by Meg Elison
“Benighted,” I answer, not even slowing down.
Kristi hates her bathroom because she has to share it. Her mom and stepdad have one in their bedroom, and there’s one for guests downstairs. That leaves this one to Kristi and her older sister, Karly. Karly goes to Stanford, so really Kristi hardly shares it at all.
I told Kristi that I wanted to try shaving my legs for the first time, but that my mom wouldn’t let me do it at home. She loved the idea of me shaving my “gorilla legs,” as she called them, and told me to come over for dinner.
In the bottom drawer I find her pink razors and shaving cream, lost in a bunch of other junk. I turn to the deep white bathtub and mess with the knobs until hot water comes out. I pull up the lever to block the drain and strip off my clothes. When I climb in, the water burns my toes and I have to hop back out. More messing with the knobs and frantically kicking at the water until it drops to a temperature I can deal with.
Watching the clock, I wash my hair quickly and comb some of Kristi’s conditioner through it, leaving the slick stuff in for a while. I pull one leg out of the water and smear shaving cream all over it. How hard can this be?
I drag the razor down from my ankle, like I’ve seen people do in commercials. The tricky part is how much pressure to use. I think I’m getting the hang of it when Bette walks in on me.
“Oh! Sorry, Layla. I didn’t know you were in here. I was just looking for dirty laundry.”
She bends down to pick up my clothes.
“Wait, no. Those are mine, I need those.”
She’s looking at the handful of jeans and underwear she snatched up off the tile, and then she looks at me.
“Why don’t you let me throw these in the washer for you, honey?” There’s that too-kind voice again.
I’m holding my folded arms against my chest and I want her out of here, but it’s her house. I want her to put my clothes back down, but it’d actually be great if she washed them. I just don’t have anything else to wear in the meantime.
With the exact same look of concern Mr. Raleigh showed me, she’s staring at me now. “I can bring you something of mine to wear to dinner, and these won’t take long.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t know how.
She leans down and picks up my T-shirt and my shredded two-year-old training bra, too.
“Layla . . . there are some things your mom might not have told you. About hygiene.”
How hard is it to drown yourself in the bathtub?
Her face says she knows we just hit maximum awkward. “I just want you to know that you can talk to me about anything.” She’s turning to leave. I study my leg as she walks out the door.
My ankle drips blood into the water.
At dinner I’m wearing her yellow tracksuit. Kristi laughs a little but doesn’t even ask. She’s happy that her stepdad is working late. She picks at dinner and drinks coffee just to make her mom mad. Coffee is my favorite, but I don’t drink it at Bette’s house. I know it makes her unhappy.
Kristi doesn’t ask me how my first shave went.
8:00 p.m.
After two more readings of Kristi’s poem and some ice cream, I’m walking home in clean clothes. It feels strange but nice.
I climb over the AC and through the window, and the lights are on inside. Mom’s on the couch, a wreath of smoke around her. Andy’s on the floor, surrounded by balled-up taco wrappers. The TV is jabbering.
“Mom got us some tacos, but you weren’t here, so I eated them all,” Andy says.
“That’s okay that you ate them all. I ate at Kristi’s.”
Mom talks without looking at me. “I got a call at the office today from the school. Again. You let him go in dirty clothes. Again. I need some help around here.”
“I need quarters to do the laundry, Mom.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I know that tomorrow or the next day two rolls of quarters will show up somewhere that I’ll see them.
I walk past Andy toward our bedroom. As soon as I get into the hallway, my toes go squish and I know the bathroom’s flooding again. With a sigh, I push the door open.
I think the sink got clogged three months ago, that’s how it started. Mom used a wrench and pulled the pipe bend out from under the sink, but a piece broke and she couldn’t put it back. So she put a big white bucket underneath it, because that faucet runs constantly and the water has to go somewhere. Mom realized after a few days that the bucket would fill up unless somebody was there to empty it all the time, but by the end of the day it was too heavy to lift. So she brought home a hacked-up length of garden hose. So now, once or twice a day, somebody has to suck the end of the hose and get the water flowing, then drop the end into the bathtub so it can drain.
