I'm Down: A Memoir

by Wolff, Mishna

  That night while Yvonne got ready for a date with my father, I worked on my homework at the kitchen counter. I was in the middle of an essay question when Yvonne called, “Mishna, come here.” I got up and followed her voice into the bathroom.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Just come here,” Yvonne said.

  She stood at the bathroom sink in a bright blue silk dress, and her hair and makeup were flawless. She looked so good, it actually startled me.

  “Yes, Yvonne?” I asked.

  “Just come here,” she said.

  I walked over to where she was standing by the mirror. The bathroom hadn’t been remodeled yet, so you had to steady yourself between where the linoleum floor ended and where it was just uneven plywood. The wall she was standing next to was torn up exposing the fiberglass and beams. But Yvonne in her blue dress and heels transcended that. And looking at her all made up in the light of the clamp-on work light, she seemed to glow. I wondered if this was how Dad always saw her. I walked across the bathroom and stood next to her.

  “Look up,” she said, suddenly producing an eyeliner. I backed away. “Don’t be afraid. Look up.” She was so pretty.

  I silently obeyed her as she held my eyelid open and shoved the eye pencil into my eye and started drawing. It was so uncomfortable, it actually answered the question, “Why do we have eyelids?” I teared up and I was dying to rub, but as she let go of my lid, Yvonne said, “Don’t rub your eye.” And it took all my will to resist. Then she stood back and said, “Wow.”

  “I can’t believe you do that every day. It hurts so bad.”

  “It’s not so bad!” she insisted. “Beauty isn’t free.”

  “Does it look good?” I asked.

  “Almost,” she said, reaching for the blush. She put blush on my cheeks and smoothed on a bright red lip liner, which she blended with Vaseline. I had to stand perfectly still as she curled my lashes and put on thick black mascara, warning me the whole time not to blink. And she finished it off by running a curling iron through my bangs and making two soft curls to frame my face, burning my ear as she did.

  When she was finished, my eyes and lips felt weird, and my ear was burning, but I just focused on the way Yvonne’s dress gathered around her waist and flattered her shoulders and how pretty her red lipstick looked against her skin tone. Ultimately the pain seemed negotiable.

  “Let me see,” I said.

  But Yvonne teased, “No,” and walked me away from the mirror. “I want you to see yourself how everyone else sees you.” Yvonne walked me out the door and into the dining room where Anora was sitting with Andreus and Yvette. And like a needle scratching across a record player, everyone turned their attention to me. That was when my six-year-old stepbrother wolf-whistled.

  I scolded him, “Andre!”

  “But, you look like a babe!”

  And Anora just threw up her hands and said, “Finally!”

  Yvonne was beaming as she said, “Okay. Look in the mirror, Mishna.” I was glad she didn’t call me Duck-Butt, and I got on a chair and checked myself out in the mirror over the fireplace. It was too much makeup, but I definitely looked like hot shit. I was immediately captivated with my own appearance. It was huge and took up the whole mirror. And looking in the mirror at my younger siblings reflection so far behind me, they really looked like little people. They were talking, but all I heard was “Blah blah blah.” Vanity coursed through my veins like heroin. I looked like a babe.

  Yvonne must have sensed that because she said, “Don’t get too cocky. You aren’t as pretty as me.”

  That was when Dad bounced in the door. He set the mail on the counter, kissed Yvonne, took one look at me, and stopped like he had been hit by a freight train.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  “Oooh,” Yvette said, acknowledging the F-bomb.

  Yvonne tried to ease his mood. “Nothing, John. I just put a little makeup on Mishna.” She rubbed Dad’s back as she said, “I think she looks great.”

  “I think I look kind of pretty,” I said.

  But Dad looked horrified. He searched my made-up face to try to find something good about it, which just made him madder. “You all went a little crazy with the shit.”

  “Oooooh!” Yvette put her hand over her mouth.

  He looked at me again, angrily. “I don’t like this!”

  “John,” she said. “You said Mishna and I could have woman time.”

  “Young lady time,” Dad said.

