives, and as soon as she and my dad were over, she got nice.
We started with coffee.
I went to her wedding.
I babysit her kids.
She cooks me dinner and gives me hand-me-downs and punks them up with me when theyâre too prissy.
She apologized for the gift certificate, for the things she didnât understand.
She is making plans to take out her implants.
She says she made a lot of mistakes and she is trying to unmake them or at least not make any more.
When she hugs me, she means it.
She is my big, unspeakable secret.
Once or twice a year I consider telling Arizona and letting her into the fold, but I canât seem to bring myself to admit Iâve broken one of our sister-promises. Or maybe I canât stand the thought that Natasha would like her better too. That there would be no one left who was mine.
I like to think itâs the first thing. That Iâm a girl ashamed to have broken a promise, and not that other girl whoâs all lame and selfish and needs more than Iâm supposed to.
After too much of everyone else, I find myself at her
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