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  I hang out with Bessie a little while longer, not saying anything, not doing anything, not wanting anything. Then I take my big butt home.

  TWO

  It's Sunday night, and for some reason, because I'm bored out of my skull, I guess, or maybe because I'm hoping to see Mr. VW tomorrow, I decide to set my hair like Ronnie showed me one day a few years ago after I got called “frizz bomb” thirty times before first period even started. So after I take my shower, I gather all my hair up on top of my head in a high ponytail, wrap it around a big orange juice can, and pin the whole thing to the top of my head with a million bobby pins. Then, just as I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to sleep like this, Fred calls up the steps for me to come into the kitchen. I ignore him, but after he yells two more times, I put on my bathrobe and go downstairs.

  “What's this?” Fred comes up right next to me and peers through the orange juice can on top of my head like it's a telescope. “Land ho! Thar she blows!” he says with a chuckle.

  “Ha, ha. Very funny,” I say, stepping away from him. “What do you want?”

  “Your brother's on the phone,” he says, gesturing with the top of his bald head toward Shirley, who's sitting at the kitchen table with the receiver pressed against her ear, finishing up her conversation.

  “Call us next week and let us know how your classes are going. Oh, and Mike, let me know what color you're decorating your room, and measure the windows so I can send you and your roommate some curtains.”

  I can just see Mike rolling his eyes over that one.

  “Okay, wait, here's your sister. Hang on.” Shirley hands me the receiver.

  “Hey, Mike.”

  “Hi, Squirt.” Mike's called me Squirt ever since I was two seconds old. “How's life with the Eunuchs?”

  “Far-out. Groovy. Outta sight,” I say, in a tone that conveys just the opposite. “How's college?”

  “Like high school with ashtrays,” he answers. “And speaking of ashtrays … Mary Jane just got here. All right! Hang on a second, Squirt.”

  “Mary Jane? Mike, not again!” Mary Jane is Mike's code for pot. The smoking kind, not the cooking kind. I hear him say, “Hey, man, pass that doobie over here,” and then someone must crank up his stereo, because all I hear after that is Jimi Hendrix singing “Purple Haze” so loud it's like he's wailing right in my ear. I play with the phone cord and say “Yeah. Uh-huh,” a few times so the Rents don't get suspicious, until Mike finally gets back on the line.

  “Mike, don't you think you should hang out with Mary Jane a little less and study a little more?” I ask in a stage whisper. “Have you even gone to any classes yet?”

  “Don't be so uptight, Squirt. Nobody goes to classes the first week.”

  “Mike”—I lower my voice even further—“Fred is going to have ten conniptions if you get kicked out again.”

  “Don't be such a drag, all right, Squirt? Hey, the brewski just arrived, I gotta split.”

  “Wait a second. Mike—” But before I can say anything else, he hangs up.

  “Your brother sounds pretty good, doesn't he?” Shirley asks as I put the receiver back in its cradle on the wall. “I think he's going to do well this year. I think he's finally turned over a new leaf.”

  Yeah, right. The only leaf Mike's going to turn over is on a marijuana plant.

  “Who's this Mary Jane?” Fred asks. “Didn't he have a girlfriend named Mary Jane last year?”

  “Uh…” I pretend to think. “I don't remember.”

  “I bet she transferred to be with Mike up at Buffalo,” Shirley says. “And who can blame her, really? Mike's a very good-looking guy.”

  “He'd be a lot better-looking if he cut off that pony-tail of his,” Fred grumbles.

  “Oh, you're just jealous,” Shirley says with a laugh, nodding at Fred's shiny pink scalp.

  “Jealous? That's a good one. You think I want to go around looking like a girl? I'd like to take a pair of scissors myself and—”

  “Good night, Shirley. Good night, Fred.” It's definitely time to make my great escape.

  “Good night, Andrea.” Shirley says, staring at my head. I know she's dying to say something about my hair, but always the queen of tact, she manages to restrain herself.