  I tried changing the subject. “Oh, by the way, Dad, at school we are supposed to go to the water treatment plant to see how it works or something,” I ran over to my book bag. “So . . . I just need you to sign my slip.” I tried to hand Dad the permission slip, but he didn’t take it. He actually backed away as I walked toward him.

  “Yvonne, you do it,” Dad said, and Yvonne came over and signed my slip as he continued, “Goddamn it, Yvonne. I don’t like you making her up like that. You know it sends out the wrong message! And she’s too young to know about sending out messages.”

  This was all over my head. “I can wash it off.”

  But Yvonne rubbed Dad’s shoulders and said, “Oh, John. It’s just a little makeup for fun.” But Dad still looked angry as she soothed him. “Of course I’m gonna teach your daughter to handle herself.”

  “But . . .”

  “John,” she said. “Just, trust me.”

  And Dad let out a yielding, “Okay.”

  The next morning at hairdressing time, I wasn’t listening to any complaints. I had had a pencil in my eye the night before and beauty wasn’t free for anyone, not even Yvette. I sat with the three-year-old in my lap and tugged her hair hard and tight, smoothing handfuls of Bone Strait into her hair until it had no choice but to lie flat.

  “Ow!” she cried. “It hurts . . . No, no, no. You’re—ow!” But I only pulled tighter, confident that Yvette needed to look her best. And to my surprise, after about a minute of screaming, she went back to watching DuckTales and completely ignored the fact that my hands were in her hair. I was really starting to understand beauty. And when I was done Yvette had two perfect braids on her perfectly parted head. And if, God forbid, her hair started even trying to stick up, I had fortified either side with two ribbon clips in colors that matched her outfit. She looked neat and tidy, and not the least bit natural. Andre got way more Pink oil than seemed necessary, but his hair looked shiny and neat and twenty minutes later, it didn’t look like too much.

  That evening when we picked them up, though their hairdos had deteriorated, they’d started out so tidy that they still looked pretty neat. And when the babies got into the car, Yvonne didn’t even mention their hair, which was the same as getting a trophy. Yvonne wasn’t in the habit of handing out kudos for things that were expected of you.

  That night, every time I went to the bathroom, I lingered at her makeup on the counter, looking at her various powders and brushes that had magically made me look like a woman the night before. I wished Yvonne would offer to do my makeup again. I wanted for her to make me look pretty so I could spend hours looking in the mirror. But instead my sister and I cleaned the kitchen while Yvonne spent the evening in the bedroom with Dad. No one emerged all night except for Dad, who came out to make Yvonne a sandwich. And I had to admit, no matter how crazy I had thought she was, and no matter how smart I thought I was, Yvonne had a lot of power. She had the power to make me beautiful, she had the power to make men make her sandwiches, and everyone in our house wanted to be near her—she had mystique.

  When we were done cleaning and Anora and the babies were settled on the couch watching TV, I slipped downstairs into the laundry room and the door to my dad’s office. I hadn’t thought about Dad’s business for a long time, but something that night made me wonder. It just didn’t seem like the type of thing Yvonne would go for and I imagined “Never go in that room” didn’t work on wives like it did on daughters.

  I checked to make sure nobody was nearb
y and cracked the door open. There was no bright light as I opened the door, and when I flipped on the light the only thing lying on the floor was a dirt and some scattered rags. There were no more pot plants and no one had even bothered to clean up and make a room out of it. It was abandoned—just like I had suspected. Yvonne was more than powerful; she was omnipotent.

  The next day, I gave Yvette the best hairstyle yet. I saturated her hair with Pink oil, then parted it into the most adorable French braids with matching blue ribbons on the end, which I pinned in so she wouldn’t lose them while she was playing. And that night as the kids climbed in the car and got settled, Yvonne said to them, “Mishna sure did a good job on your hair.” And I felt my heart fill with joy. I had pleased Yvonne, and we were communing as women now.

  Andreus started chattering about what they did at school, but Yvonne corrected them. “What do you say to your sister who did your hair?”

  “Thank you, Mishna,” Andreus said.

  “Thank you, Duck-Butt,” Yvette said, laughing at herself. But Yvonne was not laughing.

