What Girls Learn

by Karin Cook

  Elizabeth let out a sigh, pushed her feet through my headrest, and touched her bare feet to my neck. “We know all that,” she said.

  “You don’t know anything yet,” Mama said. “You remember that.” It was meant as a warning, but she waited for a response as if it were a question. “When I was growing up girls who got pregnant had to be sent away,” she turned to Elizabeth. “Lila Davenport left school one day and just never came back.”

  “God, Mama, why are you looking at me?” Elizabeth shot back.

  We both knew what was coming. Lila Davenport had gotten alcohol poisoning as early as the sixth grade and gave herself asthma from smoking in junior high. Mama thought maybe she’d even been one of those early bulimics. Elizabeth and I had long stopped believing in Lila Davenport. And now here she was, pregnant and disappeared.

  “Did Lila have VD too?” I asked.

  Elizabeth began to giggle. Slowly at first, hiding her mouth with her hand, until she could no longer contain herself.

  “That’s not funny,” Mama said, “VD can make you infertile.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Lila was infertile,” Elizabeth said.

  Mama caught a glance of her in the rearview mirror, her lips tightening into a scowl. “I’m serious,” she said.

  “What ever happened to Lila?” Elizabeth asked, making her voice extra sweet.

  “Who knows?” Mama said. “I’m sure she turned to the street.”

  I burst out laughing. “The street” had been one of the horrible ends that Elizabeth and I’d imagined over the years, lying awake in our bunk beds, reading People magazine with a flashlight.

  “You girls have no idea,” Mama said. “This world is a very dangerous place.”

  We looked into each other’s faces, sharing that secret language we had, all eyebrows and squinched noses—each expression an entire conversation—until at the exact same instant, we became hysterical, tears streaming down our faces. Finally, we made Mama pull off the side of the road so that we could pee.

  Leaping out of the car the second it stopped, still shrieking with laughter, Elizabeth and I balanced our backs against each other and crouched between the doors on the passenger side. I spread my feet wide and bunched my corduroys tight between my knees. We strained silently, each waiting for the other to finish. Elizabeth tilted her bare foot away from my small stream. When we got back in the car, Mama looked at me, seeming to have more to say, but didn’t. Her face collapsed with fatigue. She dropped her purse into my lap instead.

  “Find me a Tylenol, will you please?” she said and pulled back into the traffic.

  Elizabeth and I had birthdays two weeks apart in early June. Irish twins, Mama called us, even though we weren’t really either thing. When we got to the mall, Mama announced that she wanted us each to pick out one outfit as a birthday present. Elizabeth was immediately suspicious. Usually Mama surprised us with presents rather than letting us choose.

  “We’re here,” Mama said, “you might as well get what you want.”

  “But it’s not for two months,” I said.

  Mama crossed her arms. “You don’t have to wear it right away if you don’t want to,” she said. “I just thought it would be fun.” She shook her head and walked off toward Macy’s.

  Elizabeth and I raised our eyebrows at each other and followed her inside. From the time we were babies, Mama dressed us alike, but always in different colors. My clothes were fiery, reds and orange; Elizabeth had cool blues. She would say how important it was to give a child a say, and then she’d let us choose among accessories for barrettes or bows or the pattern on our underpants. But that warm Sunday, the Junior Department at Macy’s represented our first experience with true selection.

  The mannequins were dressed in pastel and Elizabeth went wild, pulling matching tops and bottoms off racks and bending the clothes over her arm. It took her an hour to narrow it down and settle on one outfit. I knew what I wanted without even having to look. A pair of white overalls and a red-and-white striped sailor’s top that I’d seen in Seventeen magazine.

  Mama seemed distracted at the register; she filled her check out incorrectly the first time, spelling a different amount than what she wrote in numbers. “Damn,” she said, “damn, damn, damn.” She wrote VOID across the front of the check, ripped it out, and started over with a fresh one.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” I asked.

