stuff of which fairy tales are made.
He was right. And since then Diana’s only gotten more beautiful.
Cherry’s fingers fall away from the photo. “Why the hell’d she marry that dipshit?”
“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you wouldn’t marry a Prince if you could.”
She shudders. “She’s way too good for him. God, where’s Princess Rennie? It’s almost six.”
I wonder if Mom’s passed out yet. It’s a Hemmler week, and that means they start pouring the cocktails early, almost as soon as I get home. By dinnertime they’re spilling spaghetti sauce, dropping bottles, there’s an edge to their words. After dinner, Mom crashes for a couple hours on the sofa and Dad can start in on me. What I didn’t do this week. The A’s I didn’t get. All the million infinitesimal ways I’ve disappointed. Then Mom wakes up, pours some more vodka and orange juice, and the real drama begins, the Callie fight. I could write it all down, like a stage play, line by line. That’s why I headed here straight after school. “I don’t know where Rennie is.”
One time I actually told Father O’Neill about Mom and Dad, figured he could talk to God for me or something. Seems stupid now. Know what he told me?
Pray, Amy.
So I did. That very night was the time Dad decided it was somehow my fault the Mustang got keyed, called me a brainless bitch, took my driver’s license and scissored it up. That was the night Mom got so toasted she fell down the stairs and sprained her ankle. So, I guess there’s static on Father O’Neill’s direct phone line to God.
Sorry, that number is no longer in service.
You know it’s gotten bad when the songs from Girl Scout camp make more sense than stupid prayers.
A circle’s round, it has no end, that’s how long I want to be your friend. . . .
The only praying I really do anymore is
Hail Mary, full of grace, help me find a parking space.
By the way Cherry chomps her gum, I can tell she’s itching for her dope, which is also why she’s so impatient about Rennie getting here. “If it’s not rehearsal, it’s studying,” she says. “That girl needs to get her ass over here and get high so she can lighten up a bit.”
“She’s not at rehearsal though. I wonder where she is.”
A strange expression crosses Cherry’s face. “She told me she had play practice today.”
“Well, she doesn’t. Abby Green came running out of school this afternoon shrieking, all upset because Mr. Schafer dared to cancel practice.” Who else but Abby Green to play Sandy? If there’s anyone more high-strung than Rennie, it’s Abby, whose braids are wound as tight as her nerves.
Cherry starts to say something, then closes her mouth.
“What?” I ask.
She takes a deep breath, fingering the bowl. “Why would she lie?” Just then Rennie bursts in, all happy and breathless. Her cheeks are flushed like they are in P.E. when we run the mile, and she flings down her overnight bag and says “What?” which is when I realize we’re staring at her, both of us.
Cherry leans into Rennie and sniffs. “You’re drunk, you bitch. What the hell are you doing drinking in the middle of the afternoon?” She shakes her head and I do too; something is definitely going on with our Rennie.
Rennie doesn’t answer.
“Where were you?” asks Cherry.
“Play practice.” Her eyes shift from the ceiling to the bowl in Cherry’s hand, and she grabs it, foams the lighter over it, and takes a big long hit.
“You were not.” I stash my gum in the wrapper and take a hit myself. “I saw Abby and she was freaking out because it was canceled. So what gives?”
The Bitch Goddess Notebook flops onto Cherry’s quilt and Cherry reaches for it. Rennie’s such a writer. Cherry’s a little jealous, I think, but she always wants to read Rennie’s stuff, says she wants to learn. “Fess up, Rennie.” She flips through the pages quickly. “You didn’t even write this week.”
Rennie? Not writing?
“You’ve been
He was right. And since then Diana’s only gotten more beautiful.
Cherry’s fingers fall away from the photo. “Why the hell’d she marry that dipshit?”
“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you wouldn’t marry a Prince if you could.”
She shudders. “She’s way too good for him. God, where’s Princess Rennie? It’s almost six.”
I wonder if Mom’s passed out yet. It’s a Hemmler week, and that means they start pouring the cocktails early, almost as soon as I get home. By dinnertime they’re spilling spaghetti sauce, dropping bottles, there’s an edge to their words. After dinner, Mom crashes for a couple hours on the sofa and Dad can start in on me. What I didn’t do this week. The A’s I didn’t get. All the million infinitesimal ways I’ve disappointed. Then Mom wakes up, pours some more vodka and orange juice, and the real drama begins, the Callie fight. I could write it all down, like a stage play, line by line. That’s why I headed here straight after school. “I don’t know where Rennie is.”
One time I actually told Father O’Neill about Mom and Dad, figured he could talk to God for me or something. Seems stupid now. Know what he told me?
Pray, Amy.
So I did. That very night was the time Dad decided it was somehow my fault the Mustang got keyed, called me a brainless bitch, took my driver’s license and scissored it up. That was the night Mom got so toasted she fell down the stairs and sprained her ankle. So, I guess there’s static on Father O’Neill’s direct phone line to God.
Sorry, that number is no longer in service.
You know it’s gotten bad when the songs from Girl Scout camp make more sense than stupid prayers.
A circle’s round, it has no end, that’s how long I want to be your friend. . . .
The only praying I really do anymore is
Hail Mary, full of grace, help me find a parking space.
By the way Cherry chomps her gum, I can tell she’s itching for her dope, which is also why she’s so impatient about Rennie getting here. “If it’s not rehearsal, it’s studying,” she says. “That girl needs to get her ass over here and get high so she can lighten up a bit.”
“She’s not at rehearsal though. I wonder where she is.”
A strange expression crosses Cherry’s face. “She told me she had play practice today.”
“Well, she doesn’t. Abby Green came running out of school this afternoon shrieking, all upset because Mr. Schafer dared to cancel practice.” Who else but Abby Green to play Sandy? If there’s anyone more high-strung than Rennie, it’s Abby, whose braids are wound as tight as her nerves.
Cherry starts to say something, then closes her mouth.
“What?” I ask.
She takes a deep breath, fingering the bowl. “Why would she lie?” Just then Rennie bursts in, all happy and breathless. Her cheeks are flushed like they are in P.E. when we run the mile, and she flings down her overnight bag and says “What?” which is when I realize we’re staring at her, both of us.
Cherry leans into Rennie and sniffs. “You’re drunk, you bitch. What the hell are you doing drinking in the middle of the afternoon?” She shakes her head and I do too; something is definitely going on with our Rennie.
Rennie doesn’t answer.
“Where were you?” asks Cherry.
“Play practice.” Her eyes shift from the ceiling to the bowl in Cherry’s hand, and she grabs it, foams the lighter over it, and takes a big long hit.
“You were not.” I stash my gum in the wrapper and take a hit myself. “I saw Abby and she was freaking out because it was canceled. So what gives?”
The Bitch Goddess Notebook flops onto Cherry’s quilt and Cherry reaches for it. Rennie’s such a writer. Cherry’s a little jealous, I think, but she always wants to read Rennie’s stuff, says she wants to learn. “Fess up, Rennie.” She flips through the pages quickly. “You didn’t even write this week.”
Rennie? Not writing?
“You’ve been
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