Life Is Funny Read online

  “Will you trade off?” I ask. “It’s safer that way.”

  China stays first.

  “Do it anyway,” she tells me. “Screw your mom.”

  “I should call child welfare,” I say. “They could let me live with Walker while she’s in jail.”

  “Bad idea,” China says. “They’d probably put you in some other home, and you’d get abused or something.”

  “She hates me.” I never said that out loud before.

  “She does not,” China says, but I nod my head.

  “When I was little. When she was still drinking.” I stop talking because maybe it’s just too stupid to say.

  “What?” China goes.

  She used to cuddle me, and then all of a sudden she would shove me off her lap and start screaming.

  “What?” China goes again.

  “She used to call me a bitch and a slut and piece of shit and a pain in the ass not worth having,” I whisper. My head hurts.

  China puts her hand on my palm. Her fingernails are baby blue with miniature clouds airbrushed on the tips. She saved three weeks of allowance for that sky.

  “She talked shit to you?” China breathes.

  I nod.

  “Baby.” China kisses my cheek. “You should have told me before.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  She smacks my leg. Lightly. “Shut up.”

  * * *

  Ebony slides in for the next shift, holding a candy bar.

  “I’m not hungry,” I tell her.

  “Carl likes you,” she says, peeling the wrapper down, like it’s a banana.

  “Everybody likes me,” I moan.

  “Poor you, bitch,” she says.

  “Did China tell you everything?”

  She takes a bite of the chocolate. “Yeah. You should have told us before.”

  “You guys think this shit doesn’t happen to white people.”

  “White people have no faith in their friends.”

  I notice fresh scratches on her wrist. The wrapper of the candy bar is brushing up against them. Ebony sees me looking.

  “If you tell China, you won’t need your mother to kill you,” she tells me.

  “Show me,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “Show me how to do it.”

  Ebony finishes chewing before she answers.

  “It hurts, girl,” she reminds me. “You wouldn’t like it.”

  “Don’t be a bitch,” I tell her.

  She makes a big show out of rolling her eyes and sucking her teeth, but when I won’t take it back, she pulls a teeny tiny cardboard box from her butt pocket. The blades are each wrapped in smaller strips of cardboard and stacked up tight next to each other. She slides one out of the pack and hands it to me.

  “Hold it careful, so it doesn’t cut your fingers,” she says, pointing to the dull sides. “Don’t press too deep. Just press hard enough that it hurts, but not so hard you get yourself bleeding so you can’t stop. Then there’s a mess.”

  I decide to do it on my ankle, where socks will cover things up better than sleeves. My fingers shake a little on the first cut. I don’t want them to because I don’t want Ebony making fun of me. She pretends not to notice, though, and finishes up her candy bar on my second cut, which is straighter and more even. Even though it hurts, Ebony’s right about the pain. It hurts, but the hurt is good, too. I stop after I have three red threads, feeling way better.

  “It makes my mouth taste like metal,” I tell Ebony.

  She scrunches up her face. “You’re crazy,” she says, and then the bell rings.

  * * *

  At home there’s a message on the machine, telling my mother the time, date, and place of my shoot: two weeks away in the city. I stare at the answering machine for a long time. I play the tape again. Then I dial the phone.

  “This is Grace Sanborn,” I tell the secretary at my agency. “I got a call about the Future commercial.”

  “Oh, yes, Grace. Congratulations.”

  “Did this get okayed by my mom?”

  The secretary laughs, the same laugh I’ve heard teachers use with me after parent-teacher night.

  “Absolutely,” the secretary says. “We’ve been talking with her all day.”

  * * *

  China sees my ankle while we’re getting dressed after gym. She slams me up against a locker.

  “What the fuck is that?” she whispers, pinning me against the metal. The round lock digs into my back. Some of the other kids start to gather around. People love a fight.

  “Get off me,” I say. “Everybody’s looking.”

  “We’re supposed to go to college,” she hisses.

  “Come on,” I say, wriggling a little to shake her off. It doesn’t work.

  “Fight,” some eighth graders begin to chant. “Fight. Fight. Fight.”

  That lock is killing me.

  “You can’t go to college if you’re all fucked up,” she breathes, mean, into my ear.

  “Plenty of fucked-up people go to college,” I tell her. Her breath smells like mint gum. “My mother went to college.”

  She slams me again, and my head smacks backward.

  “Bitch,” she tells me, and then she’s crying.

  Ms. Evans and Ms. Lumus pull us apart and break up the crowd. China won’t stop crying, and I can’t start.

  “I’m sorry,” I keep telling her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  * * *

  In my imagination I tell my mother everything.

  I had a fight, sort of, with China today.

  You did? What about?

  It’s kind of hard to say.

  Try anyway.

  You might get upset.

  I won’t this time. I promise.

  She was pissed at me because I did something weird and bad.

  What did you do?

  I don’t want to tell you that part yet.

  Okay. Why did you do it?

  Because you make me so mad all the time. And you never listen to me. You don’t like me.

  Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I do like you. I love you. I’ll try harder. I really will.

  I’m scared to tell you the other part.

  Which part?

