Pretty Amy by Lisa Burstein Page A

my arraignment, we found all of the lawyers schmoozing and shaking hands like they were at a cocktail party, asking about one another and one another’s families in small oscillating circles around the courtroom. This was like their prom, coming together from all their small towns to the big, important courtroom in the city.
    The plaintiffs and their families looked like they were waiting in line at the DMV: rows and rows of torsos and heads that sat like marble busts until their number was called. Of course, we sat all the way in the back.
    My mother probably hoped that there would be less likelihood of being seen, and as for my father, he always wanted to sit in the back so he would be close to the bathroom. That day, I was thankful for his embarrassing habit, because I had been throwing up steadily all morning.
    Of course, I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave once the arraignment started, but I’d brought a white-and-tan Liz Claiborne purse that my mother had bought me back when she still thought she could change me.
    When she saw me carrying it, she said, “At least you’re finally getting some use out of that. It was a good choice with the navy suit.”
    I didn’t tell her I planned to use it as a barf bag.
    The white headband she’d made me wear dug into my scalp. I looked around the room trying to find Cassie and Lila, but I didn’t see them. My mother liked to be early and so we found ourselves like this all the time—sitting in a line, my mother, my father, and me, waiting longer than other people waited for whatever we were waiting for.
    The bench felt and looked like the wooden pews that filled our temple, and for a moment I found myself wondering if there was some supply store that only churches, temples, and courtrooms used.
    I saw Dick Simon come in and heard him walk over to one of the groups of lawyers and give them a hearty hello. He was carrying a stack of binders, balancing them with his chin, as he made the rounds shaking everyone’s hands.
    “It’s as cold as my wife’s side of the bed in here,” he said, laughing. “There’s my girl.” He pointed at me and walked toward us.
    “How are we all doing today?” he asked, sitting next to me.
    How did he think we were doing? I hate it when people say things because they’re used to saying them in other situations, without any thought that they are saying them in a completely inappropriate situation now.
    We all looked at him, but none of us answered. He took my hand between both of his, making it look like our hand sandwich had the meat on the outside and that the meat was moldy olive loaf.
    I pulled my hand away—just because this guy was my lawyer didn’t give him any right to touch me.
    “Don’t be nervous,” he said, and I could smell ketchup on his breath, ketchup and root beer. He certainly wasn’t nervous. He was gorging himself at every drive-thru in town, while I couldn’t even keep down a piece of toast.
    “This will be over before you know it,” he said. The thing people say before you get a shot. Before something painful and horrible is about to happen.
    I looked around. Cassie and Lila still weren’t here. Had they gotten out of this somehow?
    “Hey,” he said, smiling at me, “why did the strawberry get a lawyer?”
    I gagged and opened my purse.
    “Because it got itself into a jam,” he said, slapping his knee. Then he burped, loud and long.
    My father laughed. He couldn’t help himself. If I had been without an audience I might have laughed, too. Laughed and then cried.
    “I always know when I’m going to win a case because I’m gassy. Don’t worry, I should be able to recreate the same conditions on your trial date, if it gets that far.”
    Why was he talking about a trial date? I’m sure my face looked green.
    “It won’t get that far,” he said.
    “How long until Amy’s case?” my mother asked, sticking her whole hand in her mouth, so she could get at all her nails at once.
    “Not sure,” Dick