The Private Lives of Pippa Lee by Rebecca Miller
Authors: Rebecca Miller
Tags: General Fiction
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crazy, and I would stare at her, fantasizing about smacking her in the head, till I couldnât take it anymore and had to go into the bathroom, sob, and hit myself in the face. Returning glassy-eyed to the table, I would find my father and brothers eating and exchanging monosyllables, passing the dinner rolls as if nothing was the matter. Suky and I were on our own, locked cheek to cheek, dancing jerkily to a long, long number.
Good
By high school, I was angry, and that made me cool. Flanked by a few minions, I terrorized the kids that got on my nerves. Even Amy came under attack eventually. Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes was so pretty, you could eat her. She had the posture of a ballerina, carried her books level in front of her, like they were a chocolate cake. Needless to say, we moved in different circles now. But one day, as I watched her waft out of the girlsâ room, head held high, it occurred to me that she might tell one of her honor roll friends about our brief trip to the isle of Lesbos. If that got out, I would be ruined. I was seized by an impulse to smash her like a bug. I walked up to her and pinned her against the puce concrete-block wall, my hands squeezing her delicate wrists.
âIf you ever tell anyone about us, I will beat you up,â I hissed. Amyâs blue eyes widened; she looked from side to side for help.
âI wonât,â she said. âI promise. Please.â I let her go. She ran off. Tears stung my eyes. What the hell did I do that for? I loved Amy. I promised myself that the next day in assembly I would tell her I was sorry. But I was too embarrassed. And the worst of it was, after that day, Amy started fawning on me. She wanted me to be nice to her. She was lying down like a dog, letting me know I had won. She was weak and smart and beautiful and had a future, and I was strong and stupid and wasnât good at anything but scaring people. She would come up to me and make a lame joke, and I would smile with one side of my mouth, letting just a little air out of my nose. Once, I trapped her in one of the big gym lockers. I got a few of my henchwomen to circle her, and we shoved her in. She was screaming, pounding on the metal. My heart was slamming against my chest, I thought I was going tofaint. Afterward, she was angry, but she didnât stand up to me. She just walked away, sniffling.
Horrified at this bully I was becoming, I went to church every Sunday at nine oâclock and prayed to be a better person. My fatherâs gruff, clotted voice ground on like a distant engine as my thoughts kneaded my sins over and over, turning them in my mind like dough. Please, Jesus, come into my heart and change me I am begging you I am begging you to make me good, please .
One summer night, it was so hot, my open window was like the yawning mouth of a dead man, emitting no puff of air. It felt like the oxygen had been sealed out of the world. I slept fitfully, my hair wet with perspiration, my legs flung over the sheets. Every few minutes, it seemed, I woke and looked around me, hoping for the dawn. The night-light emitted a sickly green glow. Each time I woke, I lay and listened to the tree frogs: ribbons of high-pitched sound layered on top of one another to create one pulsating scream that reached into my dreams like a claw, dragging me, time and again, into my room and the heat.
I heard a sound, a fluttering, thudding sound, coming from the open window. A flash of white, and then a clumsy thing, a feathered, heavy animal fell onto my floor and waddled toward me, its belly brushing the carpet. I wanted to scream, but I could not. Its webbed feet and large wings dragged along the floor, as if it was unused to perambulation. It twisted its neck to look up at me, and I saw a broad, solemn, human face, the face of a fifteen-year-old boy. The thing had shapely arms, too, which grew from the feathered trunk. With a sudden, violent flapping of wings, it heaved itself aloft and
Good
By high school, I was angry, and that made me cool. Flanked by a few minions, I terrorized the kids that got on my nerves. Even Amy came under attack eventually. Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes was so pretty, you could eat her. She had the posture of a ballerina, carried her books level in front of her, like they were a chocolate cake. Needless to say, we moved in different circles now. But one day, as I watched her waft out of the girlsâ room, head held high, it occurred to me that she might tell one of her honor roll friends about our brief trip to the isle of Lesbos. If that got out, I would be ruined. I was seized by an impulse to smash her like a bug. I walked up to her and pinned her against the puce concrete-block wall, my hands squeezing her delicate wrists.
âIf you ever tell anyone about us, I will beat you up,â I hissed. Amyâs blue eyes widened; she looked from side to side for help.
âI wonât,â she said. âI promise. Please.â I let her go. She ran off. Tears stung my eyes. What the hell did I do that for? I loved Amy. I promised myself that the next day in assembly I would tell her I was sorry. But I was too embarrassed. And the worst of it was, after that day, Amy started fawning on me. She wanted me to be nice to her. She was lying down like a dog, letting me know I had won. She was weak and smart and beautiful and had a future, and I was strong and stupid and wasnât good at anything but scaring people. She would come up to me and make a lame joke, and I would smile with one side of my mouth, letting just a little air out of my nose. Once, I trapped her in one of the big gym lockers. I got a few of my henchwomen to circle her, and we shoved her in. She was screaming, pounding on the metal. My heart was slamming against my chest, I thought I was going tofaint. Afterward, she was angry, but she didnât stand up to me. She just walked away, sniffling.
Horrified at this bully I was becoming, I went to church every Sunday at nine oâclock and prayed to be a better person. My fatherâs gruff, clotted voice ground on like a distant engine as my thoughts kneaded my sins over and over, turning them in my mind like dough. Please, Jesus, come into my heart and change me I am begging you I am begging you to make me good, please .
One summer night, it was so hot, my open window was like the yawning mouth of a dead man, emitting no puff of air. It felt like the oxygen had been sealed out of the world. I slept fitfully, my hair wet with perspiration, my legs flung over the sheets. Every few minutes, it seemed, I woke and looked around me, hoping for the dawn. The night-light emitted a sickly green glow. Each time I woke, I lay and listened to the tree frogs: ribbons of high-pitched sound layered on top of one another to create one pulsating scream that reached into my dreams like a claw, dragging me, time and again, into my room and the heat.
I heard a sound, a fluttering, thudding sound, coming from the open window. A flash of white, and then a clumsy thing, a feathered, heavy animal fell onto my floor and waddled toward me, its belly brushing the carpet. I wanted to scream, but I could not. Its webbed feet and large wings dragged along the floor, as if it was unused to perambulation. It twisted its neck to look up at me, and I saw a broad, solemn, human face, the face of a fifteen-year-old boy. The thing had shapely arms, too, which grew from the feathered trunk. With a sudden, violent flapping of wings, it heaved itself aloft and