by Sarah Ellis
“. . . so I just have the one boy and he lives with his mother. Do you have any other children besides Megan?”
“Yes, I have . . .” There was a pause. Then Mum continued, “two other girls. Three wonderful daughters.”
Megan put down her remnant of bun. It was too sweet. The cinnamon smell was thick around her. What did they do, pump cinnamon perfume into the air?
“Here’s my card,” said Mr. Fuller. “We should get together sometime. Bring the family over for a barbecue or something.”
“Yes, let’s do that. Nice to see you, Randy. You look just the same as in fifth grade.” Mum stood up. “Okay, girls, we’d better go.”
They set off toward the ear-piercing store.
“Are you going to get together with that man again?” asked Megan.
“Probably not,” said Mum, “given how busy everyone is.”
“But you said you would.”
“I know, but that’s just a way of ending the conversation.”
“So you were lying.”
“It’s not lying, it’s . . . well, it’s a convention.”
Megan pressed her mouth shut. It was lying. Funny how she had just started to notice how grownups lie all the time. Like, if Mr. Fuller looked like that in Mrs. Ironsides’s class, he must have been a pretty strange fifth-grade kid.
Mum left them at the receptionist’s desk at La-Beaute Nails and Esthetics, and a young woman in a blue smock took them into the back room. There was a row of chairs and two other customers. One was a woman with a towel turban and a green face. Bright green, all over, except for an oval around her mouth and two eyeholes. She was leaning back and she looked asleep.
The other customer was a woman sitting on a couch with her bare feet propped on cushions. Her toenails were painted bright pink and the toes were spread apart with cotton balls. She was reading a book.
“Loretta will be with you in a minute,” the smock lady said. “You can sit right here.”
Megan looked at Erin, who looked back with a “yikes” look and then leaned over and whispered, “Those feet look like hands.”
Megan glanced over to the couch and saw it immediately. Two long skinny hands with little stubby fingers all spread out like someone saying “Stop!” Giggles bubbled up from the bottom of her stomach. She tried to turn them into coughing. The woman with the toes glared at them over her book. Erin, the brat face, just sat calmly looking into space.
Loretta appeared with a little wheeled table. “Hi, girls. Who’s the one for ear piercing?”
Megan pushed the giggles back into her throat. “Me.”
“Great. Do you have your studs? Perfect. Oh, aren’t they pretty? Big day, eh? I remember when I first had my ears done.”
Loretta talked on as she dabbed something cold onto Megan’s earlobes, and then she took a towel off the table and under it was a gun. “. . . so we just fit these studs right in here. . . .”
Megan’s giggles evaporated. The gun looked so serious and it felt heavy as Loretta fitted it around Megan’s ear. “Ready to go?”
Megan glanced at Erin, who was staring hard. “Okay.”
There was a loud crack and a red-hot arrow shot through Megan’s ear. It seemed to carry on right into the back of her throat. She grabbed the sides of her chair and screwed her eyes shut against the tears. Why had nobody told her how much this hurt?
“Oh, dear,” said Loretta, “you’re as white as a sheet. Was it bad?”
Megan nodded her head, once.
Loretta dabbed Megan’s ear with something that stung. “For most people it’s just not that painful, but for some it is. Sorry, sweetie. Do you want to go ahead with the second ear or not? You don’t have to.”
Megan knew that if she thought about it she would say no, so she quickly nodded. “Yes.”
“Just remember to keep breathing.”
The cold liquid on her second ear gave Megan goose bumps, like the gentle brush of a wasp’s wings before it stings. And then another crack. She didn’t remember to keep breathing.
“There we go,” said Loretta. “Now you’ve got holes in your head. Ha-ha, just a little ear-piercing joke.”
Megan glanced at the used cotton balls sitting on the table, each with its little smear of blood. Her fingers felt hollow. What was inside there, inside her earlobe? Little baggies of blood? Erin would know. Megan didn’t think she would ask. It was better for the inside stuff to just stay inside, and for her not to think about it. She stared at the line of her arm against the chair and tried not to cry. Of course, it wasn’t a line at all. Just an edge, the edge between Megan and not-Megan. Inside, outside, and edge. And unless you were the amazing transparent woman, all people saw of you was the edge.
