At
night, the man who lives next door makes fires. We can hear him making them and
smell the bitter burning of the little green twigs he gets from the kid with
the Afro and the comb in his hair. The comb is purple, which my older sister,
Renee says makes the Afro kid gay as pink ink. Our neighbor rolls the little
twigs in papers and lights the ends of them. He puts them to his lips and
chokes them down. He hurts himself on the coughs and we don’t know why and we
don’t care why. He laughs and laughs shoving Fire Flavored Cheetos into his
mouth and spitting out orange, but no one is there, just he is, the Afro with
the comb and the baggies already left so it’s just the dog, Gracie. Renee says
she can read the Cheetos bag, but I can’t see far enough to know if she’s
lying.
Every night when
we remember to, we watch that coughing guy through our window get undressed and
try to guess where his old wife went. “She must be in the crazy bin,” Renee
tells me. “Remember when she chased that girl with licorice?” But, I don’t
remember—all I remember is —she was very very very old---so old that whatever
used to be a woman was now a man----- and sometimes when people get old they
get a smell that tells dogs they are dying and I bet she had that smell and now
she lives in the deep earth with the rest of the bodies. We try not to think
about her underwear or her naked sagging body, whenever we do we laugh and roll
around on the floor because you can’t think of old people naked, it’s too much
like thinking of god going to the bathroom. I
never tell my sister how the old wife died, because death is one of those
things that has superstitions attached and to say it will make it happen. But,
I tell Renee about the ghost and how the ghost tells me what our parents do in
that bed of theirs. Renee makes me shut up by chucking dolls at me as hard as
she can. I hide my face with my pillow, but I peek out and see my Cindy doll’s
head go flying. Renee says it’s an accident, but there are no accidents. She
kills my dolls on purpose. We are fake sisters. Real by birth. Fake by
everything else.
My babysitter
comes every week without fail and tells us weird stories about the drugs she’s
taking. She talks about boys more than anything else, the ones that like her,
the ones that used to like her, the ones that got stolen out from under her,
the ones she keeps secret. Today she is wearing a tight shirt without a bra.
Her makeup looks like it should be on a teacher, not a fifteen year old. She
wears platform shoes and a tiny skirt. I know she is trying to look sexy, but
she looks more like a cartoon. Her
name is Maureen McAdams. My mother always refers to people by their first and
last names. Jim McAdams this and Maureen McAdams that. My mother tells mean
stories about Maureen that we aren’t allowed to repeat. My mother tells us that
Maureen got suspended for drinking and blowing on a boy. My mother tells us
that Maureen is going to end up dead in a dumpster someday, like the girls we
hear about on the 6 o’clock news. My mother tells us whenever someone tries to
give us candy to run like hell or we are going to be cut up and die on the
hillside like the girls on TV. Renee says, “Then you should buy us candy,
mother, don’t put our lives in jeopardy.”
Maureen walks us
to Vendome Liquor so we can gorge our faces on chocolate and other things our
parents don’t allow. Maureen lights cigarettes and chokes them down with a pose
like if she were in a movie you’d think she was about to get run over. Renee goes inside to steal stuff. She comes out with way more stuff than
the money would buy. Chocolate balls, milky ways, Recees Peanut Butter Cups,
Suckers and Blow-Pops. Green flavor is my favorite for the suckers and Renee
never remembers and only brings the ones that stain your mouth red. Cherry, Strawberry and Raspberry. She
always makes up a lie that she used all the money when really she pockets it.
She always gives me some so I don’t tell.
Maureen cries on a
payphone telling it, it doesn’t matter if she’s not allowed, she’ll do what she
wants. Renee and I are burning up in the hot sun so hard we take off our shoes.
Renee takes off her top because she doesn’t care who sees. She walks around all
puffed out like hookers do. I’m embarrassed and pretend I don’t know her, the
street is right there, cars see, and god sees. If I stay close to the Vendome
doors, I can feel the air conditioning every time they open and shut. So, I do
that. It makes a loud sucking noise, I smooth my feet over the rubber mat with
the little ridges. I’m wearing my reversible red-bandana on one side denim on
the other side halter top. When I get bored of the door thing I go to the
sidewalk in front of the parking lot and rub my feet over the little blackened
gum circles on the sidewalk and I’m going to myself, I wish I had sunscreen now
I’m going to be sunburned and my mom will get mad and yell at me and hate me
again. She’ll see my sad and raise it.
Maureen takes
forever on the phone, and we’re bored. Life seems to take forever when someone
you want to talk to is on the phone. Renee jumps on top of the wall next to the
parking lot and pretends she’s in the Olympics—“LOOK, I’m on the balance beam,”
she screams. Then she does a cartwheel and Maureen almost has a heart attack.
“Don’t do that again!” Maureen says to my sister and Renee just looks at her
with hate eyes.
The
fright of it makes Maureen stop crying and get off the phone like a magic trick
and Renee puts back on her shirt and we walk all the way to McDonalds to get
orange drink and fish filet. She is going against my mothers orders to feed us
apples and peanut butter from Quinn’s and I tell her we aren’t allowed but she
says I’m a tattle tale and if I tell my life will be stupid and for nothing.
Later,
Maureen comes in my bedroom and takes me to the TV room. She tells me she has a
date with a boy and she wants to try something on me. She asks me if I mind. I
say, why me, why not Renee. She says Renee’s too old even though Renee is only
a year and a half older than I am. She says it’s a special kind of kiss. A
French one. She says she has to try it because she has another date and has to
look like a professional. Then she puts her tongue in my mouth and moves it
around. I am sicked out and think this is bad. I’m bad and she’s bad.
“Was
it okay?”
“It’s
just gross, that’s all.”
“But,
do you think I’m doing it right?”
I
didn’t know but it seemed unfair that I had to be the one and it was full
confirmation that god didn’t love me. I could see it was really important to
tell her something nice so she could be happy like when my mother asked if she
was pretty and I would say yes even when she looked tired.
“Are
you supposed to put your tongue in? That seems weird.”
“That’s
the frenching.”
“Well,
I guess it’s okay then.”
I
got back in bed with my sheets with stars and moons and galaxies on them. I
couldn’t sleep after that so I tried to see the neighbor if he was up, but all
I saw was Gracie outside shivering.
