Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [31]
So now I had a partner in grime. Maybe there was hope for us.
Oddly, no knocking on the door this morning to wake me. Maybe installing Theresa in my room was alarm enough. I showered and pulled on slouchy sweats Molly insisted I pack. “You have to wear something that lets you eat another bowl of ice cream.” My butt-freeing sweats and I stood on my toes by the sink. I was trying to reach the mirror to determine how much time I had before my eyebrows formed a straight line when the bathroom door swung open.
Theresa's body filled the open space of the door frame. Her perfume—and that would be a kind description—occupied the rest of the space. “Girl, you gotta learn to lock this door if we gonna be sharing this room.” She didn’t move. She stared.
Was I supposed to speak? She didn’t seem quite as threatening, but then I noticed she hadn’t yet applied her war paint. And she definitely did not have mental telepathy or she surely would have swatted the blazes out of me by now.
“Okay.” I glared back.
“So, you finished or what ’cuz I got some business to do in here, you know?” She pulled a pink plastic case out of the front pocket of her jeans and wiggled it as if I was capable of seeing only moving objects. “This ain’t no pencil case.” She waved the tampon container toward the door. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
Lucky for her, the universal rule of menstrual cycle sisterhood worked in her favor here. “Sure.” I shrugged my shoulders and eased past her. I hoped the fumes of whatever perfume she wore wouldn’t settle on me in the seconds I needed to escape.
I headed to the rec room to wait to be herded to breakfast. After last night's feast of peanut butter and jelly, I woke up ready to chew on the pillow.
The women were the only ones moving around. Annie was back in her corner with her ever-present magazine. I tossed a feeble “hello” in the direction of Good Housekeeping. It nodded back. Maybe I could dash across the room, yank the magazine out of her hands, and … and what, genius? Run away. Yep. That's probably what I’d do. A few seconds of brain-numbing ridiculous behavior followed by the awful recognition of my own stupidity. And then flight. Hmmm. Why does this feel so familiar?
“Hey, the bathroom's yours if you want it now. I even sprayed it all up for you.” Theresa's burp punctuated her arrival in the rec room and her announcement. “Whoa! Watch out now.” She laughed, slammed her fist into her chest, and then umpfed on the sofa next to me.
“Thanks, but I’m all done for now,” I said, grateful to bypass the aromatic aftermath of Hurricane Theresa. Any other year, I’d be combating the aftermath of a weekend at the lake house. Morning Bloody Marys, margaritas for lunch on the pier, late afternoon sunset martinis, and wine with dinner. My 24-hour prescription for surviving the toxic dose of Carl's mother during the day and Carl at night.
“So, what's with book chick over there?” Theresa said, and nodded her happy curls in Annie's direction.
I pretended to be intrigued by the viewing guide scrolling on the television. She leaned closer and whispered, “She stuck-up or something?”
I glanced at Annie, who still hadn’t moved. She had to have heard Theresa's question. I’m sure half the wing heard her. A Theresa whisper is on the level of ordinary conversation.
“I don’t really know. Maybe you should ask her.”
Theresa leaned back into the mushy sofa cushion, folded her arms behind her head, and eyed Annie like she was up for auction. Her feet alternately tapped the floor; the movements rippled up her body and jiggled her stomach to the beat. Even deep thinking was a physical activity for Theresa.
“Nah,” she said, “I don’t think I’m gonna need