My Girl

by Patricia Hermes

  There was a light on in his room, and I stood under the window.

  "Thomas J!" I called softly. "Hey, Thomas J."

  In just a second his head appeared in the window.

  "You ready?" I called.

  "What if I get in trouble?" he whispered.

  "You're not going to get in trouble," I said. "Just get out here."

  His head disappeared from the window, and his light went out.

  I ran to the back door where I knew he'd come out and crouched down by the garbage pails, hidden in the shadows.

  In just a second the back door opened very quietly and Thomas J came out on the porch and down the steps.

  "Vada?" he said softly.

  I stepped out of the shadows. "Hey!" I said.

  He clutched his throat. "Don't do that!" he whispered.

  "Sorry," I said.

  "I'm going to get in trouble if they know I'm out," Thomas J said. "I get asthma from the dark."

  "Wimp!" I said.

  "Am not!"

  "Bed wetter!" I said.

  "I stopped that!" he said.

  "Then come on. We're going to the church hall to play bingo."

  "But what if . . ."

  I ran away, and he chased after me. I knew he would.

  When he caught up to me, he said, "They're not going to let us in, Vada, we're kids! And I don't even like to play bingo."

  "We're not playing, we're watching. Come on. This is important."

  We ran all the way to the church hall. They always set up a big tent for bingo and Thomas J and I went to the tent door and peeked in. People were already playing. We crouched down behind the tent flap, peeking up just enough to see but not be seen. I hoped.

  Dad and Shelly had a table in the back, right near us. They were so close that if I stood up and leaned out, I could almost read their cards. We couldn't hear exactly what they said with all the noise, but I heard Shelly say something about putting makeup on people and Dad talking about his "strategy" for bingo. Boring.

  Most of the people in the tent looked to be about a hundred years old, including the people at Dad's table. One of the couples at Dad's table were Mr. and Mrs. Swope from our church. Mr. and Mrs. Swope were not only super old, they were also super deaf.

  "Hey!" Thomas J said suddenly, pointing. "There's your dad and Shelly."

  I shoved his hand down.

  "Shhh. I don't want them to know I'm here. What do you think we're hiding for?"

  "We going to stay here all night?" Thomas J said.

  I didn't answer.

  "This is boring!" Thomas J said.

  "Hush!" I whispered.

  The announcer was already calling out numbers, and people were putting chips on their cards.

  But I noticed that at Dad's table, the old ladies were only halfway playing their cards. Mostly they were staring at Dad and Shelly.

  Staring just like me—because Dad and Shelly were acting like jerks. Shelly kept blinking up at Dad, inching closer to him, like she wanted to get inside his pocket. And Dad, he was wiggling a bit, like he was uncomfortable and wanted to get away. But I noticed he didn't move very far.

  Every time the announcer called a number, Mr. Swope poked Mrs. Swope, reminding her to look at her card.

  "What?" she yelled once.

  "C-nineteen!" he yelled back.

  But Mrs. Swope and the other old lady were staring so hard that Dad finally noticed.

  He looked up from his card and nodded at her. " 'Evening," he said. "Nice night, isn't it, Mrs. Swope?"

  Mrs. Swope turned to her husband.

  "What'd he say?" she shouted.

  I looked at Thomas J and he looked at me, and I thought we'd die, we were both trying so hard not to laugh.

  Thomas J slid down to the ground gasping, he was laughing so hard.

  But I stayed standing. I didn't want to miss anything.

  "Can we go yet?" Thomas J said, from the ground at my feet. "It's boring just watching."

  "You go!" I whispered. "I'm staying."

  "You know I can't go alone," Thomas J said. "I'm not allowed to go out by myself after dark, and you know it." He was tugging at the rubber around the soles of his sneakers. "Why'd you want me here anyway if we weren't going to play?"

  "You know why," I said.

  "Why?"

  "Because we're blood brothers. We do everything together, don't we? Now shush."

  I was watching Dad. And Shelly. She was getting closer and closer to Dad.

  I swear she was going to kiss him. Right there in front of everybody. She was going to do it!

