heard the question. I refer to him as “my boyfriend” when I talk to Amy. I call him three more times, though we only talk once, as he’s out the other two. By the time Saturday comes I’m eager to see him, my anxiety high. I need to know he still wants me.
I arrive at his apartment and once again we get right down to business. I give him another blow job, but this time I feel angry while doing it, put out. Afterward, he buttons his pants and goes to the bathroom, leaving me on his bed. When he comes back, I won’t look at him.
“What?” he asks.
“You always do that.”
“I always do what?” He stands near the door, shock on his face.
“What could I possibly always do in the time I’ve known you?”
“Leave me in here.”
“I went to the bathroom.”
“Whatever,” I say. I start putting on my clothes.
“I don’t understand what the problem is.”
I yank my shirt over my head. A small voice in my head rises up, telling me to stop. I am acting like one of those girls, those needy, crazy girls. But I can’t seem to stop it. That feeling—he doesn’t need me, I can’t have what I want—bubbles up, and the words tumble out of my mouth. “The problem is, you don’t seem interested in doing anything for me.”
He laughs, a short burst. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you even want to be with me?” I ask.
“I’ve known you for, like, three weeks.”
“Forget it,” I say. I look down at my bare feet, tears pooling in my eyes.
“Maybe you should go,” he says. I look up at him. “The doorman can get you a cab.”
I put on my shoes, gather up the rest of my stuff. We say goodbye, and I can tell he is anxious for me to get out of there. I know I’ve blown it, exposed myself once again. On the ride home, my dad’s words echo in my head: Everything has to be your way. I look out the window at the lights that line the slopes of the bridge, clutching my purse to my chest.
If my dad is home weekend mornings, it means his girlfriend, Nora, is there too. They wake late and spend a long time making breakfast. They cross back and forth in the galley kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, passing knives to chop vegetables for omelets and cream cheese for the bagels. They grind coffee and beat eggs.
Sunlight angles in through the silvery blinds, exposing the dust on Dad’s granite table that only gets cleaned on Wednesdays when the cleaning lady comes. Usually Nora has a Mets game on the small kitchen TV. Or else it’s the Giants. She keeps her eye on the TV and whoops when her team scores. She’s the only woman I’ve ever known who likes sports as much as men. She also has a lot about her that’s girly, like the rhinestone clips she wears in her curly hair and the red wire-rimmed glasses she uses for reading. She keeps her nails long and polished, and on these weekend mornings she wears a floor-length, red silky robe she brought from her own apartment in Manhattan. Beneath it I’m pretty sure she’s naked. I come into the kitchen and take a fresh carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. Nora stops me.
“Here, honey,” she says. “That needs to be shaken.”
She takes it from me and starts shaking, putting her whole body into it. Dad comes up behind her and slips a hand around her waist. He makes a noise, a sexual noise, a noise I don’t want to hear.
“Put the juice down, babe,” he says, “before it reaches climax.”
She laughs a little, but she glances at me nervously. I avoid her glance and get a glass down from the cupboard.
“I’ll just have water,” I say.
I go back to my room where I strip down for a shower. My ritual before a shower is always the same: take off clothes, stand before fulllength mirror on the back of my door, curse at my thighs and butt. I have a fantasy I can take scissors and—snip!—slice off the flesh I squeeze back from my bones. My mother was constantly dieting when I lived with her, never satisfied with her body. She always looked thin to me, but like her I can’t really see what I look like. I rely on what others think, particularly men. From what I understand, men prefer skinny girls, and I believe if I were skinnier I could be lovable.
When I come out of the shower, I hear Tyler talking softly in her room. She opens her door when she hears me, and before she can say so I nod my head. Mom is on the phone. She calls every Sunday, when the rates are down. I put Squeeze on the record player, moisturize, pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, and comb my hair, putting off the inevitable. Finally I lift the receiver in my room. Mom is prattling on about the food she’s been eating there— fried bananas and steamed fish.
“Kerry’s on the line,” Tyler says.
“Hi, sweetie.” Mom’s voice is clear and loud, as though she is in the next room. “How are you?”
“Fine.” I look down at my lap, play with a thread on my sweatshirt.
“How’s the new school?”
“Fine,” I say again.
“You’ve made friends?”
I think of Amy, the boys in the bars. “Yes.”
Mom sighs and gets quiet. She always gets quiet when she’s upset.
“What’s the matter, Mom?” Tyler asks softly. Mom takes in a quick breath. “Are you crying?”
“I just wish I could be there with you girls,” she sobs. I close my eyes. Oh, boy, I think. Here we go.
“We do too,” Tyler says.
“It hurts me so much to not be a part of your lives.”
“You are a part of our lives,” Tyler says. “That hasn’t changed.”
I look down at my hands to see I am gripping my sweatshirt. I let go, feeling numb, wishing I didn’t have to do this. Wishing I could just hang up the phone, go back to my new life.
“Kerry?” Mom asks. “Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you know how much I love you.”
“OK.”
She waits, and finally, just so we can end this already, I tell her what she needs to hear. “I love you, too.”
Afterward, when Dad and Nora call us for breakfast, I see Tyler in the hall.
“What?” I say, seeing her look.
“Forget it.” She walks off ahead of me, like I’m the one causing her problems. Like feeding Mom what she wants by making her feel better about her choices and then holing up in her room all day is going to make her happy. She has no idea at all.
“What happened to that boy?” Dad asks a few days later. “He never called again?”
“I saw him again,” I say, defensive.
Dad puts his hands up, as though to protect himself. “All right, all right,” he says. “Don’t be so sensitive.”
Later, though, knowing I’m upset, he drives me to Riverside Mall to buy clothes. It’s our ritual. His way of doing something for me. It’s a cliche, really. The divorced dad buying his daughter’s love. He waits on the bench the store provides for dads just like mine, the ones who will tirelessly wait while we, the daughters, try on clothes. And clothes shopping does make me feel better, at least briefly, because each new belly-baring top or pair of close- fitting jeans creates one more possibility for me to attract a new boy. And a new boy could mean another chance at love.
Is there another reason girls buy clothes?
At the register, the saleslady tallies the damage: $288 and change. Dad shakes his head and smiles at the woman conspiratorially.
“Daughters,” he says. “They’re so expensive.”
He says the same thing every time.
