Beautiful (7 page)

“I don't have his number,” I say, which is a lie because we've been partners for every single group project. As much
as I want to get high and as much as I hate him, there's something that makes me want to keep Alex away from Justin.

“Talk to him on Monday, then.”

“I will,” I say.

“What are we going to do?” says Sarah as she twirls her hair around her fingers. Her hair is patchy all over because she pulls it out. She doesn't even know she's doing it. You can't really tell it's like that when she wears it up, but right now her hair is down and she looks like a cancer patient.

It's Saturday and Alex doesn't know where her mom is. There's no food in the house, so I brought some over. She's on her fourth peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Sarah is gnawing absentmindedly on a piece of sandwich meat she has wrapped around her finger.

“I am so fucking bored,” says Alex, and Sarah and I say, “Me too,” in unison.

“We need money,” she says, and Sarah and I nod our heads. We sit in silence for a while, thinking about money and getting high. I am thinking about Ritalin. I am trying to guess what it could do, why something so great could be a kid's prescription. My stomach turns over and my body tingles. Of course he will give it to me. He probably won't even make me pay. I will have an endless supply of something new to feel.

“Oh, shit,” says Alex. “I have the best fucking idea.”

• • •

Sarah and I are the ones who knock on the doors because we look the sweetest. Alex tells us where to go and what to say, then hides behind a bush or a car until we're done. I am holding the manila envelope with kirkland junior high science class donations written in black Sharpie. Sarah did that. She has the nicest handwriting, careful, like someone's watching her.

An old woman with blue hair answers the door. A tiny white furball of a dog starts jumping on my legs. The hair around his eyes and mouth is stained brown with snot and tears and gross dog things.

“Mitzy, come here!” the old woman screams with more force I would imagine could come out of her frail body. She starts coughing uncontrollably, and Sarah and I look at each other like
Should we run?
We don't want to be around when she dies.

The old lady takes a drag of her cigarette and the coughing stops. “Can I help you girls?” she asks in a raspy voice.

“Um, we're seventh graders at Kirkland Junior High,” I say. “As you may know, funding for schools is at an all-time low, and our science class does not have the necessary funds to buy supplies. We're collecting donations so we can buy animals for our classroom.” I hold up the manila envelope, and
Sarah hands her the official letter I typed up on Alex's mom's computer.

The old lady puts on the reading glasses that are hanging around her neck. She wheezes as she reads, and the dog is biting my ankles. I want to kick it but I don't. “Hmm,” the lady says. “What kind of animals?”

“Gerbils,” Sarah says. “Mice, lizards, snakes. You know, science animals.”

“I don't like snakes,” says the woman, squinting at us.

“Me neither,” says Sarah.

“Are you going to do experiments on them?” She looks worried.

“No. We're just going to observe them,” I say. “It says so in the letter.” I point it out for her.

“That's good.”

We stand there for a moment, Sarah and I smiling our sweetest smiles.

“Well, I guess I could spare a few dollars. For education and all.”

“That would be great,” says Sarah.

“Our class would really appreciate it,” I add.

She goes back into the house, and the dog follows her. As she finds us our drug money, Sarah and I look at each other and try not to laugh.

“Here you go, girls,” the old lady says as she hands me a five-dollar bill. I put it in the manila envelope.

“Would you like a receipt?” Sarah asks. “For tax purposes.” We stole a receipt pad from the office supply store down the street. We thought of everything.

“Oh no, girls, that's fine,” the lady says. “What would I do with another piece of paper?”

We say our good-byes and thank yous and Sarah adds a “God bless you” and I think I'm going to burst with laughter as we speed-walk around the corner to where Alex is waiting for us. As soon as we get out of sight of the old lady's house, I am laughing so hard I think I'm going to pee my pants and Sarah's practically on the ground and she keeps saying, “I can't breathe, I can't breathe,” and then gulps for air, and I put my arm around her shoulders and focus on my bladder.

Alex emerges from behind a van. “What's so funny?” she says, like she's angry.