  And he wasn't doing anything to stop her.

  Now the old people were really staring—Mr, and Mrs. Swope and the others, too.

  The announcer called, "F-eleven!"

  And Shelly leaned close to Dad, looking up into his face. Dad leaned close to her, a look on his face like on that book jacket, like he was about to kiss her right there in front of everyone.

  I jumped up. "Bingo!" I yelled.

  Thomas J jumped up, too, and stared at me.

  "We have a winner!" the announcer yelled.

  "There was no bingo. That came from outside," Mr. Swope yelled.

  Thomas J and I both jumped back.

  "How did someone outside get a bingo?" another old guy said.

  "Someone outside didn't get a bingo," Mr. Swope said. "Someone outside yelled bingo, you moron."

  "Who are you calling a moron?" the old guy yelled.

  "Vernon, put a lid on it," Mrs. Swope said.

  Thomas J and I had our hands over our mouths, we were trying so hard not to laugh out loud.

  But Thomas J was wide-eyed, too, like he was scared.

  "Would the winner please raise their hand?" the announcer said.

  Uh-oh.

  Nobody did.

  "See!" Vernon yelled. He was really mad by then. "And I won't put a lid on it. If that guy wasn't two hundred years old, I'd . . ."

  Suddenly the other old man lunged across the table.

  He and Mr. Swope started clawing at each other madly.

  Their wives were frantically trying to pull them apart.

  But the wives were no match for them, and the two old guys were hammering at each other.

  Dad was yelling, "Fellas, fellas, it's just bingo, fellas. . . ."

  And Thomas J and I were hysterical.

  In a minute Dad and Shelly got up and got into it. Dad had a hold of one old guy, and Shelly got her arms around Mr. Swope.

  Shelly and Dad were pulling hard at them, backing them off each other.

  It was a complete uproar.

  And nobody was looking into anyone's eyes anymore.

  I turned to Thomas J, smiling.

  "Okay," I whispered. "We can go now."

  CHAPTER XIII

  I waited up till Dad and Shelly got home that night, sitting with my chin propped up on the windowsill in my room. I waited a long, long time, but they didn't come back. Eventually I finally fell asleep that way, sitting right up in the chair, my chin on the window ledge.

  I don't know what woke me up—if it was just my stiff neck or that my legs were asleep or what. Maybe it was because in my sleep, I heard them. All I know is that when I woke up, there were Shelly and Dad outside on the street—Shelly and Dad in the street, right in front of Shelly's camper. Dancing.

  Dancing! In the middle of the street in the dark.

  I could hear music coming from someplace, probably Shelly's camper, and a small light shining on them, streaming out from the camper door.

  Darn! I should have stayed up, sat on the porch all night till they came home.

  They danced and danced, Dad's arms wrapped tight around Shelly, her looking up into his face.

  From my room I couldn't see the look on her face, but I bet I knew—all moony, goopy, like she'd looked back at the bingo tent.

  Then, as I watched, Dad kissed her. He put his face right down to hers and kissed her. On the mouth, too.

 
; They stayed in each other's arms for a long time.

  I wished Gramoo was awake—that she'd start bellowing out one of her songs. That would stop them.

  Watching them like that made me feel less bad about borrowing Shelly's money. She shouldn't have come here in the first place.

  After a minute I heard Shelly's clock yell "cuckoo!" And like that was a signal or something, Shelly and Dad moved away from each other.

  Had I known, I would have yelled "cuckoo!" long ago.

  Then I could see they were talking, but I couldn't hear what they said. And then another kiss—but a short one this time—and Dad came up to the porch and Shelly went into her camper.

  But I watched Dad stand on the porch for a minute, watching till Shelly's camper pulled away, and I heard them call good night.

  Disgusting. Grown-ups shouldn't act like that.

  I had to come up with a plan, make something happen—make her have a rainy day so she'd have to leave. But what?

  I didn't know, but I knew I'd come up with something.

  Next morning I was on my way out to find Thomas J, when I went past the downstairs bathroom.

  The door was open, and Shelly was standing in front of the mirror, putting on lipstick.

