during a schoolyard attack, but in Andy’s case, he knows things would be different. Kids like to pick on him, even now in the new school where, theoretically, they have no reason to think of him as a wimp, save for his meatless limbs, pearly skin, and telescope glasses.
If his parents divorce, his life will become sheer hell. A lonely hell at that. His father is his only friend. And his mother...he chokes back tears as he cleans his mother’s vomit off the kitchen floor.
To Andy, his mom is a red-haired Marilyn Monroe, an awesome alabaster-skinned vixen. When he first heard the word vixen, he imagined a kind of industrious ermine, but a Concise Oxford English Dictionary set him clear on that misconception a year ago. Now that he knows the real definition of vixen — a female fox — he still feels his mother lives up to the word. The term alabaster-skinned dignifies the appellation, gives it a royalness that erases all negative meaning. In his eyes, beyond a doubt, his mother is an alabaster-skinned vixen.
And he knows, with equal conviction and a great deal of fearful guilt, that his father somehow falls short of being an adequate vixen keeper.
So the stark evidence that his mother has been entertaining people this afternoon — a tea tray with two dirty cups on it, and two more cups cradling new tea bags awaiting on the counter — accompanied with the inexplicable vomit on the floor, fallen electric kettle, and his mom’s damp dress, sends tears of dread racing to clog Andy’s sinuses.
Sure, she said she must have caught the flu. Sure, she said she heard Dilly knock the kettle off the counter while she was lying in bed. But what about the four cups, the pulled-out chairs? And most damning of all — for it guaranteed that her guests weren’t female friends — what about her whispered request to refrain from mentioning any of this to his father?
So Andy not only clears up the vomit while his mother painstakingly hauls herself out of bed to prepare dinner, but he also cleans and puts away the teacups, even washes the unused ones, feeling they have, in some way, been sullied. His guilt at concealing this evidence and agreeing to withhold this information from his father makes him miserable. His mother seems unaware of his misery as she hobbles into the kitchen, looking far too ashen for even an alabaster-skinned vixen.
They peel potatoes and carrots together as the clock ticks towards dinnertime. Not once does either of them speak.
In a way, Candice hasn’t lied. She and Gloria are collaborating on a school project. Sort of. Like, it is biology, isn’t it?
Okay, so sure, she and Gloria are no longer in the same biology class, but hello? Is that her fault? If Candice’s demented parents hadn’t hauled her out of her high school, then, of course, she and Gloria would still be in the same class, and they wouldn’t have to sneak around like this against their parents’ wishes. No, not wishes: demands. Like, court orders.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vermicelli agree with us,” Candice’s parents said. “This is the best for both of you girls.”
As if! Putting them both into different high schools only guaranteed they had to see each other more often, ’cause Candice wasn’t able to make friends at her new school. Not award-winning friends, anyhow. Not friends you could trust.
As Candice strips off her sweater and casually tosses it onto Gloria’s bed, she feels another twinge of guilt for leaving that hasty message on the answering machine at home. She deliberately spoke fast, hoping Karen would still be searching for her crutches by the time Candice got off the phone.
Of course, there would be a major crisis to deal with later for even admitting to being at Gloria’s house, but why bother lying? Gloria’s rank brother saw Candice come in the back door when he should have been out smashing his head against other football players. He had a practice scheduled, Gloria said so, but no, the ignoramus caught a cold, came home straight from school, and it was guaranteed that he would tell his parents, and they in turn would fall all over themselves to phone Candice’s parents.
“Don’t worry about it, okay?” Gloria now says. She cracks her gum and unbuttons her jeans. “If you stick to the school project story, what can they do about it? Crucify us?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Candice says with a shrug. She pulls her Calvin Klein sports bra over her head and drops it to the floor. From the corner of one eye, she sees Gloria — naked, olive-skinned, raven-haired — check the lock on her bedroom door and turn the music higher. Her burgeoning body reminds Candice of one of those Italian sausages Mr. Vermicelli sells — shiny, spicy, stuffed so full it threatens to burst its seams.
Parental-focused guilt flees and instead wet impatience fills Candice. Her nipples go rigid, the skin on her scalp tautens. She continues to undress, taking her time, oh-so-casual ...
But what if Gloria doesn’t make the first move? Then what? As if Candice will! No, it has to be Gloria, always Gloria, ’cause Candice is too cool for that, even though between her thighs she is steaming and pulsing like a potato in a microwave.
But what if Gloria doesn’t make the first move? What if Gloria starts laughing instead? What if all their prior games — none as committed as this — have just been part of a setup to get Candice completely exposed while some hidden camera records her total humiliation?
Gloria approaches her. “You’re just so spinal,” she says, running a finger across Candice’s back. “I’d totally kill to be as thin as you.”
Candice shrugs, though her skin puckers at Gloria’s touch and the baked potato between her thighs releases a jet of steam.
“And your skin is sooo white, like a swan or something.”
“Yeah, but I burn easily. In the summer, you know.” She can’t turn around, can’t face Gloria. Her heart is a bullhorn in her ears, her legs whimper to sink into the bed. So bad she wants to turn around, to press and slide her skin all over Gloria in a wild feeding frenzy, but she can’t, no way.
She feels two cool, soft breasts press against her back, feels Gloria’s fuzz against her own naked buttocks.
“You sure you want to go ahead with this? You don’t have to, you know.”
“I know,” Candice says calmly, almost indifferently.
“We’ve got plenty of time to change our minds. Mom and Dad won’t be home for a couple more hours yet.”
“Do you want to change your mind?”
“Do you?”
Candice shrugs again, as if she cares less.
“I mean, we’ve talked about this, right?” Gloria says. “It’s not as if we’re lesbians or anything. We’re just practising, so we don’t make idiots of ourselves when it comes time to do it with a guy. Right?”
Candice doesn’t want to hear that word, not right now when she’s burbling and rippling down there, all briny with heat. So she turns and says, “Sometimes you talk too much, Gloria. Let’s just fuck, okay?”
And Gloria says, “Okay.”
Which is, like, what she’s supposed to say.
Morris finishes work at 5:15, says good-night to Clara, his receptionist, and heads home. He thinks of Karen while he drives — specifically, how he first met her. His last appointment
