“I’m going to see him again this weekend though.”
Words leap to the front of my mouth—my own confessions. I swallow them. She’ll make fun of Will, or ask me if he has a big dick or something. Make fun of me. Your legs touched. Ooooooooh .
“I’m the class leader for this school event. It’s called Words on the Wall.” That sounded even more lame out loud.
“Living on the edge, Isabelle!” she says, poking me in the side. She must see my face, though, and adds, “That’s cool. Congratulations.”
I consider telling her about them—Damien, Nimra, the lot. She’ll probably make them sound boring, and the only one I wouldn’t mind her dumping on is Zara. I don’t say anything else, and she doesn’t ask.
“So, when are you going to get a boyfriend?” Jacquie says. My favorite topic of conversation with her. Mom saves me by calling everyone to the table.
Ironically, Uncle Richie spends half of dinner teasing Maisie about how many boyfriends she’ll have this year. It’s probably true, Maisie having a boyfriend before I do. So what? Where has there been room for a boyfriend in this slummy carnival act? The guys from Jacquie’s parties are all hands and loud mouths, like they’re doing me a favor by hitting on me. Any guy I’d look at for more than a second—like Will—would see all of this and run screaming.
I put my fork down on my plate and push it away, appetite gone.
Mom gets up to grab another beer. She and Uncle Richie have worked their way through a few now but are still holding together okay. She whispers in my ear as she comes back, “You can have a cooler if you want.” Like how I offer Maisie and Evan candy for being good. “But just one.”
“No, thanks, Mom,” I say. Too weird to be drinking with her. I have only drunk once before, at Jacquie’s last birthday party. I ended up puking the next morning, Maisie standing there watching me hug the toilet.
Are you sick like Mom? she’d asked. A wave of revulsion had made me retch a second time. Never again will I give her reason to say that. After everything that’s happened, even the sight of empty bottles makes me angry.
The second Maisie finishes her lasagna and pushes most of the salad off her plate, she starts in again. “Now can I open presents?”
“After cake,” I tell her.
“Oh, go on,” Mom says. “Let her open them now.”
Maisie squirms in the middle of the living-room floor, and we gather around.
“Start with mine,” I say, handing over a squishy package in wrapping paper that Evan and I made with lined paper and crayons.
“I drew the dog.” Evan points to a lumpy oval with lines coming from its head.
She tears at the wrapping paper, embroidered pink fabric spilling into her lap. “A princess dress!” She holds it up and makes the bottom twirl around. It only took me two minutes to fix the hem in the back. Good as new.
“Remember your thank-yous,” Mom says. Maisie gives me a giant hug that almost hurts.
She loves the koala from Mom, still wrapped in the plastic bag, and insists on trying it out in the dark bathroom right then. Evan tags along, tripping over her feet.
“It works! It’s glowing.” His voice floats from under the door.
They tumble back out to the living room for the biggest present, from Uncle Richie and Jacquie.
“I picked this out, kid,” Jacquie tells her.
“And I paid for it,” Uncle Richie says, chuckling.
Tissue paper flies, then silence. Maisie lifts a giant blue dollhouse from the bag, with a little verandah and four separate rooms—living room, bathroom, bedroom and study.
“Wait, there’s more,” Jacquie says, pulling a box from the bottom of the bag. It’s filled with perfect wooden furniture, a family of four with painted smiles, tiny food.
Maisie blinks. She’s never had anything this perfect before. Mom bites her lip. I look up at Jacquie. How can I repay this? Why did I think Maisie needed more than these people?
Maisie finds her voice.
Words leap to the front of my mouth—my own confessions. I swallow them. She’ll make fun of Will, or ask me if he has a big dick or something. Make fun of me. Your legs touched. Ooooooooh .
“I’m the class leader for this school event. It’s called Words on the Wall.” That sounded even more lame out loud.
“Living on the edge, Isabelle!” she says, poking me in the side. She must see my face, though, and adds, “That’s cool. Congratulations.”
I consider telling her about them—Damien, Nimra, the lot. She’ll probably make them sound boring, and the only one I wouldn’t mind her dumping on is Zara. I don’t say anything else, and she doesn’t ask.
“So, when are you going to get a boyfriend?” Jacquie says. My favorite topic of conversation with her. Mom saves me by calling everyone to the table.
Ironically, Uncle Richie spends half of dinner teasing Maisie about how many boyfriends she’ll have this year. It’s probably true, Maisie having a boyfriend before I do. So what? Where has there been room for a boyfriend in this slummy carnival act? The guys from Jacquie’s parties are all hands and loud mouths, like they’re doing me a favor by hitting on me. Any guy I’d look at for more than a second—like Will—would see all of this and run screaming.
I put my fork down on my plate and push it away, appetite gone.
Mom gets up to grab another beer. She and Uncle Richie have worked their way through a few now but are still holding together okay. She whispers in my ear as she comes back, “You can have a cooler if you want.” Like how I offer Maisie and Evan candy for being good. “But just one.”
“No, thanks, Mom,” I say. Too weird to be drinking with her. I have only drunk once before, at Jacquie’s last birthday party. I ended up puking the next morning, Maisie standing there watching me hug the toilet.
Are you sick like Mom? she’d asked. A wave of revulsion had made me retch a second time. Never again will I give her reason to say that. After everything that’s happened, even the sight of empty bottles makes me angry.
The second Maisie finishes her lasagna and pushes most of the salad off her plate, she starts in again. “Now can I open presents?”
“After cake,” I tell her.
“Oh, go on,” Mom says. “Let her open them now.”
Maisie squirms in the middle of the living-room floor, and we gather around.
“Start with mine,” I say, handing over a squishy package in wrapping paper that Evan and I made with lined paper and crayons.
“I drew the dog.” Evan points to a lumpy oval with lines coming from its head.
She tears at the wrapping paper, embroidered pink fabric spilling into her lap. “A princess dress!” She holds it up and makes the bottom twirl around. It only took me two minutes to fix the hem in the back. Good as new.
“Remember your thank-yous,” Mom says. Maisie gives me a giant hug that almost hurts.
She loves the koala from Mom, still wrapped in the plastic bag, and insists on trying it out in the dark bathroom right then. Evan tags along, tripping over her feet.
“It works! It’s glowing.” His voice floats from under the door.
They tumble back out to the living room for the biggest present, from Uncle Richie and Jacquie.
“I picked this out, kid,” Jacquie tells her.
“And I paid for it,” Uncle Richie says, chuckling.
Tissue paper flies, then silence. Maisie lifts a giant blue dollhouse from the bag, with a little verandah and four separate rooms—living room, bathroom, bedroom and study.
“Wait, there’s more,” Jacquie says, pulling a box from the bottom of the bag. It’s filled with perfect wooden furniture, a family of four with painted smiles, tiny food.
Maisie blinks. She’s never had anything this perfect before. Mom bites her lip. I look up at Jacquie. How can I repay this? Why did I think Maisie needed more than these people?
Maisie finds her voice.
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