When I say “somebody,” I mean me. Andy can’t remember to do it. And Mom can’t handle anything.
This is called siphoning, and I learned how to do it years ago, when Mom taught me how to steal gas out of someone else’s car. I put my mouth to the hose and breathe in the smell of mold. I pretend I don’t, and I suck until I can feel the water coming. Not fast enough, though, and I get a mouthful of cold bucket water before I can stop it. I spit the water into the tub and let the bucket drain.
Nobody really knows how a siphon works. It’s an incredibly complicated process involving gravity, tension, cohesion, and friction. A scientist named Bernoulli kind of explained it once, but it’s mostly a mystery. I think I understand it better than most.
Next to the front door there’s a stack of newspapers that’s almost as tall as me. Mom brings home more every couple of days. I don’t know where she got the idea, but it’s been going on so long that I’m used to it now. Like climbing through the window. I head over to the stack and pick up an armload. I drop them on the floor as I go, spreading fresh paper out all over the wet hallway, on top of the last layer of newspaper.
It’s about six inches deep now. Newspaper that takes on water swells up and sweats ink as it slowly breaks down. When I walk through the house barefoot, it splashes cold and black up my ankles with a gross squishing sound. For a few minutes after I put down fresh papers, the floor is dry and fairly firm. Don’t look or smell and it’s almost nice.
I get into bed and fold my clean clothes up and lay them in the corner to wear tomorrow. Andy crawls in hours later, smelling like tacos. I turn to face the wall.
Wednesday 6:30 a.m.
The quarters are sitting on top of the TV. Mom’s gone.
Andy leaves for school after I’ve started the first load. The laundry room isn’t technically open, but Mom gave me keys to all of the laundry rooms in the complex a long time ago.
My first load is all clothes for Andy. I get one load going in each of the four machines and then head back upstairs. The apartment is empty.
I climb up on top of the milk crate and go out the window.
It’s not really a balcony, because there isn’t a door to get to it anymore. But it’s more than a fire escape. I don’t know what you call that.
It’s where I watch my collection of VHS movies that have women scientists in them. Contact. Madame Curie. Gorillas in the Mist. The TV/VCR combo was one of my luckiest finds ever. VHS tapes are cheap.
When we first came to live here, Mom told us that the best thing about being the apartment manager was getting to take stuff that people leave behind when they move out. I didn’t believe her, but it turned out to be true.
For the first few years, I picked Barbies and Andy found toys. But as Mom got worse and came home less, we started taking clothes, blankets, shoes . . . anything else we thought we could use. This TV/VCR was just in somebody’s closet. It works fine.
My stack of VHS tapes is right beside it, ready to go. I put in Jurassic Park, my favorite movie to watch when I’m ditching school. I love seeing Dr. Sattler as the smartest person on the island and the one to survive all the way to the end. After the T. rex attacks, I’ll go put the clothes in the dryer.
12:32 p.m.
&nbs
p; When the laundry’s all done, I have the same problem as always: where to put it.
Anything of Mom’s gets folded up and put on the couch. She’ll sleep right on top of it, most times.
The bottom drawer of Andy’s dresser rotted and fell out from getting wet too many times. I don’t know what was in it, but whatever it was is all stuck to the floor now with something growing on it. When I open the next drawer, there are four wide brown mushrooms sprouting out of the black wood at the back. That just leaves the top drawer. I stuff everything I can into that and throw the rest on the top.
I don’t have a dresser, but the desk under my loft bed has a big drawer that was made to hold files. I can fit all of my clean clothes in it. Looking at my shorts, I’m thinking about fall coming soon. If it gets much colder, Andy and I are both gonna need new coats. Mom will get calls from the school about that, too. I’ll start hinting about a trip to Goodwill this weekend.