“You should have seen that lady,” Sarah says.

“Sarah blessed her,” I say, and we're laughing again and Alex does not look happy.

“How much did you get?”

“Five dollars,” I say, and suddenly things don't seem so funny because Alex is all business and there's a scowl on her face like we've done something very wrong.

“We need more.”

“Oh, lighten up,” Sarah says, and now no one is laughing. Now everything is heavy and ruined.

“Don't talk back to me,” says Alex.

“Why not?”

“Because I'll hurt you.”

“Bullshit.”

“You don't believe me?”

“No.”

They stare each other down and I want to be anywhere but here. Sarah looks weird, like she's someone else, possessed, like she could die right now and not care. Alex looks like she could kill her.

I could leave and no one would notice. I could just walk away.

“Hit me,” Sarah says, looking Alex straight in the eyes.

“You want me to hit you?”

“Yeah, hit me.”

They stare at each other while Alex considers this. I am quiet. I look up at the tops of trees like I see something interesting. I must pretend I'm invisible. I must pretend nothing's wrong. My body's tense, solid, like my petrified muscles are the only thing keeping Alex and Sarah from killing each other. My brain is black space, empty, with one line of tiny white
writing, barely visible, white words against black, silently repeating,
Please stop please stop please stop.

Alex rolls her eyes and starts walking. “I'm gonna hit you when you don't want it,” she says.

“Whatever,” Sarah says, and we follow Alex to the next house. I can breathe now. I am glad we are moving. I am glad we are in a single-file line, saying nothing, not looking at each other. I am glad we are pretending nothing happened.

A mother with two crying young children gives us a twenty just to make us go away. An old man gives us seventy-six cents and invites us to come in and see his collection of World War II memorabilia. A woman with a million cats gives us a five. A thirty-something guy in a stained white undershirt gives us nothing, but tells us we're pretty and says he'll give us some whiskey if we stick around. I consider it, but Sarah starts walking.

We knock on the door of a small house with a yard that looks like it was beautiful until recently. The hedges betray perfectly trimmed angles, fallen leaves litter the overgrown grass, and the skeletons of various flowers line the side of the house. I can hear movement inside and someone talking. A frail old woman opens the door and smiles when she sees us. A strange odor seeps out of the house, like something way too sweet.

“Oh, hello,” she says, like she's been waiting for us.

“Hello, ma'am,” Sarah says and starts the speech, but the lady keeps looking back and forth at us with the big grin on her face like she's not even listening. Sarah gets to the part about the animals when the lady interrupts her.

“Come in, come in,” she says. “George and I were just sitting down for dinner.”

“We don't want to impose,” Sarah says.

“Honey, the more the merrier,” says the lady. “We love company, don't we, George?” she calls behind her into the house, but no one answers.

As we enter, the smell is overwhelming. My eyes start to water and Sarah coughs. The lady is saying something about having no grandchildren, but I can't hear her because I'm looking around the house at every single table and windowsill and countertop covered with vases full of molding, dead flowers, giant bouquets like the kind people send after someone dies. The table is set for two but no one is there. A small pile of saltines is on one of the plates next to a half-eaten can of tuna.

“Now what were you saying about gerbils?” the lady asks.

“We're raising money to buy them,” I say. “For our science class.”

“Oh,” the lady says. She looks around the room nervously,
as if searching for gerbils or cash or something that will help us. “I think—” the lady says, but doesn't finish her sentence. She is digging through the pockets of her polyester pants.

“It's okay,” Sarah says. “If you can't—”

“No,” the lady says. “I want to help you.” She walks into the living room, over to the couch, picks up a purse, and starts rummaging through it.

“I think we've actually reached our goal,” Sarah says, looking at me with a sadness in her eyes that makes her suddenly look very old. “I think we're done fund-raising, so we're going to go now.”

“No, wait,” the lady says. “I know I have some money for you.” There is a panic growing in her voice. My eyes search for something to look at, anything but her. I look at the table. There are flies on the tuna. There is mold on the saltines.