“... turn them three times twice a day, and if you’re careful, you shouldn’t have any problems.” Loretta reached over and patted Megan’s arm. “Feeling better now?”
Megan nodded. She hadn’t heard one word of Loretta’s instructions. What if she did something wrong and her ears got infected and fell off? She reached up to touch them, earlobes and earrings, hot and cold, Megan and not-Megan. It was okay. No doubt Erin had listened to the whole thing and would be able to offer paramedical advice. Megan stood up and thanked the outside edge of Loretta. The pain had dulled to a throb. Green Face and Glamour Feet sat unmoving. Time to go and exhibit her ears to the outside edge of Mum.
Chapter Nine
THE DAY BEFORE NATALIE’S visit mum was cleaning the bathroom window frame with a Q-Tip when Megan left for Art Experience. When she got home from Art Experience, Mum was vacuuming the kitchen drawers. Megan went upstairs to escape, only to discover that Mum had rearranged the stuff in her room. She arranged everything right back to where it had been.
That evening Mum washed the light fixtures. She was standing at a sink full of suds when Megan walked by.
“What are you doing, Mum?”
“I’m just washing the glass shades. They get all this greasy dust on them up there on the ceiling.”
Megan pulled herself up onto the counter. “Mum, how tall is Natalie?”
Mum turned around smiling. “Oh, she’s just exactly the same height I am. We stood back to back and there was not a smidge of difference. She’s slimmer, though.”
Megan slid off the counter. This was hopeless. What had gotten into Mum? The question about Natalie’s height had been sarcastic. How tall is Natalie, like, is she going to walk into the house and see the tops of the light fixtures? Get it? Not only did Mum not get it, but she gave that sick oh,-good,-Megan-is-taking-an-interest-in-Natalie smile. The voice in Megan’s head took off. Who cares how slim Natalie is? Tell me about something interesting, like the life cycle of a newt.
She noticed Mum’s “To File” folder on the kitchen counter. Oh yes, important to get all the filing done before Natalie arrived. She suddenly remembered the tall-ships brochure and flipped through the file. It was still there. She pulled it out.
“Hey, Mum, what’s this?”
“What?” Mum turned from the sink and glanced at the brochure. “Oh, some program to send inner-city kids on a sailing expedition. I think I sent them a donation. Why?”
“Nothing.” Megan tossed the paper back into the file. That was the end of that story.
Megan wandered back to her room. This whole thing was turning Mum strange. All week she had been either polishing doorknobs or discussing the menu for dinner. In the middle of a normal conversation she would suddenly say, “Which do you think is better with chicken — rice or mashed potatoes?” Not a word about her religious studies term paper or her psychology midterm. Megan thought about what would happen if she started to ignore her homework.
It would be good to get this dinner over with. Surely they wouldn’t have to keep seeing this Natalie over and over again. She would, Megan hoped, come and enjoy the rice (or mashed potatoes
), be impressed by how clean the cutlery drawer was, tour the house with Betsy (big thrill), and then leave. And then they could get back to normal.
On Sunday, dinner preparations were complete by one o’clock in the afternoon. Natalie was due to arrive at six. Open-heart surgery could have been performed in any room of the house, they were so clean. The table was set. There was a bowl of deluxe mixed nuts on the coffee table, with the phone book balanced on top to keep Bumper from discovering them. The parts of the salad were in plastic bags in the refrigerator. There was a tape in the tape deck. Mum was wearing a dress. Betsy was wearing her Brownie uniform. The only thing left for Mum to do was change her mind.
“Do you think this necklace is too dressy?”
“I wonder if we need another cooked vegetable?”
“I sure hope Jim remembers to bring home club soda. Maybe I should go down to the corner and get some, just in case.”