  She didn’t look up, just continued scribbling in her checkbook to calculate the balance. She used her fingers to subtract; it was how she taught me to do math and I resented her for it. I had to count with my hands behind my back or under my desk. Seeing Mama subtract this way, out in the open, embarrassed me.

  At the car, Elizabeth opted for the backseat so that she could spread out. She pulled her new clothes out of the bag and gnawed the tags off with her teeth. Then she lay each piece against the corresponding part of her body. Mama turned on the radio and let me tune it to station WPLJ. We were silent for the rest of the ride. When we pulled up to the house, Elizabeth bolted out of the car before Mama had even cut off the engine.

  “Thanks,” she called back, her new clothes clutched in her arms as she ran up the steps.

  Mama removed the keys from the ignition and took a deep breath. As I undid my seat belt and reached for the door, she touched my arm. “Wait,” she said.

  I stopped and looked at her. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and wiped a stray piece of hair out of her face.

  “I have something to tell you,” she said. “I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.” She wasn’t looking at me. “It’s just a checkup, but I want you to help Nick when you get home from school.”

  “Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  I watched as she gathered up her things. “Please don’t say anything to your sister,” she said, clutching her purse to her chest, and climbing out of the car.

  I was so pleased to be included in a secret that for a moment I forgot that she hadn’t actually told me anything. Instead she left me, the way she always left me, wordless and wondering what was really going on. Learning, as I had so many times, that silence was just another way to tell a lie.

  EUPHEMISM

  The next day signaled spring in a way we could all feel—early, bright light and birds, a kind of recklessness during recess. The boys swung wildly from the metal bars of the swings, smacked handballs hard against the cement wall. Even the lunchroom monitors stepped outside, squinting at the sun and bending to look closely at the new bulbs growing on the playground. This was the day that Mr. McKinney, the school principal, decided to call a special meeting of the sixth-grade girls to talk about the Period Movie.

  Mr. McKinney could bring a room to silence by his very presence. Once he started talking, nothing could make him stop: not the assistant principal, not even a fire drill. This day, he stood before us in the huge auditorium, stone-faced and serious, only to introduce the school nurse, Ms. Penny. We had all seen her before, in her cardigans and thick white shoes, real nurse clothes that meant she took her job seriously. There was a rumor that Ms. Penny had once smelled the inside of Susie Rhombus’s mouth to make sure that she had actually vomited. But no one had ever seen her out of the world of her office. She looked small leaning against the stage. Mr. McKinney had someone bring her a chair.

  Fortunately, Ms. Penny did not talk for long. She announced that we were required to see “And Then One Year,” an important movie about something we would all experience very soon: a process called menstruation. Our mothers were required to go with us. Ms. Penny directed our teachers to hand out permission slips and booklets about menstruation and asked that we keep them in the backs of our desks.

  Mr. McKinney cleared his throat. He held up a copy of the booklet, Growing Up and Liking It. “No one else need see these,” he said. “It is very important to be discreet.”

  When we filed out of the auditorium with our booklets, Mr. McKinney shepherded us down the hall, away from the curious
onlookers. You could see it on our faces for the rest of the day, every girl who had been in the room shared the look of having been caught at something. The way people appear just after kissing or coming out of the principal’s office. Faces flushed and heads hung low, like scolded dogs.

  On the bus, after school, I watched as some boys played keep-away with Elizabeth’s new windbreaker—tossing it around in a circle and passing it just over her head. She didn’t grab for it the way they wanted her to. If she had, her pink shirt would have lifted to reveal a band of pale skin. She crossed her arms and waited, scowling furiously in fake protest.

  When the bus stopped, Elizabeth made her way down the aisle toward the driver, as if she didn’t care whether the boys returned her jacket or not. Shouting, “Hey, Elizabeth, wait!” and “C’mon,” they let it fall from the back window like a parachute. They were just playing around, they said, couldn’t she take a joke? Elizabeth dusted the jacket off and tied the sleeves around her waist.