I head to the kitchen to see if there’s anything to eat when I hear a buzz. It’s been so long since I heard my cell phone go off that I almost forgot what it sounds like on vibrate. It’s the first of the month, so Mom must have made a payment on our plan again.
I run back to my hideout and get to it just in time to answer. I don’t know the number on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Layla. It’s Kristi’s mom, Bette.”
I wait a second before saying anything. “Oh. Hi.”
I shouldn’t have answered the phone.
“So, Kristi texted me today and told me you’re home sick from school.”
“Yeah.”
“Is your mom home?”
“No.” If I bite my nails, can the person on the other end of the call hear it?
“Okay, well, I was going to go shopping, and I wanted to know if you’d come with me. It’s really boring to go alone, and I’ll take you out to lunch. What do you say?” She’s too cheerful. Something is up.
On the one hand, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna have to sit through a lecture of some kind. On the other hand, lunch.
“Uh, sure. Sure, I’ll go with you. Do you want me to walk over there?”
“No, sweetie, I’ll come pick you up.”
“Okay, well, you have to have a controller to get through the gate. I’ll stand outside and wait for you.” Exactly what my mom tells the pizza guy. The UPS guy. Everyone. To keep them away from our front door.
“Alright, be there in just a minute.” Bette says goodbye and hangs up.
I’m halfway to the door before I realize I’m still wearing the clothes she washed for me yesterday. I switch to another outfit from the file drawer and get out there. There’s no time to do anything about my hair, but it’s not too bad today.
No time at all, and there she is before I make it out of the gate.
“Hi, Layla!”
Kristi’s mom drives a big white SUV with tan leather seats that warm up when it starts. It’s the nicest car I’ve ever been in. It smells new, even though they’ve had it for a year. I slide across the leather and buckle my seat belt. “Hi.”
“So, level with me. You’re not really sick, are you?”
I look over at her. She’s smiling, with her perfect blonde highlights framing her face.
“No, I’m not. I’m playing hooky.”
She laughs as she pulls away from the curb. “I did a lot of that in high school. You’re a little ahead of yourself for a junior-high kid. But I know you’re pretty smart, so it probably doesn’t matter.”
We drive past the school and I don’t even look.
“So how are your grades?”
“Really good.” Honor roll every year since there was such a thing. Happy-face stickers on my 100 percent tests before that. Not like Andy, who I have to drag through his weekly reading every Sunday night.
“Yeah? What’s your favorite subject?”
“Science.”
She drives up the ramp to the freeway, and the seat warms up my back, and it’s so nice and so comfortable that I’m sure we’re going to crash any minute and that will be the end of it.
“I never liked science. It was too complicated for me. Good for you, girl.”
I’m looking straight ahead, but I can feel her looking at me, like glancing over when she feels safe enough to do it.
“So, I wonder if you’ll do me a favor.”
I’m looking at her without turning my head. Her loose coat made out of cashmere or something. Her big diamond ring flashing in the sun on the leather steering wheel. Sure, she needs a favor from me. Right. Okay.
I don’t answer.
“I used to take Kristi shopping, when she was younger. I really loved it, and we’d pick out a first-day-of-school outfit together. We used to get along really well. But now she just uses my card to shop for herself online, which is fine with me, but I really miss the trip. I was wondering if you would let me take you shopping today and get a new outfit, just like Kristi and I used to do. It can be our secret, but I think that’d be really fun. I need to get a few things for me, and then we’ll go get some lunch. How’s that sound?” She says all this like she doesn’t think I’ll see right through it.
There’s isn’t any word for the mix of shame and eagerness I am stuck with right now. It’s like a blue-ringed octopus (Hapalochlaena lunulata) trying to sting its way out of my chest. I know exactly what she is doing. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be grateful that she made up a lie to make me feel better, or if she knows how insulting it is to my intelligence that she doesn’t think I get it.
I get it. I want it. What she’s offering here. What Kris won’t give her, I can give her. It’s like an affair, in a weird way. I can’t even breathe. I look out the window and count lampposts and try to act normal.