Megan had to escape. She took her bike down to the library to check out the videos. On a wet Sunday afternoon the only videos left were ones that are good for you. But even Safety in the Home looked interesting when the alternative was Mum. She was in the basement learning about smoke alarms when the doorbell rang. Six on the dot. Suddenly her heart began to pound. What was going on? Dinner with a stranger, that’s all it was. She gave Bumper a vigorous scratch around the ears and then headed firmly upstairs.
By the time she got to the front hall, it was already packed: Mum, Dad, and Betsy all crowded around. There was hugging, more crying on Mum’s part, Natalie’s dripping umbrella to be taken care of, her coat to be hung up. After being introduced Megan climbed halfway up the stairs to be out of the way. She stared. Natalie was wearing a short skirt and one of those square jackets with big shoulders. Her legs were skinny all the way up. She had short, smooth, dark brown hair and a wide mouth. She didn’t look like Mum. Maybe it was a mistake.
Natalie was just leaning over to take off her boots when Bumper came bouncing up from downstairs. He had been in all day because of the rain and he was even more excited than usual to have a visitor. He joined the mob in the hall, and before anyone could grab him he jumped up on Natalie. She turned white and made a little strangled noise in her throat. And then she kicked Bumper. Megan froze on the stairs. Nobody else had seen the kick. They had been too close.
“Off, Bumper,” said Dad in his dog-training voice that never worked. “Come on, boy.” He grabbed Bumper by the collar. “Sorry about that,” he said to Natalie.
“It’s okay,” said Natalie in a tight voice. “I should have mentioned it. I’m just . . . Well, I don’t take to dogs.”
“No, no,” said Mum, “I should have mentioned that we have one. Megan, would you take Bumper to the basement?”
Megan dragged Bumper off, through the kitchen and toward the basement door. She held him tight at the top of the stairs. “She kicked you. I hate her.”
She went down to the basement and threw Bumper his slimy tennis ball a couple of times.
“Megan!” Mum called her from upstairs.
Megan trudged back up. In the living room Betsy was sitting close to Natalie on the couch. “Did you have to have stitches?”
One of Betsy’s life goals was to have stitches.
“Yes, and a rabies shot,” said Natalie.
“Natalie’s telling us about the time she was bitten by a German shepherd,” said Mum. “It has made her nervous of dogs.”
Megan stared at Natalie and said nothing. It doesn’t give her the right to kick them.
There was a silence and Natalie jumped in. “I see you’re a Brownie, Betsy. I was a Brownie, too.”
“You were?” Mum pounced on the remark like Bumper jumping on his rawhide bone. “Where did you meet?”
“Saint Jude’s Church Hall.”
“Then did you go on to Guides?” Mum asked hungrily.
“Yes,” said Natalie, “the whole thing. Pathfinders, even Rangers. Are you a Pathfinder, Megan?”
“No. I don’t like groups with uniforms. Too much like the army.”
Mum gave Megan the look. But Natalie just laughed. “I know what you mean. My falling-out with Rangers happened when they wouldn’t let me go on the peace march wearing my uniform. Too political, they said. So I quit in protest. But I did like it, especially for the friends.”
“I guess that was really important for you, being an only child,” said Mum.
“And the badges,” said Betsy. “Did you get badges?”
“Some,” said Natalie. “Mummy probably has them somewhere. She keeps everything, Popsicle-stick art, all that stuff.”
Mummy? What kind of grown-up still calls their Mum “Mummy”? thought Megan.
Betsy tapped Natalie on the knee. “Hey! Do you know —” She began to sing:
“We are guides, all guides,
And in unexpected places,
You will meet our friendly faces,
And a helping hand besides. . . .”
Natalie joined in,
“And there’s not much danger,
Of finding you’re a stranger,
For Brownie, Guide, or Ranger,
We are guides, all guides.”
Megan reached out and grabbed a huge handful of deluxe nuts. Mum wouldn’t notice. She was hypnotized, hypnotized by the dog kicker.