“It was nice meeting you, ma'am,” I say, already walking toward the door. “We'll see our way out.”

“No, wait,” she says again. “George, see if you have any money for these nice girls.”

I open the door and suck in fresh air. I look behind me and Sarah is taking a twenty-dollar bill out of our manila envelope. She places the money under the plate that holds the lady's awful dinner. The lady is still in the living room, rummaging through her purse and saying, “No, wait,” over and over,
asking George to help her. Sarah meets my eye and starts walking, and I love her more than I've ever loved anyone.

We walk quickly to where Alex is waiting. We say nothing. We are closer to each other than we need to be, our shoulders and hands bumping.

Alex is standing around the corner smoking a cigarette. “How much do we have so far?” she says. Sarah hands her the manila envelope and Alex counts the money while we stand there, our shoulders just barely touching. “Fifty-two seventy-six,” Alex says. “That's enough for some tacos and weed and acid.”

We go to the arcade and meet Purple Haze and I don't sleep until tomorrow.

We're driving away from school in Ethan's '87 Honda Civic and I'm waving like I'm in a parade. People are gathered around to watch us go. There should be streamers, balloons, a big band playing. I am fighting the urge to honk the horn.

I am riding in the front seat of a car with the coolest guy in school. That makes me the coolest girl in school.

Alex is waving with that smile on her face like
I know what you're going to do
, and Sarah looks sad and mousy like
Don't leave me alone with her,
and James the asshole is there with a look on his face that says
I am such a dumb-ass
, and I want to yell out the window, “Look what you're missing!”

“What do you want to do?” Ethan asks me when we get
away from school. Suddenly, his car doesn't seem so spectacular. I notice the faint smells of hamburgers and mildew. We are driving through quiet residential streets.

“I don't know,” I say. I want to keep driving. I want to drive by every single person I know. I want them to squint their eyes and look in the window and see that it is me.

“Are you hungry?” he says.

“No.”

“I'm fucking starving.”

“There's food at my house. My mom'll be asleep until five.” I don't know why I say this. It seems like the right thing to say.

“Cool,” he says, and I tell him where to go.

I want to keep driving. I want to go back and get Sarah. I don't want to go to my house and watch him eat. I don't want him in my room where he can see the chair I sit in by the window when I'm alone, where I sleep, where I lie on my back and look at the ceiling. I don't want to be alone with him.

This is what he meant by “I want to get to know you better.” This is the “alone time.” This is when we pass a joint back and forth and I let him talk and let him think I am interested in what he's saying. We are talking about the things you are supposed to talk about before you have sex.

He tells me: “My father is an artist, but I don't live with him. My mother is an accountant and amateur bodybuilder.”

I tell him: “My father does something with computers. My mother does nothing.”

It is the middle of the afternoon and my mother is sleeping. She does not know we are here, in my bedroom, on my bed. She does not know his hand is under my shirt and rubbing while he talks. He does not know that I feel nothing.

I have never met a bodybuilder, but I've seen them on TV. I am wondering what Ethan's mother looks like, if she's the kind of woman who looks like a man.

“My father lives in Israel,” he says. “I'm gonna live with him when I graduate.”

What's so special about Israel?
I want to say, but I don't.

“My mom's a gentile, so according to Jewish law, I'm not Jewish. I don't know why my father married a fucking gentile.” He says this as he's unbuttoning my gentile pants, as he slides his hand into my gentile underwear.

This is what I know about him: He likes skateboards and hamburgers (no cheese; not kosher). He does not like vegetables or school. He does like beer and pot and nitrous oxide and ketamine.

What he knows about me is my first name, how old I am, and that I live in this apartment building. He knows that my
mom sleeps like the dead in the late afternoon, that we have bulk quantities of snacks, that my door locks, that I'm a good kisser, that I let him do anything he wants. He knows that my underwear and bra are pink and lacy. He does not know about the old white cotton bras and underwear hidden in the back of my drawer. He does not know my face without makeup.