  I stopped and watched her, my hands on my hips. I knew what she was doing. And why.

  "You going out somewhere?" I asked.

  "Nope," she answered. She applied more lipstick and some lip pencil kind of thing.

  "So how come you're putting lipstick on?"

  "A woman's got to look her best," Shelly said, frowning at herself in the mirror. "At all times."

  Ha! For my dad, you mean.

  "Well, I think lipstick looks fake," I said. "Very."

  Shelly smiled at me. "Ever tried any?"

  "No."

  Shelly put the lid down on the toilet. She pointed. "Here, sit down."

  "Why?" I said.

  "Just sit."

  I did. I don't know why. I knew she was going to put lipstick on me, and I knew it was stupid. And I was also mad at her. But for some weird reason I sat.

  "Give me your face," she said, putting her hand under my chin and tilting my face up.

  I wasn't sure I was going to like this. But then, maybe if I wore lipstick, if I looked pretty like Shelly, Dad would let me come to bingo games, too.

  Shelly put stuff on my lips. It felt slimy, and I scrunched up my face.

  "Quit wiggling," she said. "I'm going to miss your mouth."

  She worked on me awhile, then stood back and looked at me, then handed me a piece of tissue. "Blot your lips." I did.

  Shelly tilted her head and looked at me. "It looks really pretty on you," she said.

  I licked my lips. "It tastes funny."

  "You're not supposed to eat it," Shelly said. "Now close your eyes. I want to bring out those gorgeous blue eyes of yours."

  She began putting stuff on my eyes.

  "The first rule to remember in applying makeup," she said, "is that you can never wear enough blue eye shadow."

  "Do you like putting makeup on people?" I asked.

  "Yes. I've been trying to get to Hollywood for years now so I could do makeup for all the movie stars. But I haven't gotten there yet."

  Well, I thought, maybe you will. Maybe we should try to find you a job out there.

  But all I said was "I wouldn't worry about it too much. I've heard they're difficult to work with, movie stars."

  Shelly laughed. "Now open your eyes," she said. "Open them and have a look."

  I did. I stood up and looked in the mirror.

  I looked like a raccoon. Or a prizefighter who had lost. Or . . .

  But it was . . . well, different. I definitely looked grown up. Weird grown up. But grown up.

  I tipped my head from side to side, looking at myself in the mirror. "Shelly, do you think I'm pretty?"

  "Oh, yes!" Shelly said. "Very pretty. You've got great big sparkling eyes and the cutest nose. And I love your cute little haircut. You have . . . style!"

  "The boys at school don't think so," I said.

  "What do they know?" she said. "You just wait. They'll come around. And what about Thomas J? He thinks so, doesn't he?"

  I shrugged. "Thomas J isn't a boy. Well, he's a boy, but not a boyfriend kind of boy."

  "Well, you're very pretty," Shelly said.

  "Do you have to be pretty to have a guy like you?" I asked.

  She smiled. "It helps."

  "You like my dad, don't you?" I asked.

  "He's all right," she said.

  But in the mirror I could see that she was blushing.

  "I don't think he likes you," I said.

  "You don't?" she said. "Why not?"

  "Well, I mean, he likes you okay. But he's nice to everyone. It's not that you're . . . special or anything."

  "Oh," she said. But I thought that she was smiling.

  And then I could feel myself blushing.

  Why was I such a nerd? She could see what I was doing—trying to do. And she probably thought I was a big baby.

  "You like the makeup?" she said.

  I started to say yes, I do, because I did, kind of. But then I remembered that I was mad at her.

  So instead I just said, "Shelly, I'd definitely hold off on that Hollywood thing."

  A few minutes later I was going through the hall to go outside when I heard Shelly talking to someone. Who?

  Dad?

  I tiptoed back to the kitchen-family room. It's true I was spying, but I didn't care. I needed to see how they were acting to each other.

  But there was no Dad—just Shelly kneeling beside Gramoo, talking to her just the way I do. The way I try to.

  "How are you doing today, Mrs. Sultenfuss?" Shelly said quietly.