“I guess.”
I could tell her that I get it. I could be way nicer to her, if that’s what she really misses from Kris. I could be a more grateful charity case.
But if I say any more words now I’m gonna cry. So I swallow hard and take deep breaths until we get to the mall.
She buys herself perfume, a pair of earrings. She doesn’t need anything, it’s so obvious. She tells the saleslady to measure me for a bra and bring me some choices.
The saleslady is short, with shiny black hair and the kind of old-fashioned bra that makes torpedoes up front. She puts her hands on my back and I jump like a rabbit.
“What?”
“I need to measure you, honey. To find your size.” She’s talking quietly, like I’m sick or something.
I didn’t sign up for this. She takes me into a dressing room and shuts the door behind us.
“If you’re comfortable taking your shirt off, I’ll get a better measurement that way.”
“Sure.” I pull my T-shirt over my head and stand there in the only bra I’ve ever owned. It’s rattier than an actual rat—all popped elastic and too small a year ago. I’m waiting for her to laugh at me.
She doesn’t laugh. “Arms up, please.”
I do as I’m told. She skates along my ribs, and I’m more aware of the smell of my own armpits than I ever have been in my life.
“Not a shaver, eh? My daughter’s like that. Thinks body hair is a revolution.”
Add that to the list of things I’m supposed to take a razor to.
“Alright, I think you’re still a B-cup. Let me bring you some choices.”
A minute later, three lacy stupid underwired nightmares come over the top of the door. I don’t know how to tell her that I can’t wear anything this pretty. It is just not allowed. I try to picture where I would keep it in my house, or how it would look paired with my worn-out shirts and underwear. It just doesn’t belong. Wrong phylum. Wrong planet.
I put the beige one on, hoping it won’t be ridiculous.
It is.
“Well? How’s that working out?” She’s right on the other side.
“It’s not . . . It doesn’t . . . I don’t think this is right.” I look like I have four boobs. I�
��m not saying that over the door.
“Let me see.”
And then she busts in on me again, clicking her tongue. “Oh, my my my. You’re a C-cup already. I think you’re luckier than your mother in that department.”
“She’s not my mother.”
“Oh. Alright, then, let me bring you the next size up.” She bustles away again.
“Can I . . . Can it please be something less lacy? Like just a plain regular bra?”
“More into clean lines? To wear under T-shirts, I imagine?”
“Yeah. Yeah. These other ones, they . . .” I don’t know how to say it.
“They show through, certainly. Just a moment.”
She’s gone again, and I’m stuck with the me in the mirror. I look carefully at my face, trying to figure out how someone could think I’m Bette’s daughter. Maybe her eyesight isn’t very good. But at least I don’t look too much like Mom. If I looked for me in the mirror and saw her, I’d probably never look again.
I end up with a black one. No stupid lace, no stupid bow, and the short saleslady leaves me alone.
Bette buys me a pack of underwear, and it ends up being two outfits: two new pairs of jeans and two shirts.
“It’s so cheap, let’s get two. Okay?” Bette’s really enjoying this. She wasn’t lying about that.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her if we can trade it all in for a coat instead, but I don’t. She swipes her credit card and I look away, like I can avoid the feeling of it if I just never see a number. I shove the word charity out of my head and it drops to the floor. We go get lunch at an Italian place, and I panic about ordering something too expensive. I stare down the menu, trying to figure out what’s enough but not too much.
Bette orders for me, and the waiter brings me a peach iced tea.
We’re alone, so here it comes.
“Listen, Layla. I think your mom’s in a really tough spot right now.” She holds a glass of mineral water and kind of rolls it back and forth between her hands. Her nails are painted almost the exact color of her skin. Her ring clinks against the glass when it rolls left. She looks like she’s trying hard.
“It must be really difficult to do it alone. I can’t imagine what I would have done without Kristi’s dad when the girls were little. Or even what I would do now, without Sean. It’s really tough to raise kids alone.”
