Fishbowl. Sarah Mlynowski
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“Spare me the bullshit, please,” I say. “You’re counting the seconds until I’m out of the house.”
AJ, aka Stepbitch, rolls her eyes at my father.
I am moving out in eight days. AJ found me a room in an apartment with two complete strangers. She works with one of the girls, Allison, but unlike Allison, she’s a volunteer. They do something for Ontario University a few times a week. AJ acts like I should be grateful, as if she’s doing me a favor, but she only set it up to get me out of the house, away from her precious daughter, Barbie. I’m not kidding. Her name is Barbie. Not that she’s ever going to look like a Barbie. She’s a chunky, short kid. And let’s not forget her big nose and glasses. I guess conniving ol’ AJ (actually, young AJ) will manipulate my father into spending my inheritance on a nose job and laser eye surgery.
Apparently I have a bad attitude and I’m negatively influencing Barbie’s development.
Fuck that.
Barbie is not really a bad kid. When I baby-sit, I let her watch music videos and I teach her how to do the moves. She might be a pretty good dancer one day, that is, if her legs ever get long enough to reach the floor from a sitting position.
I even let her play with my hair. I’m amazed at how long it took that kid to learn how to make a braid. Of course, she uses only two strands, which is kind of like juggling with two balls instead of three.
I brought back some of my old clothes, after visiting my mother in Montreal. Too bad AJ feeds her so much, because poor Barbie couldn’t even get one of her bloated thighs into one of my dresses.
I’m trying to get her to dance the weight off.
I try to pretend to like AJ in front of the kid so I don’t add to her list of things she’s going to need to talk about in therapy one day.
“I’m not going to listen to this abuse,” AJ whines, and leaves the kitchen.
Silence.
I pour myself a glass of juice and sit down in her deserted seat. It’s hot. She probably farted in it.
“Why do you insist on upsetting her?”
I’m upsetting her? Let’s tally up, shall we? She had an affair with my father. She convinced him to desert my mother and me, move to Toronto and marry her. As far as I’m concerned, I’m entitled to blame her for every messed-up thing I do. I have problems maintaining relationships? AJ’s fault. I don’t trust people? AJ’s to blame. I killed someone? AJ. I haven’t actually killed anyone, but if I did she would have driven me to it. How can anything I do possibly equal her actions? She drove a clearing truck right through the soft patch of snow that was my life.
“Fighting with your boyfriend does not give you the right to take out your anger on us,” my father says.
“Nick and I aren’t fighting.” I hate when he blames Nick for everything. It’s like when Nick says I’m being a bitch because I’m on my period, which is a dumb expression because how can someone be on her period? Are they straddling it? And just because I’m being a bitch doesn’t mean I have my period. It may mean that I have PMS, mind you, but that Nick doesn’t need to know.
“Does AJ ever ask you for a thank-you? For letting you live here for the past two years? No. For getting you a job at Stiletto? For finding you an apartment? No. For lending you her basement furniture for your apartment? No. All she asks is that you treat her decently. And can you even do that? No.”
First of all, why was she “letting” me live here? Isn’t part of a father’s responsibility to take care of his kid? I wanted to do the two-year design program at the Toronto School of Art. I would have been happy to live on my own and let them foot the bill, but my father thought all of us living together would be a good opportunity for us to get to know one another. Apparently AJ has now changed her mind.
Second, she didn’t get me the job at Stiletto to help me. She used employment as an excuse for exiling me from her Rosedale palace. Is it my fault that she happens to know someone in the industry of my dreams? What does she expect from me? It’s not even a high-paying job. If my salary were a shirt, it would barely be enough material to cover my nipples.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I say in a Popsicle-sweet voice. “I truly appreciate everything AJ has done to make my life more successful. If she hadn’t fucked you while you were married to my mother, I might not have ended up right here at this kitchen table, drinking juice.”
So I’m a big baby. Shoot me.
My father gets up and leaves the kitchen. He’s always taking off. Maybe he was an airplane in his last life.
The moonlight spills into the kitchen and my body glitter dances.
Maybe I’ll play dress-up with Barbie.
Maybe I’ll take her shopping tomorrow.
Things could be worse. Daddy dear hasn’t taken back his credit card.
Another breakup equals another shopping spree.
4
ALLIE GETS EXCITED
ALLIE
One hour till Clint comes. Well, not comes exactly, but comes over. Maybe comes.
So that’s it, then. I’ll organize for potential coming. I’ll take the vodka out of the cupboard and put it into the freezer. Hea-vy. Why did I buy the supersize bottle? Was I planning on bathing in it? How much vodka can two people drink?
Ditto for the cranberry juice. Supersize? Puh-lease. But it will make a perfect vodka diluter later and a fab dry-mouth remedy immediately. Mmm, good. Back into the fridge. Whoops…cranberry juice leakage. Why can’t I ever remember to screw the top back on properly?
Will cranberry juice make me have to pee? It’s supposed to cure bladder infections, but I don’t want to be running to the bathroom every five seconds, do I? Talk about ruining the mood. Although I read you have a better orgasm when you have to pee. I think that’s just for women. I don’t think guys can have to pee and be hard at the same time. I also read that if you’re about to have a G-spot orgasm you feel like you have to pee.
I’ve never had a G-spot orgasm. I’ve never had an orgasm during sex. I’ve never had sex.
I’m a twenty-two-year-old virgin.
Is that crazy? It’s not like I have a third eye or a missing front tooth or anything. There are other virgins. Thousands of them, probably. It’s just that the others are either waiting for marriage, religious or ugly.
Or thirteen years old.
I’m pathetic.
But I’m waiting to meet a man I’m utterly in love with! Or a little in love with. Or, at least, a man I like.
Or, at least, a man who likes me.
Okay, fine. I’m waiting for a man, any man, as long as I like him and want to sleep with him, and as long as he likes me and wants to sleep with me. I don’t think that’s too much to ask for, is it?
Open mouth. Insert nail of left ring finger. Mmm.
I almost did it in high school. With Gordon. God knows he wanted to. He asked me pretty much every day: “When are you going to be ready? Are you ready yet? How come everyone else is doing it? How come everyone else is ready?” I wanted to, but for some mind-numbing, inexplicable reason, I felt it was my duty to say no. We’re too young. We’re not ready. Why is that exactly? Someone remind me, please. Teenage girls want to do it as much as guys do. We daydream about doing it, we imagine ourselves doing it, but we believe it is our duty not to do it. Except for the girls who actually do it. They’re the ones we call sluts when their backs are turned. They’re the ones we pretended to be when our eyes were closed.
Is it possible I waited too long and now it won’t even work? Does that happen? Can a hymen ferment?
Gordon