Over dinner Natalie told them about a lecture on asteroids that she had attended the day before.
“You go to school on Saturdays?” asked Betsy.
“Not usually, but there was a visiting geophysicist giving a special lecture that I didn’t want to miss. Asteroids aren’t my field, but they are fascinating. This fellow has a theory that it was an asteroid whacking into the earth that caused the big land mass to break up into continents. Of course the geophysics mafia are resisting the theory like mad.”
“What’s a theory?” said Betsy.
“Sort of like a story about what might have happened.”
“But is it true?”
“When it’s proved, it’s true. But until then it’s a theory.”
“How big are these asteroids?” asked Mum.
“Huge. The continent smasher one was probably about six miles across.”
“What would happen if one landed on you?” said Betsy.
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” said Natalie. “The chances are extremely rare. This all happened about two hundred fifty million years ago. Most of the bodies that enter the earth’s atmosphere just burn up; that’s what shooting stars are.”
“But what would happen if one did land on you?” persisted Betsy.
“You would be well and truly squashed,” said Natalie.
“Death by asteroid squashing,” said Dad with relish. “That would be a good tragic end.”
Natalie looked a bit surprised. Mum laughed. “I should explain, in case you think we’re a family of weirdos. Jim and the girls are very fond of stories in which someone comes to an unusual end. It doesn’t turn my crank, but they seem to love it.”
“What kind of things?” asked Natalie.
“Oh, kidnapping by aliens, going through a car wash in a convertible and being vibra-shined, being recycled, that sort of thing,” said Dad.
“Megan does a wonderful ‘Sucked by a Leech,’” said Mum. “Come on, Megan.”
No way. Megan shook her head. “I don’t remember it.”
There was a little pause. Megan didn’t look at Mum.
“I think I do,” said Dad.
“I’d love to hear it,” said Natalie.
“Okay. Little Hortense, poor little Hortense, such a good child she was. She was kind to helpless animals and guppies. Never a cross word passed her lips. One day she was wading in the river, gathering watercress to make a nourishing soup for the poor, when she was attacked by leeches. Poor little Hortense, she was never a sturdy chil
d to begin with, having given all her meals to stray dogs and birds, so before help could arrive, she was sucked dry, absolutely dry, like a beach ball before you blow it up.”
Natalie was giggling. She caught on right away. “So, this asteroid, who does it squish?”
“Kevin,” said Betsy. Her victims were always called Kevin.
“I thought Kevin was killed by a computer virus,” said Dad.
“That was a different Kevin.”
Natalie laid down her knife and fork. “So this Kevin is squashed by an asteroid, as flat as a pancake.”
“Flatter,” said Dad. “He is so thin he disappears if you turn him sideways.”
“Two-dimensional,” said Natalie, “no depth of character.”
“Talks entirely in cliches,” said Mum, “like ‘today is the first day of the rest of your life.’”
Megan thought of Mr. Jessup, her soccer coach. “A team is only as strong as its weakest member.” But she wasn’t going to say it. How dare Dad tell Natalie the leech story? That was their story, not something to give away to strangers.
“What does 2-D Kevin think about art?” said Dad.
“He doesn’t know much about it, but he knows what he likes,” said Natalie. “Here’s one—when 2-D Kevin loves something what does he do with it?”
“He lets it go,” chorused Mum and Dad.
“Hang on,” said Dad. “What does 2-D Kevin think about Christmas?”
Betsy had been following this conversation like someone at a tennis match, watching the ball move back and forth across the net in a long rally. She pounded on the table. “He thinks that it’s really fun and he gets lots of presents!”
All the grown-ups laughed. Megan rolled her eyes. Betsy was so dumb. “That’s not a cliche, Betsy. You don’t get it at all.”
Betsy’s face began to crumple. Mum gave Megan the look again. I’m going to get it later, thought Megan, but not in front of a guest. A reckless feeling overtook her, as though she were wearing armor. Now that she had blown it twice, it wasn’t going to get any worse. From now on she could say anything she wanted.
