Girlchild (19 page)
M
y mother is a hungry dog.
y mother is a hungry dog.
I will always be a hungry dog like my mama, unable to remember when my dish was full or if it might be full again. I keep one eye on the dish, the other on the hand that descends. My teeth ache to bite, hold hand to mouth and never wonder again.
I
wash the butter off my hands and fill a pot with water. There’s no one on the street but I smile out the window anyway, say, “Hello! And welcome to
Cooking with Rory
! Thank you for tuning in. You’re lucky because today we’re making my specialty—Top Ramen! You will need a small pot for boiling water, and of course, one package of Top Ramen! You may notice that the directions suggest two cups of water, but in my years of perfecting this recipe I’ve found that half a pot works best.” I hold up the pot for my audience and then slam it on the bag of noodles, saying, “Remember to crush the fucking noodles before opening the package.” The package splits open, noodles fly everywhere, and I turn on a burner while scanning my audience for signs of approaching cars, but instead of cars, it’s Marc. He’s riding his bike down the middle of the street. His shirt is tucked into the back pocket of his jeans and I can see the hair on his chest that wasn’t there before, curling and wet. He turns into his driveway and rides through the gate without even a look at our kitchen window where I am now doing anything but pretending to have my own cooking show and waiting like a dog for my mama. I forget about the soup altogether.
wash the butter off my hands and fill a pot with water. There’s no one on the street but I smile out the window anyway, say, “Hello! And welcome to
Cooking with Rory
! Thank you for tuning in. You’re lucky because today we’re making my specialty—Top Ramen! You will need a small pot for boiling water, and of course, one package of Top Ramen! You may notice that the directions suggest two cups of water, but in my years of perfecting this recipe I’ve found that half a pot works best.” I hold up the pot for my audience and then slam it on the bag of noodles, saying, “Remember to crush the fucking noodles before opening the package.” The package splits open, noodles fly everywhere, and I turn on a burner while scanning my audience for signs of approaching cars, but instead of cars, it’s Marc. He’s riding his bike down the middle of the street. His shirt is tucked into the back pocket of his jeans and I can see the hair on his chest that wasn’t there before, curling and wet. He turns into his driveway and rides through the gate without even a look at our kitchen window where I am now doing anything but pretending to have my own cooking show and waiting like a dog for my mama. I forget about the soup altogether.
“Hello! And welcome to
Dialing with Rory
! Thank you for tuning in!” I say, as I look through the phone book for a new number to memorize. Marc’s last name is Simmons, and I punch his number
through butter and breadcrumbs. I swear I can hear his phone ringing from over the fence, and when he answers I hold my breath through all of his hellos and only breathe again when the dial tone starts.
Dialing with Rory
! Thank you for tuning in!” I say, as I look through the phone book for a new number to memorize. Marc’s last name is Simmons, and I punch his number
through butter and breadcrumbs. I swear I can hear his phone ringing from over the fence, and when he answers I hold my breath through all of his hellos and only breathe again when the dial tone starts.
T
he movement from hand to mouth is at once isolated and distinct but also automatic, unvarying.
he movement from hand to mouth is at once isolated and distinct but also automatic, unvarying.
I
’m climbing back over the chain link from my last trip to visit Horse, my last time to shake hands with his electric fence, when I get it. It. First I go for the
Girl Scout Handbook
. I don’t remember seeing anything about the protocol for this event but I’m sure it’s there. I check everywhere, under
M
and
P,
under “Abdomen, first aid for pain in,” and “Cuts (
see also
Wounds),” and finally I run my finger down column after column of the index, past “Color Guard” and “Dues, annual national membership,” “Hitching tie,” “Mammal badge,” and “Snakes.” Nothing. The Girl Scouts offer no advice for my condition, no ceremony, no supplemental material available for purchase by sending one dollar through the mail. There should at least be a patch, teardrop-shaped, to be sewn discreetly to the inside of the uniform, a waning moon embroidered over a field of cotton, a danger sign on the side of a thready mountain road.
