Pretty Is by Maggie Mitchell Page B

face flush as her eyes shot sideways to see if Daddy had picked up on anything. He hadn’t.
    “I’m sure we could work something out,” she said, because of course she had never intended to give up her stake in me. She was fine with the idea of picking me up from some juvie home, my fellow delinquents waving good-bye-for-the-weekend as I got into the car with my gowns slung over my arm.
    Ha.
    “Don’t forget what she’s been through,” Daddy said, though he didn’t say—no one ever did—what that was, exactly.
    “She can’t use that as an excuse forever.” Gail squirted a big blob of ketchup into the meatloaf she was mixing. I could tell from her voice that she would give in—she had no choice, really. I did an obnoxious pirouette and then struck a graceful pose. I studied the long dark hairs on Gail’s stirring arm, wondering why she didn’t bleach them. It seemed like the kind of thing she would do.
    “She isn’t,” Daddy said. “I am.” He used his firmest voice, the one even Gail gave in to. He folded his newspaper, set it aside, and settled his fists on the table, knuckles touching, giving the question of my fate his full attention.
    Daddy suggested, of course, that it was the pageants that should go. There was a logic to this, I had to agree. I would have fought it, but I also would have accepted it. The whole lipstick-and-lace scene had gotten pretty old, and there were other ways to get where I wanted to go. Gail, however, would have none of it. She said pageants were the most positive thing in my life, what kept me grounded, gave me self-esteem. I watched her curiously while she spewed this crap. Then, against his better judgment, Daddy talked himself into believing her. I watched that too, my faith in him fading fast; I was disappointed but hardly surprised. The most interesting question, as far as I was concerned, was this: how the hell were they going to get me away from the boys?
    In the end they decided I would go and live with Grandma Mabel for a while. Daddy’s mother. She had moved into a small house in town when Grandpa Luke died, and she’d been there on her own ever since. We didn’t visit Grandma Mabel much. She came to the farm for dinner every couple of weeks, but her house was too small and tidy, I guess, for all of us to invade. Or, I don’t know, maybe she just wasn’t Gail’s biggest fan. I liked it at Grandma Mabel’s. It was orderly and calm, a place where you could think straight. It smelled a little like old people, true, and Grandma Mabel watched horrible stuff on TV. But: no farm, no little brothers, no Gail. Getting off the farm would be the first step. From there I would find a way to get out of Nebraska.
    Of course I’d be leaving Daddy, too. I would like to say that part of what I felt was sad; it would make me sound like a better person. Maybe I was sad; maybe I’ve just forgotten. What I remember, though, is that I was ecstatic. I sulked for all I was worth so they wouldn’t catch on.
    Lois
    I can’t get out of bed. I clutch my snowy white comforter beneath my chin. Under the covers, I lock one hand around my phone. My curtains are closed, but they don’t altogether block the light; I am well aware that it is daytime. Spring sun, cold and bare, streaks my walls.
    It’s Friday. I don’t teach today, and I have no meetings scheduled. No one will know if I get up or not.
    I have lain here for an hour or more. My agent woke me, calling from New York with news: that the major parts in the movie adaptation of Deep in the Woods had finally been cast. She told me the names. I have been curious, but I have tried to divorce myself from that project as much as possible, to protect myself from disappointment—and self-reproach; I sold my right to care about the movie long ago. (The film, my agent, Erin, calls it loftily.) If Hollywood makes a mess of the story—which happens more often than not, I would venture to guess, at least from the author’s point of