  “Yvette!”

  “What?” Yvette said, giggling. “That’s what you call her, Duck-Butt.” Just saying it made her laugh.

  But Yvonne gave Yvette a little swat on the leg.

  “Eeeeh!” she fake whined.

  “Say sorry to Mishna!” Yvonne commanded.

  “But you say it . . . ,” Yvette started, causing Yvonne to raise her hand again, so Yvette quickly spat out, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t say it to me,” Yvonne said. “Say it to Mishna.”

  “I’m sorry, Mishna,” Yvette said, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  “Now, Mishna,” Yvonne said, changing the subject. “What do you want to listen to?” She pointed to a stack of cassettes lying in the drink holder. I rifled through five tapes I would never in a million years listen to and said, “Anita Baker,” hoping it was what Yvonne wanted, too.

  “Oooh, my girl Anita,” she said. I had pleased her again. And as we dance-drove home listening to “Giving You the Best That I Got” I felt close to Yvonne and her mystique. And to top it off, when we got back to the house, Yvonne pulled me into her and my father’s room and closed the door. There, she handed me one of her dresses.

  “Try it on,” she said. “It’s too small for me.” I took the silk shirtdress while the rest of the kids banged on the door.

  “What?” Yvonne shouted toward the door.

  “It’s Andre. Can I come in?”

  “It’s girl time, Andre,” Yvonne said as I slipped the dress over my head.

  “Can I come in then?” Anora asked.

  “It’s woman time,” Yvonne replied. “We’ll be out in ten minutes.” Yvonne looked at me in the dress and said flatly, “It’s good.”

  “But what?” I asked. Yvonne hesitated and said, “Nothing, it’s just not great.”

  I walked over to the mirror that was leaning against the wall. The dress was way too big, but it was pretty and fun to wear.

  “Can I keep it?” I asked.

  “You ain’t got the body for that dress.”

  “Oh,” I said, seeing what she meant.

  “We gotta get some meat on your bones, Duck-Butt,” Yvonne said disapprovingly. “Give me back the dress.” And as quickly as I was in, I was back out of her good graces.

  A few days later when I got home from school, Yvonne was home and Dad was out with Anora and the babies. It seemed a little odd, but Yvonne decided that we should have a girl’s night and sat me down to do my makeup again.

  “Isn’t my dad gonna be pissed?” I asked.

  “It’s okay, just tonight,” she said. “Besides . . . it’s good when men get angry. It means they are invested. They care.” I didn’t like the idea of her making my father angry on purpose, but she was doing my makeup so I wasn’t gonna argue.

  We got in Yvonne’s car and went to the mall where she bought me a fancy coffee at an espresso place. I told her I didn’t drink coffee, so she ordered me an espresso drink with whipped cream and chocolate, which burned a hole in my stomach. As we walked around looking at clothes and trying on perfume, I tried to pretend I wasn’t having the sweats as the caffeine attacked my nervous system.

  We wandered into JC Penney and I started looking at a pair of earrings at the jewelry counter. But Yvonne wasn’t browsing, and rather than look with me, she grabbed my hand and started leading me. I was titillated that she was leading me to a surprise destination. She stopped in the women’s lingerie department.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “We are getting you a bra,” she said. I felt completely ambushed.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you need one.”

  “For what?” I asked. I looked down at my chest in its white Vuarnet T-shirt with a pocket, and saw no evidence of any breasts.

  “Your dad and I agree we can’t have you running around boobless.” I had no idea what she was talking about. That didn’t even make sense.

  “I don’t have breasts,” I said. But she dragged me over to a rack of bras that were way too big for me.

  She began flipping through the rack scratching her head. “You’re probably about a thirty-two A,” she said as she handed me a lacy padded bra, something that was meant to make me look like I actually did have breasts.

  “What about that one?” I said, pointing to a flat jersey training bra.

  “That’s ugly,” Yvonne said. “The other one is at least pretty.”

  “I’m not wearing anything padded,” I said, really putting my foot down. But my little statement landed with a thud. Yvonne’s sisterly mood turned to anger in the blink of an eye. “Try on the bra,” she growled.