  “Don't you want to watch World of Disney with us?” Fred asks.

  “No thanks.”

  “How about a game of Monopoly?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Chinese checkers?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Scrabble?”

  “Fred, I'm really tired,” I say, and then before he can make me another offer I just can't refuse, I turn and run up the stairs.

  The next morning when I open my eyes, I'm lying on my back with the orange juice can all smushed to the side, even though I fell asleep on my stomach with my head hanging off the edge of my bed. And when I comb my hair out, it looks a little better than usual, except there's this bumpy ridge right next to my part that isn't exactly attractive. But it's too late to do anything about it, so I throw on some clothes and walk myself to school. And besides, who's going to notice my hair anyway?

  Donald Caruso, that's who. The minute I open my locker, he catches sight of me. And he can't just say something nice, like “Andi, you look good today,” which is what a civilized person would do, and leave it at that. No-o-o-o. He has to look me up and down with this stupid smirk on his face and say, “Hey Dee-Dee. I'm so dee-lighted to see you today. You look unusually dee-vine.”

  This is how Donald Caruso busts my chops pretty much on a daily basis. Instead of calling me Andi, he calls me Dee-Dee in reference to my oversized knockers, which probably are a size D by now, though I wouldn't know since I haven't bought a new bra in over a year. And it's true, my 38C bras have gotten tight. I think of myself as more like a C-plus, which is how my teachers think of me too, at least according to my report card.

  Anyway, I try to ignore Donald, but then of course he sticks his oversized sneaker in my way so I can't shut my locker.

  “Hey, c'mon, Donald, I have to go,” I say, but he doesn't move.

  “No need to get Jee-fensive, Dee-Dee. What's the big hurry?” he asks. “You have to go call your girlfriend!” He gestures toward the pay phone at the end of the hall and then clasps his hands to his chest, sighs, and puts this stupid moony look on his face. “Ah, young love.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I say, and he answers, “Blow me,” which is his all-time favorite expression. I swear, Donald Caruso has the intelligence of a gerbil, my apologies to the animal kingdom. Finally Donna shows up with an unusually ugly frog barrette holding back her hair, and off they go, his big hairy arm draped across her thin bony shoulder, and her little skinny arm looped around his thick wrestler's waist. I don't know how she stands him, I swear to God, I really don't. If I were her, I'd definitely have my head examined.

  The rest of the day drags by, and when the last bell finally rings, it's not a moment too soon. I grab my jacket, slam my locker, and head out, right past all those lined-up yellow school buses that look like overgrown sticks of butter about to melt in the sun. I keep my pace steady because if I walk too slow, I might miss the guy in the Volkswagen altogether, and if I walk too fast, I'll just have to stand there like I'm waiting for him and wouldn't that look stupid? This whole thing is stupid; it's crazy, I don't even know the guy. But hey, maybe he'll be my friend or something, you never know. I certainly could use the company. And he's got to be more mature than the boys at school, which wouldn't take much, let me tell you. I swear, if one more boy blows into his elbow to make a farting noise when I walk by, I am going to just haul off and slug him. Especially if his name is Donald Caruso.

  And speaking of the world's biggest jerk, I can't believe he noticed that I at least tried to look good today. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a total slob or anything. It's just that I don't think appearances are anything to get all hyped up about. Yeah, right. Just try telling that to the girls in my class and they'll look at you lik
e your face just turned bright green like the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz or something. I mean, you should see them all crammed together like sardines in the girls' room before first period, trying to get a spot in front of the mirror. The way they all push and shove, you'd think something really important was written over their reflections, like the name of the boy they're going to marry, which is all most of them care about anyway. I mean, they are so shallow. All anyone talked about today was who went to fat camp and lost weight over the summer, who got a nose job, who got their braces off, who got contact lenses, and what everybody was wearing. I of course wore the same thing I always do: a black sweater over a pair of dungarees, with black high-top sneakers.

