Glass - 02 (10 page)

I don’t know Heather

at all, but I despise her

already. It’s not just that

she’s freaking beautiful

or that she obviously

despises me, too.

[You’re jealous.] Yeah,

yeah, that’s part of it. But

what I hate most about her

is the way she seems to be

in control of my no-longer-

totally-independent sister.

Oh, Heather, do you mind

if I tiptoe in to see the baby?

My curiosity is killing me!

You don’t have to come

unless you want to. Kristina

will show him off later.

Puke. Puke. Puke.

Smile that pretty girl-

on-girl smile for your

cheerleader. But don’t

ask her permission to

leave the frigging room!

I mean, I guess in a same

sex relationship, someone

needs to play the guy,

and if I had to choose roles

for Leigh and Heather,

Heather would be the guy.

But hey, in any relationship,

does the guy really need

to be in charge?

Tells me to fall

deep into a well

of silence.

Keep your meth
-

fired mouth shut,

it commands.

[Oh, just try that

with the monster

screaming,
Let’s party!]

So I dare, “Must

you
really
ask

for permission?

“Didn’t you give

that up when

you left home?

“Is Heather your girlfriend,

or your

friggin’ mommy?”

Yeah, the verbal slap

is mean. Really mean.

So why does it feel

so damn good?

Okay, I’m guessing

you know exactly

why. But the look

on the room’s collective

face slaps me back.

Kristina! You

apologize this instant,

screeches Mom.

Kristina! How

can you be so

rude?
cries Leigh.

Heather doesn’t say a word.

All she does is smile

a leprechaun smile.

In case you don’t know,

are cute little

demons

with cherubic faces

and devil-born

souls,

and when they smile,

you’d better

run quick.

Well, Bree and I

decide no way will

the conniver make us

run.

“Sorry,” I say, but

when everyone except

Heather turns

toward

Hunter’s sudden

outburst in the living

room, I slip

the bitch

the finger. Guess

what. She slips it back.

So now we both know

exactly where we

stand.

I make a mental

note to keep her

the frick out of my

bedroom, hold

my ground,

don’t worry about

taking the high road.

Leigh’s future

happiness is at stake.

If high school cheerleaders

indulge in “instant pep,” college

squads probably start the party

earlier and keep it going well

after the game ends. Maybe

Heather and I have something

in common, after all.

But Leigh wouldn’t go near

the stuff, would she? Secrets

between lesbians?

Hunter’s still fussing

for attention. I go over

and take Leigh’s hand,

making sure to turn my back

to Heather. I look into

my sister’s eyes—bright

aqua, no sign of the monster

there. “Sorry. I must be

premenstrual. Come on.

I’ll introduce you to Hunter.”

I pull Leigh’s hand, then turn

back to Heather. Close

assessment of her violet-blue

eyes yields no definitive answers,

though her pupils do look dilated.

I force a wide smile.

“Guess you can come too.”

Heather takes her own

measurements, which apparently

must tally.
Why not?

I lead the way to the living

room, where the setting sun

paints spectacular colors

on the west-facing window.

Hunter’s awake, waving

his chubby fists at whatever

real or imagined air fairies

have caught his eye.

When he sees me, he smiles

his great, toothless smile.

“Hey, Sweetie,” I croon.

“Meet your Auntie Leigh

and your…” [Uncle Heather].

The rest of my sentence sticks

around that idea. It takes all

my willpower (and you know

how much of that there is)

not to laugh out loud.

Heather shoots me a look

laced with understanding

as Leigh picks up Hunter.

She gives him a big kiss,

folds him into her arms

like she used to caress Jake

when he was a baby.
Oh, Heather.

Isn’t he adorable?
she asks.

Heather gives Hunter a top

to bottom assessment, something

like how a scientist checks out

his pet lab animal. Then she pokes

my eyes with hers.
Uh-huh,
she says.

He must resemble his father.

Heather and I pretend

cordiality, amidst watching

Mom cook; Jake show off

his soccer trophies; and

watching Leigh play with Hunter, who

is happy to have company.

Which most definitely

stimulates not a small

amount of guilt in me.

Since my Stockton trip,

I must admit, I’ve spent

minimal time with him.

When my buzz starts

to wear off, I find an

excuse to sneak off

to my car, grab a toke,

maintain the very sharp

edge I’d honed earlier.

When I return, sucking

a mint, Heather smiles

the kind of smile that

says she might be just

the tiniest bit envious.

File that away for later use.

I actually
almost think

about offering her a whiff.

But what if I’m wrong?

What if all she wants

is to double dunk me

in a reservoir of shit?