  “Okay, okay.” And I went to the dressing room and put it on.

  “What’s taking you so long?” Yvonne said impatiently after a minute or two.

  “I don’t know how this works,” I said, trying to figure out the hooks and straps.

  So Yvonne came in with me and helped me figure out how to put the mess of nylon and foam on my flat chest, and when it was all done I looked like I was wearing my mother’s bra. Even Yvonne had to admit that it looked ridiculous.

  “Well,” she said, tapping her fingernails against the dressing room door. “You sure got some tiny little titties.” It was then that she literally reached out and twisted my nipples.

  We both stood there in shock as she put together that she wasn’t fourteen anymore, and that I wasn’t fourteen yet. It was embarrassing for both of us.

  “Come on,” she barked. “Get dressed and let’s pay for that.”

  “You saw how big that was. Why can’t I just not wear a bra?”

  “Because!” she said. “You’ll grow into it. It’s part of your mystique.” I was terrified. I didn’t want mystique. It seemed like too much. I just wanted to look pretty.

  When I got home after the traumatic trip to JC Penney Dad and the kids were eating McDonald’s. Dad hadn’t gotten any for me or Yvonne. I guessed it was because we were women and women didn’t need food. It was part of their mystique. Andreus saw me and said, “You look like a babe!” I forgot that I still had my makeup on. In my hand was the JC Penney bag holding the bra that I would, I guess, grow into. I sat down at the table to glom a fry from my sister, and noticed Dad was acting weird. He wouldn’t look at me and he kept clearing his throat.

  “So . . . ,” he finally said. “Did you guys do your shopping, then?”

  “Oh, yes,” Yvonne purred. “Mishna’s practically a woman now.” Anora turned and looked at me questioningly. I shrugged, as Yvonne continued, “Pretty soon you’ll be moving out.”

  Ten

  FLAGRANT FOUL

  SLEEPOVERS WERE LIKE minivacations for me. I got to step out of my family responsibilities and into my friends’ homes where I was catered to like a crippled person. Dad wasn’t in the habit of asking if he could make me something to eat, or if I wanted him to rent me something while he was at the v
ideo store. In fact, the last time I’d had Zwena over, he got her to clean the kitchen after I made dinner. That’s why I was so disappointed when all my friends with super, awesome, overbearing, attentive parents decided to have our big seventh-grade sleepover at Oksana’s house.

  The lure of Oksana’s house was that she had the most lax parents of all my friends—when she was staying with her mom, the artist. By the way, her mom’s art was intricately hand-beaded penis sculptures. The whole of her house from top to bottom was beaded penises in various stages of construction. You couldn’t look and not see a beaded penis. On the mantelpiece there was a completed rainbow-beaded penis, next to a zebra one. On the coffee table sat a damask penis, and in the bathroom over the sink was an argyle penis.

  The greatest quantity of peni resided in the kitchen. On this particular Saturday night as I walked through the kitchen to get to the guesthouse out back, I could see she was working on a new series of paisley penises. And by the looks of the place, nobody was gonna be making me pancakes.

  I got to the guesthouse and all my friends had already arrived. Lilith—who that year had taken to dressing like Robert Smith from The Cure. Violet—whose bobbed blond hair had the appearance of feathers. Marni—the only girl in seventh grade with circles under her eyes. Eileen—a ridiculously skinny girl with both braces and glasses. Kirsten—who talked constantly about elves and druids. And, of course, Oksana—who hid the covers of her Harlequin romance novels under fake drawn Faulkner book covers.

  The great thing about partying with the “highly gifted” is that you know no one is going home with a broken arm or getting bailed out of prison. That night we talked about schoolwork. We talked about boys. We sang Smiths songs. We worked on a riddle. We built D & D characters. We drew our D & D characters. And as the night went on, we got more and more witchy, adding our usual Ouija board and tarot cards into the mix. Fantasy was our primary way of dealing with the budding sex problem. And our obsession with the occult always focused around creating a reality where we were sexier, more powerful, and less allergic.