Perfect (7 page)

I promised myself I would start shaving. Immediately.
Who cares if my mother thinks thirteen is too young?
She's not the one who has to sit leg-to-leg with Ashley
Barnum.

"Hey," Ashley said. At first I thought she was referring
to my hairy legs, but then I saw what she was looking at.

Over by the door, Rachel's voice sounded high and
wheezy. "What are you talking about? You're a total
stick!"

Trish was squatting next to Lila, her arm around the
back of Lila's chair. "Rachel. Take a breath."

Rachel stood and kicked a table, sent a stack of magazines flying. "I'm breathing!" She picked her umbrella up
off the floor and slung it over one shoulder like a hobo
stick. "You're all a bunch of whack jobs anyway!"

Rachel tried to slam the door on her way out, but a
piece of umbrella fabric got stuck in one of the hinges, and it took her a second to yank it out. Then she tucked the
umbrella under one arm, like a machine gun, and turned
to take aim at Trish. "You better not talk about me when
I'm gone!"

Slain!

Trish just stood there against the wall, blowing air into
her hangs, which were damp enough to stand up straight
on their own. We helped her pick up the magazines and
push the chairs back into a circle. Then Trish started to
tell us about how Group is kind of like a family.

Sure, Trish. The kind of family you'd buy at the Salvation Army.

"Sometimes families fight," Trish said, arranging magazines into the shape of a half-moon. "Sometimes they hurt
each other. Or disappoint each other. Or make each other
furious. But, in the end . . ." Trish walked to the middle of
the room. "If they choose to . . ." She interlaced her fingers, two at a time. "They can come hack together. Stronger than ever."

Try having my family for a day, Trish. Try going to
bed with a dad and waking up without one. Try having
a mother who's sad all the time but pretends she's not.
Then we'll talk.

Over on the couch, Mathilde was sniffling. Dawn
unzipped her backpack and took out a packet of minitissues. "Here," she said. "They're the soft kind."

When Mathilde blew her nose she sounded like a
tuba.

"Thank You, Dawn," said Trish. "That was a really nice
gesture."

Across the room, Ashley gave a little wave to get my attention. She formed her hands into two quacking duck
mouths. I rolled my eyes in agreement.

We were so bonded.

Ashley got a ride home with The Brothers, but not before
she slipped me a scrap of paper with her number on it.
562-3343. Five six two, three three four three. I had Ashley Barnum's phone number. Ashley Barnum wanted me
to call her.

I was so happy right then, I decided to walk to the bus
stop with Dawn and Mathilde. We were all going the same
way, it seemed silly to walk separately.

Nobody said anything for the first three blocks.
Mathilde was still blowing her nose. But when we got
to the bench outside the post office, she dove into her
backpack and came up with a fistful of candy bars. You
guys want some chocolate' I've got Snickers, Reeses,
Clark Bar ..

Dawn said, "Sure. Thanks, Mathilde." She took the
peanut butter cups.

I started to say something about not snacking between
meals, but I stopped myself I took a Snickers. What the
hey. I had Ashley Barnum's phone number.

Mathilde ate her Clark Bar surprisingly slowly, in
tiny bites, like a heaver. She unrolled the wrapper as she
went.

Weird. I would have thought that because she's so
fat, Mathilde would eat really fast. It turned out Dawn
and I were the ones who swallowed our candy bars in two
bites.

"Help yourselves," Mathilde said. "There's plenty."

Waiting for the bus, Dawn ate three more candy bars,
and I ate four. Then, when the number seven finally
pulled up, I'm not kidding, I grabbed another two for the
road.

GEORGIE CALLED JUST AS I was finishing nay
homework. If you're ever on the phone with Georgie on a
school night, remember this: you'd better get off at eight
o'clock on the nose or her mother will have a conniption.
Sometimes she gets on the other line and says things like
Georgine Clancy Miner, you're going to stunt your growth if
you don't get ten hours of sleep. You'll lose brain cells. Mostly
she rings a hell like Georgie is a cow and needs to get hack
to pasture.

Nola called at 8:01, exactly. "Hey, Isabelle."

"Hey."

"Did you just get off with Georgie?"

"Uh-huh."

"Did her mom ring the bell?"

"Naturally."

"Did you do your math homework yet?"

"Uh-huh."

This is how our phone calls go, the sane conversation every time. I let my mind wander and pretended I
was talking to Ashley Barnum, who I was too much of
a chicken to call in real life even if she did give me her
number. Hey, Ashley. It's me, Isabelle. If it was Ashley on
the phone, we'd have all sorts of interesting things to talk
about. We'd never want to hang up. Not like with Nola,
who practically puts a person to sleep.

"So," she was saying. "Picture day tomor w. It feels
like we just had picture day, doesn't it?"

"I don't know. I guess."

"I think I'll wear my blue button-down. What are you
wearing, Isabelle?"