And anyway, on this

trip outside I made

a striking observation—

there is a most definite

dent in my stash, in

not quite two weeks.

Is interesting, to say

the least. Mom made

a huge ham, scalloped

potatoes, broccoli, rolls,

with apple pie and ice

cream for dessert.

Jake keeps the small talk

rolling:
Freshman English

is just plain boring…think

I’m too short to play basketball…

Maryann Slocum is such a

hot babe…
I’ve heard it all.

But Leigh hasn’t. She

keeps prodding him for

details, and when he

turns red and quits giving

them, Mom is happy to

fill in the details she knows.

Heather and I pick at

our plates, hoping no

one will notice. But

Scott does.
Something

wrong with the ham?

he asks, drawing much

too much attention away

from Jake and toward us.

“Nope. It’s great,” I say.

“I just ate too much while

we were cooking.” The

explanation seems to work.

Heather chooses to flirt.

It’s delicious,
she cons,

batting her thick lashes,

but I’m trying to lose

a few pounds.
Sure, off

an already flawless figure.

Will someone please tell

her she’s crazy?
pleads

Leigh. Then things get

really creepy, when she

turns to Heather.
You’re

perfect, exactly as you are.

Mom and Scott roll

with it. And it sails

completely over Jake’s

head. Mouth stuffed

with cheesy potatoes,

he mumbles something

that sounds vaguely like

Perfect doesn’t cover it.

He’s in high school

already. How can he be

so dense? And has no one

told him about Leigh before?

[You tell him.] Luckily

Hunter starts fussing,

before I can volunteer

the information. Wrong

time, wrong place, much

to Bree’s chagrin.

Leigh jumps up to pacify

the baby while Heather

goes to stick her finger

down her throat and puke

up the few calories that

have managed to make

it past her lips. Scott

gets up to read the paper.

Mom and Jake go to

do the dishes. Lucky me.

I wander outside to do

you know exactly what.

To sleep tonight.

I’ve spent all day

climbing

to anxious heights,

me and my buddy

the glass monster,

reaching

for a better buzz,

a taller head, one

more little whiff

(what could it hurt?),

finally cresting

steep cliffs of speed,

rising above mundane,

towering over ordinary.

No sense of fear,

I sit in my room,

sketching beneath

pale lamplight.

No sense of foreboding,

I listen to Leigh

and Heather giggling

behind the too-thin

walls, doing

whatever

girlfriends do. At

last, they fall silent.

I immerse myself

in charcoal portraiture,

not even stressing about

the fact that it might

be a while before I have

time to sketch again,

or that I have most

definitely embarked on

a major bender.

And not only that, but in

hindsight it probably wasn’t a great

time for me to jump back

into the arms of the monster.

Not that there
is
a good time

to do that, and damn it all, you

know what they say about hindsight.

I mean, when I went to Stockton,

there were no plans for Hunter’s

baptism, and a visit from my dad

was completely implausible,

especially at the exact same time

Leigh finally decided to schedule

one, after many distant months.

Throw in a bulimic lesbian

cheerleader with an aversion

to me, my dad’s latest girlfriend,

a little brother with a major crush,

parents intent on a perfect weekend,

a pending new job, and what is left

of an eight ball of incredible speed,

and just about anything can happen.

And if Bree has her warped way,

just about anything will.

When my dad pulls into our driveway,

no call to warn us of his imminent

arrival. Up till now, the day

has been relatively uneventful

except for a quick exchange

between Heather and me.

I noticed your light was on

this morning around three,

she says.
Up all night, huh?

I shrug. “A lot of it.

Something about the bedsprings

creaking next door.”

We left it at that and went on

about our business. Which is

a good thing. Sleep-deprived, brain

sizzling on yet another toke, my

thought processes are jumbled.

I’m not a worthy opponent.

The plan is a birthday dinner

at our favorite Italian bistro.

But dinner for six (plus room

for an infant seat) becomes suddenly

complicated when Dad’s “new” ‘98

Montero wheezes up the driveway.

Otto barks, announcing a stranger’s

arrival. Dad sits in his car a good

long while, no doubt ascertaining

his safety. Truth be told, Otto—

a hundred-pound black sable German

shepherd—would probably eat

Dad for lunch. I know he’d love

to take a big bite out of Dad’s new

girlfriend, Linda Sue.

But locked safely away behind

six-foot chain-link, he won’t

get the chance. Poor dog.

Once the two of them decide

Otto can’t scale the fence,

Dad and Linda Sue slither

from the SUV. They stand

in the driveway, checking out

the view and ogling the house.

Five minutes of no sound

but barking, five final minutes

of peace before certain chaos.