  Shirley tried to take me shopping for school clothes this year—she tries every year—but I refused to go. The last time we went shopping I practically lost my lunch at the way Shirley and the salesgirl were oohing and aahing over all the cashmere sweaters and pleated skirts I wouldn't be caught dead wearing.

  “Isn't this adorable?” Shirley asked, holding up a belted red and green plaid jumper with a matching red sweater. When I didn't answer, a salesgirl who was standing nearby started cozying up to her.

  “Oh that's a very popular outfit,” the girl said, and the way Shirley turned around and started in on how they're wearing their skirts so short this year, and how you have to have really great legs to get away with that, and blah blah blah, I could just tell she wished more than anything that the salesgirl with her perfectly straight hair, her frosty pink lipstick and nails, and her color-coordinated skirt and sweater set were her daughter instead of me.

  This year, Shirley waited until the second-to-last week in August before she started in on me about my “wardrobe,” as she calls it. It was one of those days when it's so hot you wish you didn't have to wear your skin, let alone your clothing. She was drinking sugar-free iced tea in a tall Bugs Bunny glass that we got free from the gas station with our last fill-up and browsing through the JCPenney circular. “Isn't this dress cute?” she asked, pointing to a page. “Let's go shopping this afternoon. It's cool in the mall, and besides, you could use a few new outfits.”

  “Outfits” for God's sake. That just about killed me. I haven't worn an “outfit” since first grade.

  “I have everything I need,” I told her.

  “Don't you want a few new dresses or skirts?” Shirley asked, like I had turned into someone else overnight. “I wish you would wear something colorful,” she went on. “Why do you always have to wear black?”

  Because I know it bugs you, I wanted to say, but of course I didn't. You'd think Shirley would be glad I always wear black, since according to Redbook and Good Housekeeping and all those other magazines she's always reading, black makes you look thinner. But it just goes to show you that when it comes to Shirley, I can't do anything right.

  “Black is the presence of all colors,” I said, quoting my art teacher, but Shirley wasn't impressed. She just started in on me about always wearing dungarees instead of skirts, but I refuse to wear anything else. I like dungarees because they have lots of pockets and I carry lots of stuff: my Swiss army knife in case I need to open a soda bottle or peel an orange, my keys, some money, and my lucky shell.

  I got my lucky shell from Mike, who gave it to me one day when he was a senior and cut school, though of course I wasn't supposed to know that. Mike walked into the house with his shoes all sandy from the beach and said, “Now don't say I never gave you anything,” and I said, “Oh, thanks a lot,” like My brother went to Jones Beach and all I got was this lousy shell, but actually I was really surprised that in the middle of cutting school and hanging out with his friends and smoking dope, Mike thought of me. So I keep it in my pocket for luck.

  I'm touching my shell right now, in fact, as I make my way over to Farm Hill Road, walking with my hands in my pockets and my head down as usual, but I feel on the alert like a dog with her ears perked up, waiting for the sound of her master's step. And then there it is, the putt-putt of the Volkswagen's engine, and before I can stop it, my right hand snakes its way out of my pocket and waves, and worse than that, this stupid smile breaks across my face like I just won a trip for two to Hawaii from Monty Hall on Let's Make a Deal. I feel like such an idiot, but luckily Mr. VW doesn't seem to notice. He toot-toots the horn like he did on Friday, gives a little wave, and keeps driving. I watch the car and I think I see him checking me out in the rearview mirror but I'm not sure. Anyway, I can't let him see that I'm checking him out while he's checking me out, so I look away and by the time I look back, all I can see is the tail end of his tailpipe and then the little Volkswagen is gone.

  Tuesday afternoon is all overcast and I'm praying, even though I'm not sure if I believe in God or not, Please don't let it rain. Please don't let it rain. I mean, I'd look really stupid standing out there soaking wet waiting for the brown Volkswagen to go by. Then again, maybe it should rain. Then maybe my guy would roll down his window and say, “Hey, kid, don't you know enough to come in out of the rain?” and give me a ride.