  After four months, coming up the stairs and through the front door still felt like walking into someone else’s house. There were signs of us everywhere: pictures hanging on the mirror in the foyer; random pieces of clothing slung over the backs of chairs; and stacks of our papers waiting to be carried upstairs. But all this could easily be cleared out and the house could go back to looking and smelling as if Nick lived there alone.

  When I walked in, Nick was standing in the kitchen, the counter behind him lined with grocery bags. Elizabeth grabbed a box of Entenmann’s crumb doughnuts and went to the TV room. I hid the permission slip for the Period Movie in my five-subject notebook and set it on the stairs.

  “Give me a hand?” Nick asked. He was wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves cuffed above his wrists. He unpacked, one item at a time, and folded the empty bags along their original creases. The sound of his thumb against the paper made my teeth hurt. The counter looked like the forbidden aisle in the grocery store: frozen waffles and pop tarts, ice cream sandwiches and cheese snacks. Nothing felt familiar. I realized I had never been alone with Nick.

  “Catch,” he said and tossed me a loaf of white bread to put on top of the refrigerator.

  “Where’s Mama?” I asked.

  “At the doctor’s,” he said.

  “Still?”

  Nick nodded.

  I made space in the freezer, fitting the metal ice trays one on top of the other. My finger got stuck to the frost and burned red when I pulled it away. I stacked the frozen foods by size on the shelf and had to slam the freezer door twice to get it to stay. When everything was put away, Nick said he had something to tell me.

  “I think now is a good time,” he said and gestured to the TV room.

  Elizabeth was watching The Brady Bunch. It was a rerun, the one where Jan rubs lemons on her face to get rid of her freckles.

  “You should try that,” Elizabeth said.

  “It doesn’t work.”

  “Shut that off for a minute, would you, Tilden?” Nick said and tapped Elizabeth on the leg to get her to make room on the couch. I turned down the volume and left the picture. Elizabeth nodded her approval, egging me on to disobey.

  “No.” Nick said, snapping off the television and settling back on the couch. He pitched his elbows forward on his knees and clasped his hands together. “Here’s the story,” he began. “Everything is fine, so I don’t want you to get upset or worry, but your Mama had to have a few tests today.”

  Elizabeth took her feet off the coffee table and sat up straight. “Where is she?”

  “At the doctor’s …” he said, “the hospital, actually.”

  The hollow TV screen glared back at me. Who was this man, really? What was he trying to say?

  “When is she coming back?” I asked.

  “Soon,” he said, “real soon.”

  Elizabeth glared at Nick, her brows bunched tightly. “Tonight?”

  “I don’t think so,” Nick said, “but we can call her later.”

  “What kind of tests?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “We’ll know more tomorrow.” He closed his eyes and rubbed the lids with his thumbs. “Can we call her now?” Elizabeth asked.

  Nick hesitated. I could tell he didn’t want to say no. “Let’s try,” he said, as if she were on some remote island and difficult to reach.

  We gathered around the phone in the kitchen while Nick squinted at the number and dialed. After a few long moments his face relaxed.

  “Did I wake you?” he asked in a gentle voice. “The girls would like to speak to you.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “She sounds sleepy,” he said and finally handed me the receiver. He walked away and stood in front of the refrigerator, the doors opened in a cold hug.

  I tilted the earpiece toward Elizabeth and she leaned in so close that I could feel her breath on my neck.

  “Hello,” Mama said, “how are you?” Her voice sounded faint and far away.

  “Fine,” we answered at the same time and then said nothing.

  “Is everything okay?” Mama asked.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “What are the tests for?”

  “I had a little lump,” Mama said, “but the doctor scooped it right out.”

  “Where?” Elizabeth asked.

  “On my chest,” she said. “Don’t worry, you can come and visit. Tomorrow even, if you want.”

  “How long are you going to be there?” I asked.

  “Just a few days.”