’m climbing back over the chain link from my last trip to visit Horse, my last time to shake hands with his electric fence, when I get it. It. First I go for the
Girl Scout Handbook
. I don’t remember seeing anything about the protocol for this event but I’m sure it’s there. I check everywhere, under
M
and
P,
under “Abdomen, first aid for pain in,” and “Cuts (
see also
Wounds),” and finally I run my finger down column after column of the index, past “Color Guard” and “Dues, annual national membership,” “Hitching tie,” “Mammal badge,” and “Snakes.” Nothing. The Girl Scouts offer no advice for my condition, no ceremony, no supplemental material available for purchase by sending one dollar through the mail. There should at least be a patch, teardrop-shaped, to be sewn discreetly to the inside of the uniform, a waning moon embroidered over a field of cotton, a danger sign on the side of a thready mountain road.
When I tell Mama, she smiles, but it’s slow in coming and gone by the time she stops hugging me, a long one like we were saying good-bye and her question is like that too: “Do you have everything you need?” I half expect her to hand me a quarter and ask me to call when I get there, wherever it is she’s sending me off to, but I obey the first of the unwritten rules of puberty and act as if I know what’s needed and certainly have it. Satisfied, she sits down
to toast my womanhood with one Coors after another until she’s celebrated so long she’s passed out under the haze of a
Soap
rerun. I go back to the
Handbook
and exhaust “Stains, removal of” before settling for “Uniforms, disposing of outgrown.” My blood-stained blue jeans go in the bag hidden at the bottom of my closet, the bag with the torn ruffled skirt and my favorite rainbow T-shirt, and I let the door close on it all.
to toast my womanhood with one Coors after another until she’s celebrated so long she’s passed out under the haze of a
Soap
rerun. I go back to the
Handbook
and exhaust “Stains, removal of” before settling for “Uniforms, disposing of outgrown.” My blood-stained blue jeans go in the bag hidden at the bottom of my closet, the bag with the torn ruffled skirt and my favorite rainbow T-shirt, and I let the door close on it all.
I
am lighting a candle. The candle is for Saint Jude. Not the famous-famous Jude who sold his friend for silver, not Iscariot, but Thaddeus. Saint Jude Thaddeus is the guy in charge of hopeless causes, of which I am one, despite what my scores on the standardized tests say. Unlike the kindly teachers at Roscoe, Jude is savvy to the real tests that lie ahead, and to that end, he has quite a line of candles. You’ve probably seen his name in the
Penny Saver
on Wednesdays. Jude’s famous in the quiet way of saints kept near the back, two lines for $14.99, but he’s in the papers all the time because Saint Jude works his ass off answering prayers. Telling others about the help he’s granted is all he wants by way of payback. It doesn’t take placing an ad to do this, either, so long as the news gets shared. Payback could be anything. It could be this.
am lighting a candle. The candle is for Saint Jude. Not the famous-famous Jude who sold his friend for silver, not Iscariot, but Thaddeus. Saint Jude Thaddeus is the guy in charge of hopeless causes, of which I am one, despite what my scores on the standardized tests say. Unlike the kindly teachers at Roscoe, Jude is savvy to the real tests that lie ahead, and to that end, he has quite a line of candles. You’ve probably seen his name in the
Penny Saver
on Wednesdays. Jude’s famous in the quiet way of saints kept near the back, two lines for $14.99, but he’s in the papers all the time because Saint Jude works his ass off answering prayers. Telling others about the help he’s granted is all he wants by way of payback. It doesn’t take placing an ad to do this, either, so long as the news gets shared. Payback could be anything. It could be this.
