My Name Is Venus Black(40)

“He’s a doll. Since you started working here, I see him all the time, and don’t think I don’t notice him flirting with you. Here,” she says, handing me one of our Big Dipper napkins. Under the logo he’s written, “Annette. Is there a friendship in the stars? Call me.” And there was a number.

Of course I wasn’t going to call him! The idea that I would just call him up—or that he’d think I would—knocks the breath out of me. And then I realize it probably shouldn’t, probably wouldn’t, if I were any normal girl.

Danny’s handwriting is cramped and small, which makes me smile. I like that he associated the Big Dipper with space despite the doughnut logo. The fact that he mentions stars makes me wish it wasn’t addressed to Annette.

I can’t help but wonder if he’d like my real name.





As I continue trying to get Piper to do a few things around the house, I notice how much I nag or scold. I sound just like Inez used to. It alarms me enough that I search for a better tactic to get Piper to cooperate. It turns out she’s highly susceptible to bribery.

Gum works. Cookies work. Money works miracles.

One night I offer her twenty-five cents to help me do the dishes, and I can tell she thinks she’s struck it rich. Actually, I kind of like washing dishes by hand. I enjoy the warm soapy water and the basic idea of washing something clean. You don’t get that from piling dirty dishes in a machine.

While I wash and rinse, Piper stands on a stool and dries. As the two of us work at the sink, we can see our reflections in the window as clear as if it were a mirror. Piper looks so much better since I took her in for a real haircut.

“Stop staring at me!” she says.

“I’m not staring, Piper. I’m just looking. Because you’re a pretty little girl.”

“Don’t look,” she says, shaking her head and flicking some bubbles at my face in the window.

“Okay, I’ll stop looking,” I say, laughing. “But I was wondering if I can ask about your front tooth.”



“What about it?” she says defensively, automatically lifting a soapy finger to the gap.

“What happened to the tooth?”

“Why do you want to know?” she asks my reflection in the window.

“Just curious. It must have happened after you were six or seven, right?”

She considers. “Yeah. I was seven.”

“Did you fall off your bike?”

“No.”

“Did you bite a rock?”

She giggles. “No.”

“Did you trip and fall face-first on the sidewalk?”

“No.”

“I give up,” I tell her.

“I broke it in an accident,” she says. “When I was in a car.”

Oh my God. I’m such an idiot! Why didn’t I think of the accident? I couldn’t decide whether to pretend I didn’t know about her parents or just admit that Mike told me about the accident.

“I’m sorry, Piper,” I say, looking down at the sink and the pan I’m washing.

“You didn’t do anything.” The way she says it makes me wonder if she thinks it was somehow her fault.

After that, we wash and dry in silence for a while. The mood has dampened. The kitchen radio, on KJR, is playing Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” so I decide to get us out of our funk. I turn it up loud and begin to sing along, botching most of the lyrics.

Piper smiles at me and I can tell she likes it when I act silly.

“Annette?”

“Yeah, Piper.”

“How much longer do you think it will take before my tooth grows back in?”

Oh my God. She doesn’t know it won’t. Why hasn’t someone explained to her the difference between losing baby teeth and losing adult teeth?



Never is such a terrible word. And because I’m a coward, I tell her, “I bet it will grow back soon.”

I immediately regret the lie and add, “I really hope it never grows back, because having that gap makes you special. You look way prettier without a tooth there. It makes you unique.”

She looks doubtful.



* * *



—

AFTER DINNER, MIKE usually settles in front of the TV in the rattier of the two recliners. But he watches news or a sports show that bores Piper, making me the prime bait. Tonight I decide to take her for a walk, even though it’s pretty cold out.

“A walk?”

“Yeah. Let’s go for a walk.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t you ever just gone on a walk?”

Her blank expression tells me that she hasn’t.

We put on our coats and set out heading south. Piper is quiet.

“So tell me about your friend Penny. The one you said likes you but moved too far away.”

“She was nice,” says Piper. “We went together because of our Ps. Piper and Penny.”

“I get it.”

She suddenly turns around and walks backward. “Tell me if I’m going to hit something.”

I’m jolted by memory. Jackie and I used to do this. We’d see who could take the most steps backward before they freaked out. Once, I purposely steered her into a bush. It didn’t hurt her, but she got so mad. “You should have known I’d do something like that,” I told her, laughing.