  And then, when Gramoo just kept staring and rocking, Shelly went on. "You should talk to Vada," she said. "It would do her a world of good."

  CHAPTER XIV

  Next day I found some of Shelly's makeup and tried putting it oh myself.

  I didn't know if I did good or not—to me, it looked a little weird, especially my eyes. They looked kind of bruised. But I remembered what Shelly had said—a girl can never wear too much blue eye shadow. And my lips were . . . well, red.

  I went outside and found Thomas J sitting on the grass beside the house.

  "Your lip bleeding?" he said.

  I made a face at him. "No."

  He frowned. "You don't look good. Your eyes are . . .

  "A girl can never wear enough blue eye shadow," I said.

  "Oh," Thomas J said. He shrugged and picked up his bike. "Where's your bike?" he asked.

  "In the garage. Give me a ride."

  I hopped on the back of his bike, and he started toward the garage, wobbling all over the place. He really isn't very strong. But eventually we got going after I gave us a little push along the ground.

  The garage is a mess, an even worse mess than my room. There's stuff everywhere—boxes of clothes and boxes with Gramoo's hobby and craft stuff, her sewing and bird-watching stuff and her stamp collections and photo albums. Gramoo collects—used to collect—almost as much junk as Thomas J. And when she got tired of one hobby, she brought it out to the garage and started in on a new one.

  I picked up my bike, but then looked down at the handlebars. One of the streamers was missing.

  "My streamer," I said. "It's gone. Help me look. It must be around here somewhere."

  I got down on my hands and knees, and Thomas J did, too. We crept around the floor, looking.

  But after a minute Thomas J crawled off into a corner.

  "You're not helping!" I said.

  "But look what I found!" I said. And he held up a plastic skull, all marked up with lines and words.

  "That was Gramoo's," I said, laughing. "It's a phrenology chart."

  I had forgotten about that hobby. Gramoo used to tell people what their personalities were like by feeling the bumps on their heads. She even did it to dead peop
le a few times till Dad made her stop. That was right before she got really weird.

  "What'd she have it for?" Thomas J said.

  "Phrenology," I said. "People used to study the bumps in your head to see if you had a good personality. Bring it here. I'll diagnose your head."

  "No," he said, backing up.

  "Come on. It's fun."

  "Does it hurt?"

  I just made a face at him.

  He made a face back, but slowly he came over to me and handed me the skull.

  "Sit!" I said. "Backwards."

  He did—sat in front of me cross-legged, his back to me.

  Slowly, carefully, I slid my hands over his skull. Gosh, he had a skinny little head!

  "Hmm," I said. I deliberately made my voice thoughtful-sounding, like I had discovered something important. "Very interesting."

  "What?" Thomas J said.

  "Sad," I said.

  "What?" he said.

  "You have no personality," I said. "None at all."

  He turned around and grabbed for the plastic head. "I want to see where it says that," he said.

  I grabbed back.

  We fell over and knocked over some small boxes. And surprisingly Thomas J ended up with the skull.

  I got up and went to straighten up the boxes. One of them was stamp books, and one of them was pictures.

  I scooped up the pictures to stuff them back in. I didn't want to wreck Gramoo's hobbies, because when she got better she might want them.

  As I was stuffing the pictures back in a box, suddenly I saw a picture of Dad—Dad looking lots younger, but still definitely him. He was standing in front of an old-fashioned-looking car with a woman.

  My mother.

  I've seen her before in pictures—Dad has some around, and Gramoo used to show me many pictures of her—but it's always sort of a surprise to see a new picture.

  "Who's that with your dad?" Thomas J said, looking over my shoulder. "Your mom?"

  "Yes. My mother."

  Thomas J sat down next to me. "Do you remember her?" he asked.

  "No."

  "Where do you think she is?"

  "Gramoo says she's in heaven."

  "What do you think it's like?"

  "What?"

  "Heaven."

  "I think . . ."

  What did I think? Well, that no one was sick in heaven. And that they never were afraid. And you never got this feeling like this thing was stuck in your throat. And you got whatever you wanted, like . . . But was it too weird to say those things?