  I stared at the corkboard next to the phone. Brightly colored pins pushed at odd angles to each other. Mama had put exclamation points on everything. Report cards. Our chore list. Her handwriting was small and restrained with sharp, bony letters that stopped long before the end of the page.

  While I gazed out into space, Elizabeth took the phone out of my hand and began jotting things down on the back of an envelope, making lists and promises. “Anything else?” she kept asking, “anything at all?” She leaned over the counter and cleared the mail away with her forearm. Her face looked pale and worried, like a little girl, lost.

  “What about nail polish?” she asked. “Slippers? Toothpaste? Do you need lotion?” Nothing with perfume, she wrote down and underlined it. “Are you really okay?” she asked in a high and strained voice.

  Nick didn’t move from the refrigerator. He stood, rearranging the bottles in the door. On the top shelf there were six peanut-butter-and-cucumber sandwiches, wrapped in Baggies. Stacked up, they reminded me of new shirts, the kind I’d seen in the closets of my friends’ fathers. On the second shelf, there were five boxes of Carnation breakfast bars. He stared at the ground and kicked his toe against the grating.

  “I love you, Mama,” Elizabeth said and handed me the phone.

  “Make sure your sister doesn’t buy the whole drugstore,” Mama said charging me with the weight of responsibility. “Tell her I’m fine.”

  “Are you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Promise?”

  “Don’t worry,” Mama said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Everything’s under control,” Nick said, when he got back on the phone. “You get some rest.” He returned the receiver to its cradle and rested his hand there for a moment without saying anything. Elizabeth rewrote the list for the drugstore, gripping the pen tightly and striving for neatness.

  Nick cleared his throat. “Let’s take a ride,” he said and we filed out after him, relieved to have a plan. In the driveway, he opted for Mama’s car and slid her seat back as far as it would go. Elizabeth and I squeezed in beside him and pulled the seat belt across our laps. It felt good to leave the house. Nick let out a deep sigh. He was more at ease in a car, any car. He turned on the radio, twisting the dial until he found the Oldies station.

  “What happened?” I asked once we were under way.

  “It was a routine procedure,” Nick said. He seemed angry. His wide face red, his neck clenched. I felt afraid to ask anything more.

>   We were quiet for a few minutes while “Runaround Sue” played on the radio.

  “What’s a lump?” Elizabeth asked at last.

  Nick gripped the steering wheel tightly. “It’s like a growth,” he said, “only on the inside.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, blinking thoughtfully, “I hope not.”

  The trees whizzed by interrupted by telephone poles and large birds crouching on high wires. For some reason I found myself picturing the sketches in the menstruation book, a girl inside a girl inside a girl, each growing taller, her chest and hips swelling. The drawing showed the different sizes of breasts, like lumps, pushing out from under her arms in broken lines, like a paper doll.

  At McNeary’s Pharmacy, Elizabeth and I went straight for the sampler baskets. We worked side by side like factory workers, twisting caps and smelling for perfumes.

  “What’s wrong with perfume?” I asked.

  Elizabeth looked up from her bottle and shrugged. “Maybe she’s allergic.”

  I picked up a pink bottle of calamine lotion and read the label. I’d developed a rash on my arms and thighs which Mama called winter bumps, even though they lasted all year long.

  “You don’t need lotion. You should loofah,” Elizabeth said, looking at me as if I never bathed.

  Behind us loomed the sanitary napkins. The boxes were enormous. I did everything I could not to look at them. But one, with blue lettering, caught my eye. It had a white bird in flight painted on the corner.

  “Can I help you?” the druggist asked. He had been watching us. He looked serious in his lab coat and glasses, like a doctor. I wanted to ask him about lumps and growths, but his eyes narrowed at my armful of miniature bottles, as if I were planning to steal them.

  “We need something without perfumes,” Elizabeth announced. “For our mother.”

  He pointed to a glass case of hypoallergenic cosmetics and bath products and stood over us calling out prices. I closed my eyes, willing him to go away.