History of Wolves(46)

The Loonettes needed people with poise Sarah told her, all smiles.

Boobs, she meant.

Which was why Lily was standing in the seventh grade bathroom with Sarah’s greasy hands in her hair, glitter everywhere, a gob of it now on her cheek. The Loonettes had a competition that afternoon in Duluth.

“Lil, don’t look at the Freak,” Sarah said, as I squeezed past them to get to the stall. “Her dad, you know, tortures her for fun. That’s what they do in that cult where she grew up. They burn her face with wax. They force her to pee outside so she doesn’t know how to use a toilet.”

Lily’s brown eyes met mine in the mirror. For an instant, I had the sensation I was looking at myself, and when I saw my own gaunt face beside hers I was startled.

“Her face looks okay to me,” Lily hedged. She leaned forward, so Sarah pulled back on her hair like reins.

“I’ve seen what they do! Have you seen it? Have you?”

“No,” Lily acknowledged.

I said nothing. On the floor of the stall lay the detritus of a quick change. Jeans, padded bras, a pair of off-white underwear in a wad. I nudged the pile out of the way with a toe, sat down but could squeeze nothing out.

Hiss-hiss went the hair spray—on and on, with no change. They were listening.

“Sorry,” Lily mumbled when I came out, bladder full, humiliated. “About the clothes.”

“Don’t talk to Freaks.” Sarah started spraying Lily’s face. “Close your eyes!”

Lily did, but Sarah’s eyes met mine as I rinsed the tips of my fingers under the faucet. It was the kind of look the dogs gave me when they had a meaty bone in the corner of the shed.

“Let’s sing,” Sarah said to Lily, who was cracking open her eyes. “Let’s sing ‘One Tin Soldier.’”

When Lily didn’t join in, Sarah gave her a prodding kick in the shins.

“You need to believe in the song,” she said.


“I wish I believed in this shit,” my mother said the morning she baptized me. I was six, maybe seven years old. A slant of light from the doorway caught her face. Cold well water from the measuring cup trickled down my back.

“What shit?” I asked, shivering.

“Like that. Like, no more saying shit, okay? You’re a new pot of rice, baby. I’m starting you all over from scratch.”

“I’m not hungry yet,” I told her.

She laughed, helped me out of the metal tub. “All you got to do, hon, all you got to do is be a kid. You do that, and I’ll feel so much better.”

“When’s Tameka coming back?” I asked her.

“She’s flown the coop with the others.”

I thought about that, how we’d gone off together like loons with just our thoughts down the highway. We’d almost flown the coop then, but they’d sent a Big Boy after us.

“Hey, don’t give me that look!” My mother turned me around by the shoulders, rubbed a rough towel over my back and neck. “Don’t you feel clean, at least?”

“I’m cold,” I said.

“Just feel clean for a second, okay? Just feel good.” She was crying then, I could tell. I wasn’t facing her, but I could hear her nose dragging with snot. “We’re starting over, you and me. I’m trying to get God on our side, do things different. So you can be a happy little kid again, got it? Can you just be a regular little kid for one second? Please.”

I wasn’t sure what else I could be.

“How hard could it be to smile once?” she begged. Then she crawled around on her hands and knees so she was facing me again. She found the measuring cup, set it on the very top of her head, lifted up her hands. Magic, she breathed. She had tears on her face, a tight-lipped grin, hair that was getting wet from the cup. After a moment, her measuring hat clattered to the floor.

“Last resort,” she warned.

She tickled under my armpits, so I squirmed away.

“Now, how hard was that?” she said, letting me go. I was breathing fast and faster, trying to get it going into a laugh.


“Why does the Fool carry a rucksack?” I asked Rom, pulling up on his blue carpet like grass, moving back and forth with my hand. It was late. All our beer bottles were empty, our burritos gone.

He shrugged. “He’s a vagabond. A traveler.”

“What’s foolish about that?”

“Well, he’s walking off a precipice, for one.”

I hadn’t seen that. I looked at the card again, and it was true. The Fool’s right leg dangled over a cliff, but the Fool’s eyes were closed. He was just walking along—la-de-da.

Rom leaned in closer so I could smell his burrito breath. “But it’s not all bad to let yourself fall. Try it?” He kissed me, open-mouthed, pushing me back slowly to the carpet. The metal pin in his tongue roamed in and probed my gums. That felt good, I thought. That felt a lot like being wanted.

“Wait!” I said, figuring out what he meant. I got out from under him. “I’m not the Fool.”

“But you’re not staying, are you?”

I stood up, straightened my twisted jeans. “Not the whole night, if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean for good.” There was an edge to his voice I didn’t expect. “You’re going back to Ass-crack Nowheresville. Eventually.”