For some reason this irritated me no end. I was perfectly happy daydreaming that I was talking with Ashley,
and now Nola had to go ahead and bring up picture day,
the one day where nothing I wear, short of a pillowcase
over my head, will make an ounce of difference. I always
turn out the same way, demented.

If you stand in the den and look at my school photos
from over the years, you can see for yourself. Let's start with
fifth grade: stitches on my chin, covered by a Band-Aid.
Sixth grade: left eye closed. Seventh grade, the best ever: a
piece of pancake stuck in my braces. Need I say more?

The den used to he my favorite room in the house. I
used to love looking at all the photos. I remember this one
of Mom and Daddy on their wedding day, all shining eyes
and white teeth. And the one of Daddy and me at a football game when I was three, me on his shoulders holding
a baton. And the four of us out on the porch in summer,
April on Mom's lap and me on Daddy's, all making monkey faces. Best of all, the photo of Daddy in high school,
wearing his baseball uniform, so handsome you can't believe you're related.

The problem with the den now is that lie's gone.
There's not one frame with him in it, and that hurts.
Besides that, I can't ask my mother what she did with the
photos because if I do she'll have a total breakdown, and
I will he left feeling even more terrible than I did to begin
with, if that's possible.

The reason I hate picture day is it's fake. You can smile
for the camera as if to say, Look! I'm so happy! But then
you get them hack and you don't look that way at all. You
just look pathetic.

"I'm wearing a burlap sack," I told Nola. "Belted. With
my rainbow belt."

"Oh, Isabelle," said Nola.

She thought I was kidding?

"How about your green sweater, Isabelle? You look
really good in green. It goes with your eyes."

If Trish was there she'd give Nola a gold star for her
voice of positivity. But Trish was not there. "My eyes aren't
green, Nola," I said. "They're brown. The color of poop."

PICTURE DAY, coming downstairs for breakfast. First
thing my mother did was give me the Mom Look. "Such
a pretty girl."

I said, "You're my mother. It's your job to say that."

"Well it also happens to he true." She snuck in a little
cheek stroke, which I usually can't stand. But you see, she
got up early to make breakfast for us. Most of the time she
doesn't get out of bed until after we've left for school. It's
only toast and cereal (Daddy would have made pancakes)
but still. I didn't know whether to hug her or cry.

"Looks good, Mom," I said.

She began to glide around like an ice skater, pouring
juice into coffee mugs. "Cheerios or Grape-Nuts!"

"Juice is fine. I have to get to school early."

Juice is not fine. She poured a whole hunch of GrapeNuts into a bowl for me. "You'll have some cereal, then
you'll go."

My mother has this habit of sounding Jewish even
though she's not. You'll have a matzo ball, some gefilte fish,
then you'll go.

The reason I know about sounding Jewish is I used
to go to a Jewish day camp every summer. Beth El Temple
Center Day Camp. All the moms who worked there talked
in this particular way. They used a lot of Yiddish, calling
me their little maideleh, which means sweet girl, or their
little holishkes, which means stuffed cabbage. They were
always pinching my cheeks.

Sometimes I think she talks Jewish to bring Daddy
back a little, to not miss him quite so much. She Would
never admit it, not in a million years. I mean, we don't
even celebrate Hanukkah anymore. But that's still what I
think.

That's why I pretended to be excited about the GrapeNuts, which, if you ask me, look like constipated mouse
turds. "These are good, Mom," I said. "Is there fruit? For
on top?"

My mother gave me a big smile and handed me a
banana.

Ape Face showed up to breakfast in purple overallshand-me-downs from me, only I looked like a giant grape
in them and she looks cute. She knows it too.

Ape Face stood in the doorway and cleared her throat.
When she had our attention she did a little supermodel
spin for us. "Well?"

"The perfect picture day ensemble," said my mother.

"Belle?" said Ape Face, in her sweetest little sister
voice. "You look really pretty."

What is it with the compliments in this house?

"Uh-huh," I said.

Ever since the Bathroom Incident, Ape Face has been
trying to kiss up to me. Not only is she full of compliments,
she is also full of peace offerings. The night before, I found
a jumbo bag of peanut M&M's and a container of sparkle
lip gloss outside my door. On purple paper with glitter glue
she'd written:

The M&M's were a nice touch, but she's going to have
to work a lot harder to undo what she did.

"So?" my mother said. "How are your Cheerios?"
"Spectacular!" said Ape Face. There was milk running
down her chin.

Mom reached over and smoothed her hair. "Thank
you, sweetheart."

I choked down one last bite of mouse turds, the least
I could get away with, and a few swallows of juice. "May I
be excused? Please?"

My mother looked at my bowl. "You don't like the
cereal?" she said. "You want something else:"'

Yeah, I thought. Pancakes. "I'm not that hungry," I
said.

Mom sighed. "Clear your plate, please, Isabelle."

Then, as I was heading out the door to meet my doom,
"Belle? Sweetie? Don't forget to smile!"

The girls' room, ten minutes before first hell: hair spray so
thick you could taste it.

Everyone was there.

"How do I look?"