Shug
Page 5
“I see him in a whole new way now. I see him … as the boy he is today, and the man he will one day be.”
Celia laughs. “You’re still such a kid, Shug. What you’re feeling right now is just puppy love. But don’t worry: Kyle’s sweet. He’ll make a good first boyfriend.”
Ha! What does she know? Celia, who’s had more boyfriends than I’ve had socks. She doesn’t know the first thing about true love.
“First of all, I’m not a kid anymore,” I say coldly, ignoring Celia’s smirk. “And second of all, that’s the whole problem, Miss Expert on Love, always thinking you know everything! He doesn’t like me.”
“Why not?”
“He likes someone else.”
Celia’s eyes narrow, and she looks just like Mama. “Who?”
“Just some girl at school,” I say. “She’s a bit more womanly than me.”
Celia snorts. “You, Shug? A woman?” She throws her head back and laughs like one of those crazy hyenas from The Lion King.
I glare at her. “Oh ha ha ha, poor pathetic Shug. I come to you for advice about this—this harpy, and this is what I get.” We learned about harpies during the Greek mythology unit at school last year. Harpies were monsters who were part woman, part bird, and they had talons and they would shriek and laugh at people. Sounds like Celia to me.
“Look, Annemarie,” Celia says, sighing. “Forget about this other girl and worry about yourself, if you really want to be a contender. You’ve got to get in the game before you can knock out your opponent. So quit feeling sorry for yourself, dummy. Take action. Do yourself up; flirt with his friends. Make him notice you. Make him work for it.”
“Will that really work?”
“’Course it will, Shuggy Pie. It works every time. Boys are essentially all the same. They need you to do the thinking for them. Trust me, he’ll come around,” she says confidently. “You’re not bad lookin’, even if you are a pain most of the time.” Celia sticks her plate in the sink and says she’s going to the lake with Margaret and Kristi and Jake and everybody.
I hope she’ll invite me, but she doesn’t.
After Celia leaves, I call up Elaine. Nobody answers, so I call Mark next.
“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“Some of the guys are over here,” Mark says.
“Like who?”
“Just some of the guys—Jack and Kyle and Tommy.”
Ha! My first big chance to make Mark notice me, make him see me for the woman I am! I’ll make the whole room notice me! I’ll be the femme fatale I was born to be! I can see it now: me, slinking around the Findley’s rec room like a real temptress, the boys, hovering around me like nervous little bees, eager to do my bidding.
“What are you guys doing?” I say, real casual-like.
“I don’t know. Just hangin’ out, playing video games and stuff,” Mark says distractedly.
“Can I come over?”
“If you want.”
“Okay, well, maybe I will,” I say. He says okay, and we hang up.
I put my dishes in the sink and go to my room. I’ve been to Mark’s house a million times or more and not once have I thought about what I was wearing. But there are going to be guys over there, not to mention this new Mark. And if I am going to be the femme fatale, I’ve got to look the part.
I look in the mirror, and I am sorry to see it’s still just me there. Who was I trying to kid? I’m no femme fatale. I’m not the kind of girl boys like.
My hair is a lighter, less special version of my mother’s. It’s like dirty straw: There are no reds or golds, and it’s too fine to curl the way Celia’s does. It just sits at my shoulders and hangs. Elaine’s hair is long and coffee black, and I envy the dark richness of it, mine being just a pale imitation of someone else’s hair. My eyes are brown, the muddy kind of brown you get when you mix a bunch of watercolors together. My body is bony and stickstraight, not soft and curvy like Celia’s. I am tall, too tall for my age, and I have no womanly curves to speak of. I can’t fill a pudding cup with what I’ve got. But worst of all are my freckles. I have freckles scattered all over me, like sprinkles on a crummy cake no one feels like eating. No one else in my family has freckles.
I wonder if I’ll ever be pretty. Probably not. Not Mama and Celia’s kind of pretty, anyway. Daddy says I am like a baby colt, and that one day, I will be a real knockout. Don’t fathers know that you’re not supposed to say, One day you will be a knockout? Don’t they know that you’re supposed to say, You are a knockout right this very minute, just the way you are? Daddy’s just as bad as Mark; neither of them ever know how to say the right thing.
But Celia said I wasn’t bad lookin’, and that’s something. Maybe “not bad” is good enough for Mark to like. Anyway, it’s not like he’s some prize. His feet smell like nachos half the time, and Mrs. Findley always cuts his hair too short in the back. Still, he’s Mark, and he’s mine.
Mama said to make love or make war. I know she doesn’t mean I should go and have sexual relations with him, but that’s about all I know. Should I just forget the femme fatale stuff and tell him that I am in love with him, and that he should love me too, or else? Or should I be coy like Celia said, and make him wildly jealous so he’ll come chasing after me? I knew Mama wouldn’t be any help. Come to think of it, neither was Celia.
Chapter 5
When you walk into Mark’s house, you are overcome with the notion that a real family lives there. Family portraits are lovingly hung on every wall, and Mark’s school pictures have the seat of honor above the fireplace. The one from second grade is my personal favorite. He’s missing one of his front teeth, and his hair is slicked to the side like a used car salesman.
There are little baskets of potpourri all over the place, and Mrs. Findley’s ceramic teapot collection is displayed throughout the house. And it always smells the same, like pumpkin pie and fresh laundry. It smells the way a house should smell—warm and good and safe.
I walk right through the front door because I’m practically a part of the family. Mrs. Findley is icing a red velvet cake in the kitchen. My favorite.
“Hi, Mrs. Findley,” I say.
“Hello, dear. I’ve made cream cheese icing, just the way you and Mark like it, extra sweet.” She gives me her special smile, the one where her nose wrinkles.
