Damage - A. M. Jenkins [7]
“In here,” Mom hollers, and glances at the clock. You give the lid another straining twist and it comes free. “Thanks.” She takes the jar from your hand and turns back to the counter as Becky comes in, wearing one of her new pairs of jeans. Becky spent the largest portion of her school clothes money on two pairs of jeans, because she would rather wear the “right” clothes than have ten on-sale pairs of pants. No matter that now she’s got to do laundry every night to have something clean to wear the next day. The only thing that matters to Becky is that she wears exactly what her friends wear.
“I’m begging you, Mother.” The words may be begging, but Becky’s mouth is pinched up for a fight. “Please, please, please let me wear my new blouse?”
Mom dips a butter knife into the mayonnaise and starts slapping mayo on bread. Her knife doesn’t stop moving as she glances over at Becky, who’s wearing some blue shirt that comes partway off her shoulders. “No. I told you to take that thing back to the store.”
“Allie’s got one just like this, and her parents don’t care.”
“That’s why I don’t want you going to Allie’s house.”
“It’s just a summer top. It’ll keep me cool—it’s not like it’s revealing or anything.”
“You can’t wear a bra under it. Go change.”
“Mother—”
“No. Don’t ask me again,” Mom warns. She tosses the knife into the sink with a clatter.
Becky’s eyebrows come together like thunderclouds. She looks the way she did when she was four, and you told her to quit following you and Curtis around. “I’m not a child anymore.”
“Don’t even start,” Mom says, grimly laying turkey slices on bread.
“I was going to ask if I could go home with Allie today, but now I’m not because you’re just going to say no. So I’ll just say thanks, Mom—thanks for not trusting me and for ruining my life.”
“Your life is just fine, miss.” Mom drops the top piece of bread onto her sandwich and turns to Becky. Each glares at the other with the exact same bulldog stubbornness before Mom turns back to the counter to stuff her sandwich into a fresh baggie. “I refuse to lose my temper, because I’m already late.” She drops the sandwich into her paper sack, crumples the top down. “Austin,” she says briskly, “your sister interrupted. You’re not coming down with anything, are you?”
She stops moving and waits for an answer. But her eyes are still angry, like they haven’t quite let go of the argument with Becky. And her short dark hair is still damp, because she’s late for work and didn’t have time to dry it this morning. And there’s still a run in her stocking that she doesn’t know about.
You’re not going to tell her. “I’m okay. I just woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, is all.”
“Try to take a nap when you get home, okay?” Mom gives you a quick, tight smile, snatches her purse off the counter, and moves to the door. “Lock this behind me, will you? Becky, I’m going to call at four o’clock sharp. You better be here to answer the phone.” Then she’s out the door, her purse falling down off her shoulder.
The screen door bangs shut, the Wild Horses wall calendar next to the refrigerator flutters a little before settling back into place. Years ago, Mom tried to make a go of her own business of breaking and training horses, but there just wasn’t enough money in it. That calendar, with its soft-focus photographs, is your mom’s only acknowledgment that she ever had dreams of anything besides working in an office.
“Everybody gets to do everything they want, except for me.” Becky is standing next to you, arms folded, face sulky. “Even you get to do what you want, just because you’re a boy,” she says, as if it’s all your fault she has to go change her blouse. “Nobody cares what you wear.” Her eyebrows are coming together again. “And you got all the eyelashes. And you hardly ever get a zit.”
She whirls around and stomps down the hall, leaving you alone.
You can spend your time standing here like a zombie, or you can get moving, too.
Okay. Time to change the channel. You should drink what’s left of your milk. Better get something down, since