So I’m lighting this candle. And I’m saying these words. I’m opening the windows and I’m turning off the lights. I’m lighting a candle to Saint Jude, in the dark, in the night, so the bugs will come, because tonight, I’m inviting insects. The wick is lit, it’s irresistible in the dark, and I’m letting in Mama’s fears and my own, let them duke it out for a space nearest the flame, settle this old score once and for all and see who’s left standing when morning comes. Saint Jude’s prayer is backlit on the candle’s label and its words dance in shadow through the windows, flicker into corners,
and race across walls,
Saint Jude
and
name of the traitor
and
desperate cases
and
pray for me who am so miserable
and
implore
and
consolation
and then there’s a space for the supplicants, of which I am one, to state the exact nature of the trouble:
and race across walls,
Saint Jude
and
name of the traitor
and
desperate cases
and
pray for me who am so miserable
and
implore
and
consolation
and then there’s a space for the supplicants, of which I am one, to state the exact nature of the trouble:
(
make your request here
)
make your request here
)
H
aving a one-time hippie for a mom means no church on Sundays, but there’s other stuff to worship. The bookshelf is full and I read through
I’m OK—You’re OK
and learn that no one promised me a rose garden. I read
This Is Women’s Work
and learn never to eat the yellow wallpaper. I read Kerouac and many books by the Prophet and learn that all work is empty except when there is love, but even Gibran’s compassion can’t fill the emptiness in Mama’s checkbook, so it’s off to work she goes, which used to mean I’d be off to Carol’s, where the bookshelves were empty of books but full of dusty snow globes and greasy parts catalogues, and used to mean I’d be off to Grandma’s, where the baskets were full of skeins of yarn, crochet hooks, and poker chips, and now it means I’m stuck here with all these books I’ve already read. Having a one-time hippie for a mom means that she treats me like a grown-up, I can cuss, and I can have birth control as soon as I ask. And it means I can ask for other things too, like to leave, like my brothers did. And it means that she’d probably let me go.
aving a one-time hippie for a mom means no church on Sundays, but there’s other stuff to worship. The bookshelf is full and I read through
I’m OK—You’re OK
and learn that no one promised me a rose garden. I read
This Is Women’s Work
and learn never to eat the yellow wallpaper. I read Kerouac and many books by the Prophet and learn that all work is empty except when there is love, but even Gibran’s compassion can’t fill the emptiness in Mama’s checkbook, so it’s off to work she goes, which used to mean I’d be off to Carol’s, where the bookshelves were empty of books but full of dusty snow globes and greasy parts catalogues, and used to mean I’d be off to Grandma’s, where the baskets were full of skeins of yarn, crochet hooks, and poker chips, and now it means I’m stuck here with all these books I’ve already read. Having a one-time hippie for a mom means that she treats me like a grown-up, I can cuss, and I can have birth control as soon as I ask. And it means I can ask for other things too, like to leave, like my brothers did. And it means that she’d probably let me go.
Symbol:
The Girl Scout salute, three fingers extended, the thumb holding down the little finger
The Girl Scout salute, three fingers extended, the thumb holding down the little finger
To earn this badge do five of these activities, the three starred are required.
1. Act as if you know more about the following things than you do: sanitary pads, parked cars, birth control, love.
2. Forget to change your pad long enough to allow a silver-dollarsized spot of blood to leak through to the seat of your pants. Intermediate: Have a boy notice the spot before you do. Advanced: Have the boy who notices it be the one you secretly have a crush on (or his best friend).3. Know at least five euphemisms for menstruation, including: the curse, falling off the roof, and having Aunt Flo pay a visit.
4. Gain a new respect for bleach. Intermediate: Gain a new respect for black underwear. Advanced: Consider the difference between kid underwear and sexy ones. Make sure that at least one of your sexy pairs features a heart-shaped patch. If a heart-shaped patch cannot be found, rhinestones or a cherry appliqué may be substituted.5. Know which shelf holds the Judy Blume books at your school library. Be able to tell from across the room whether or not they are checked out. Intermediate: Know their Dewey Decimal numbers by heart. Advanced: Keep a list of the most enlightening scenes on the girls’ bathroom wall.
6. Sleep with a bra on every night in fear of your boobs dropping should you forget. Intermediate: Don’t wear a bra in the daytime. Advanced: Forget bras and wear the
Here Comes Trouble
T-shirt you got for your eighth birthday. Act offended if anyone stares at the new shape of the word
Trouble.
Wear the shirt until your mother asks what smells.
Here Comes Trouble
T-shirt you got for your eighth birthday. Act offended if anyone stares at the new shape of the word
Trouble.
Wear the shirt until your mother asks what smells.
7. Discover that the merest mention of menstrual pain causes your P.E. teacher’s eyes to glaze over. Understand that she is inept at keeping track of dates and will not remember when your last period was. Use this understanding to sit on the bleachers until finals.8. Sneak your mother’s makeup to cover your acne. Intermediate: Also sneak her mascara. Advanced: Don’t sneak any of it because, fuck them, if they want to stare at your tits they can stare at your zits, too.
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