Celia laughs. “You’re still such a kid, Shug. What you’re feeling right now is just puppy love. But don’t worry: Kyle’s sweet. He’ll make a good first boyfriend.”
Ha! What does she know? Celia, who’s had more boyfriends than I’ve had socks. She doesn’t know the first thing about true love.
“First of all, I’m not a kid anymore,” I say coldly, ignoring Celia’s smirk. “And second of all, that’s the whole problem, Miss Expert on Love, always thinking you know everything! He doesn’t like me.”
“Why not?”
“He likes someone else.”
Celia’s eyes narrow, and she looks just like Mama. “Who?”
“Just some girl at school,” I say. “She’s a bit more womanly than me.”
Celia snorts. “You, Shug? A woman?” She throws her head back and laughs like one of those crazy hyenas from The Lion King.
I glare at her. “Oh ha ha ha, poor pathetic Shug. I come to you for advice about this—this harpy, and this is what I get.” We learned about harpies during the Greek mythology unit at school last year. Harpies were monsters who were part woman, part bird, and they had talons and they would shriek and laugh at people. Sounds like Celia to me.
“Look, Annemarie,” Celia says, sighing. “Forget about this other girl and worry about yourself, if you really want to be a contender. You’ve got to get in the game before you can knock out your opponent. So quit feeling sorry for yourself, dummy. Take action. Do yourself up; flirt with his friends. Make him notice you. Make him work for it.”
“Will that really work?”
“’Course it will, Shuggy Pie. It works every time. Boys are essentially all the same. They need you to do the thinking for them. Trust me, he’ll come around,” she says confidently. “You’re not bad lookin’, even if you are a pain most of the time.” Celia sticks her plate in the sink and says she’s going to the lake with Margaret and Kristi and Jake and everybody.
I hope she’ll invite me, but she doesn’t.
After Celia leaves, I call up Elaine. Nobody answers, so I call Mark next.
“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“Some of the guys are over here,” Mark says.
“Like who?”
“Just some of the guys—Jack and Kyle and Tommy.”
Ha! My first big chance to make Mark notice me, make him see me for the woman I am! I’ll make the whole room notice me! I’ll be the femme fatale I was born to be! I can see it now: me, slinking around the Findley’s rec room like a real temptress, the boys, hovering around me like nervous little bees, eager to do my bidding.
“What are you guys doing?” I say, real casual-like.
“I don’t know. Just hangin’ out, playing video games and stuff,” Mark says distractedly.
“Can I come over?”
“If you want.”
“Okay, well, maybe I will,” I say. He says okay, and we hang up.
I put my dishes in the sink and go to my room. I’ve been to Mark’s house a million times or more and not once have I thought about what I was wearing. But there are going to be guys over there, not to mention this new Mark. And if I am going to be the femme fatale, I’ve got to look the part.
I look in the mirror, and I am sorry to see it’s still just me there. Who was I trying to kid? I’m no femme fatale. I’m not the kind of girl boys like.
My hair is a lighter, less special version of my mother’s. It’s like dirty straw: There are no reds or golds, and it’s too fine to curl the way Celia’s does. It just sits at my shoulders and hangs. Elaine’s hair is long and coffee black, and I envy the dark richness of it, mine being just a pale imitation of someone else’s hair. My eyes are brown, the muddy kind of brown you get when you mix a bunch of watercolors together. My body is bony and stickstraight, not soft and curvy like Celia’s. I am tall, too tall for my age, and I have no womanly curves to speak of. I can’t fill a pudding cup with what I’ve got. But worst of all are my freckles. I have freckles scattered all over me, like sprinkles on a crummy cake no one feels like eating. No one else in my family has freckles.
I wonder if I’ll ever be pretty. Probably not. Not Mama and Celia’s kind of pretty, anyway. Daddy says I am like a baby colt, and that one day, I will be a real knockout. Don’t fathers know that you’re not supposed to say, One day you will be a knockout? Don’t they know that you’re supposed to say, You are a knockout right this very minute, just the way you are? Daddy’s just as bad as Mark; neither of them ever know how to say the right thing.
But Celia said I wasn’t bad lookin’, and that’s something. Maybe “not bad” is good enough for Mark to like. Anyway, it’s not like he’s some prize. His feet smell like nachos half the time, and Mrs. Findley always cuts his hair too short in the back. Still, he’s Mark, and he’s mine.
Mama said to make love or make war. I know she doesn’t mean I should go and have sexual relations with him, but that’s about all I know. Should I just forget the femme fatale stuff and tell him that I am in love with him, and that he should love me too, or else? Or should I be coy like Celia said, and make him wildly jealous so he’ll come chasing after me? I knew Mama wouldn’t be any help. Come to think of it, neither was Celia.
Chapter 5
When you walk into Mark’s house, you are overcome with the notion that a real family lives there. Family portraits are lovingly hung on every wall, and Mark’s school pictures have the seat of honor above the fireplace. The one from second grade is my personal favorite. He’s missing one of his front teeth, and his hair is slicked to the side like a used car salesman.
There are little baskets of potpourri all over the place, and Mrs. Findley’s ceramic teapot collection is displayed throughout the house. And it always smells the same, like pumpkin pie and fresh laundry. It smells the way a house should smell—warm and good and safe.
I walk right through the front door because I’m practically a part of the family. Mrs. Findley is icing a red velvet cake in the kitchen. My favorite.
“Hi, Mrs. Findley,” I say.
“Hello, dear. I’ve made cream cheese icing, just the way you and Mark like it, extra sweet.” She gives me her special smile, the one where her nose wrinkles.