  I walk down the road at my usual pace, with my back straight to improve my lousy posture. Shirley's always after me to stand up nice and tall because she thinks it makes me look thinner. Give me a break. What it really does is make my breasts stick out more. Which is a huge and I mean huge problem, but there's not much I can do about it. I don't want them sagging down to my waist or anything like my grandmother's. She has real hangers, let me tell you.

  I guess I take after my grandmother in that department, because unlike the two of us, Shirley's pretty flat. Believe it or not, I started getting breasts when I was only in third grade. First they were small, though they were certainly big enough for the other kids to notice and tease me about. (“What are those, pimples on your chest?”) They stayed that way for about a year and then one day they just started growing, and they grew and grew and grew and there was just no stopping them. I mean, I am definitely what you call stacked. Which is why I walk with my arms folded across my chest, like I'm doing now. There's no one out here on the road—no one on Long Island ever walks anywhere—but still, I hate the feeling of bouncing all over the place. I don't understand those women's lib chicks who braid the hair under their armpits and walk around braless, I really don't. I've been wearing an over-the-shoulder boulder-holder since I was nine and a half.

  See, when I was younger, I used to go to sleep-away camp every August. The summer I was nine, I must have had a growth spurt while I was gone, because the first thing Shirley said to me after she hadn't seen me for a month was “Young lady, you go put on a bra right now or else.” Like I was committing a crime or something. I didn't even own a bra, for God's sake, so Shirley had to take me shopping. That was a barrel of laughs.

  Shirley and I walked into Macy's lingerie department and a saleswoman with a yellow tape measure hanging around her neck like a snake rushed over to us. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “My daughter needs a bra,” Shirley said, like this was the worst news she'd ever had to give someone.

  But the saleswoman couldn't have been more pleased. “Isn't that wonderful?” she asked, all smiles. “Her first?”

  “Yes.” Shirley sighed. “You'll have to measure her.”

  “Lift your arms for me, dear,” the saleswoman said, whipping the tape measure off her neck. Then right there in the middle of the aisle she wrapped the tape measure across my back and pulled it over my breasts and I was so embarrassed I wanted to die.

  “Thirty-two. And it looks like she's a B already,” the woman announced to me, Shirley, and everyone else in the Tri-State area.

  “Thirty-two Bl” Shirley repeated in this horrified voice, because, for your information, Shirley also wears a size B, a 36B in fact. I happen to know this because I see her bras when I fold the laundry, which is one of my weekly chores. Chores, for crying out loud. You'd think we lived out on the prairie or right here on Bessie's farm.

  I put down my knapsack and call B
essie over. And though I try not to, I can't help noticing her udders swinging from side to side. I hate when anyone notices my breasts, and believe me, after that summer, Shirley wasn't the only one who paid attention to them. Mike made a few cracks about “keeping abreast of the situation” until he saw how upset it made me, and then he stopped. Fred never said anything, of course, but he definitely noticed. And he wasn't the only one. Take it from me, every single member of the male species treated me differently from the moment my bazooms entered the picture. Especially Donald Caruso, who for a while acted like his sole purpose on earth was to see how many times a day he could snap my bra strap. And then there was that school trip to Old Stur-bridge Village.

  Old Sturbridge Village, in case you don't know, is this place in Massachusetts where everything is still like it was two hundred years ago, with the people who work there all dressed up like Pilgrims and stuff. It took forever to get there, and then on the way home it was all dark and I was sitting on the bus by myself because Ronnie was out sick, when Donald Caruso slipped into the seat next to me. Now, this was way before he started going out with Donna Rizzo, and every girl in my whole school had a big crush on him except for yours truly, who couldn't care less. So I just shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep, and the next thing I knew, Donald Caruso had his arm around my shoulders, which was okay, I guess, and then the next thing I knew after that, his hand was on my breast.