  The thing that I did.

  Just try.

  Okay. I cut myself.

  What do you mean, you cut yourself?

  I made scratches in my ankle on purpose with a razor blade.

  Why?

  I don’t know.

  I’m not really sure what happens after that.

  * * *

  On the morning of the shoot, our bell rings while my mother’s in the bathroom. Our buzzer doesn’t work, so I have to run down the two sets of stairs.

  “What are you guys doing here?” I ask.

  “We wanted to wish you good luck,” China says. We’ve had a weird truce since the fight. We talk and don’t talk at the same time. Ebony’s been filling in the gaps, jabbering a mile a minute and calling us all kinds of bitches. She’s still cutting herself, and China hasn’t told on her yet. I haven’t cut myself again, but I’ve sat with Ebony a few times to watch her. It always makes my mouth water.

  “When you get famous, you better remember us little people,” Ebony tells me.

  “I wish you guys could come with me,” I answer, meaning it.

  “Grace!” We hear my mother shriek from two flights up.

  “No, thanks,” China says, and we crack up.

  * * *

  My mom and I are trapped in a cramped room for hours before anyone comes to get me. I don’t have a book or a magazine or anything. Neither does my mother. There’s a makeup mirror lining one wall. It has small bulbs framing it, all the way around. My mom and I keep looking at each other’s reflection in that mirror.

  “Want to play a word game?” she asks.

  I shrug. We haven’t said much to each other since she hit me.

  “How about I Spy?” she suggests.

  What a stupid i
dea. There isn’t anything to spy in here anyway.

  “Okay,” my mom begins, as if I’ve agreed. “I spy something round.”

  “The fire alarm on the ceiling,” I guess.

  She frowns into the mirror at me.

  Someone knocks on the door and then opens it right away, without waiting for an answer. He looks about fifteen, and he is fine.

  “Ooops,” he says. “Sorry. I thought this one was mine.” He has skin the color of our wood stairs, and his hair is kind of messy, and he has big green eyes. I can’t wait to tell China and Ebony.

  “I’m Sam,” he tells us. “I’m the other talent.” That’s what they call actors and models on shoots: “The talent.”

  “I’m Grace,” I say. “That’s my mother.”

  She blushes when he shakes her hand, and I want to die.

  * * *

  They make us wait a lot all morning, and while we’re waiting, Sam and I figure out that we go to the same school. We’ve never seen each other, though, because he’s a grade ahead of me and is in all the smart classes, so we’ve never had the same elective. Even though we both have second lunch, I always eat under the bleachers, and he’s always in the lunchroom or on the back stairs by the gym. I know our school is pretty big—it’s eighth through twelfth grade—but still, it’s hard to believe me and Ebony and China never noticed this guy.

  “How can we not have seen each other around?” I ask him.

  He shrugs this sexy shrug and smiles. His smile is amazing.

  But it turns out that he isn’t allowed to use it. Neither of us is. We’re just supposed to hang out in all these different poses with each other and look bored. That’s what the director says. I never took an acting class in my life, and I’m not too sure how to look bored, but the director tells me not think about it. Just to feel natural, because I naturally look bored anyway. When he says that, Sam laughs, and they have to cut and do a retake because of the smiling thing.

  “Talk to each other,” the director orders. “It doesn’t matter what you say. Just chat with each other.”

  “Why did you laugh at me?” I ask Sam.

  “Give her a hug, Sam, and aim her face toward the camera.”

  Sam slips his arms around my waist and pulls me close. It’s embarrassing with all those people watching, especially my mom, who’s sitting on a wooden stool about two inches away. But I don’t want Sam to let go either.

  “I wasn’t laughing at you,” he whispers into my ear. “Sorry.”

  “Can you tell I’ve never done this before?” I ask him.

  He moves away.

  “Cross your arms,” the director tells us.

  We do.

  “Sort of,” Sam says. “But it doesn’t matter. I only started a couple of months ago. You catch on fast.”

  “Give Sam a noogie,” the director says. “And look bored.”

  I can’t knuckle-rub his head without laughing, though. He can’t take it without laughing either. I forget all about my mother.

  A little while later, after they pat our faces with sponges, the talking part comes. I didn’t know we were going to have to talk.

  “What do you imagine when you think about the future?” the director asks each of us.

  We’re supposed to answer, “The future?” As though it’s this big question we’re worried about. I feel so stupid.

  “Don’t look at me,” I order Sam. “You’re going to make me laugh again.”

  I think he’s doing a really good job, but the director isn’t happy with his expression. “Brood,” the director tells Sam after seven tries. “Let me feel you brood.”

  “The future?” Sam asks into the camera.

  “Help me out here, Grace,” the director calls. “Whisper something serious to him.”

  I don’t plan it or anything. It just comes out. “I cut myself once on purpose with a razor blade,” I tell Sam quietly, into his neck.

  “Beautiful,” the director says, when I move away. “Perfect.”

  * * *

  My mother takes me to Serendipity’s afterward, to celebrate, I guess. I have Sam’s phone number in my pocket. He said I could call him anytime. I keep touching it to make sure it’s still there.

  “Grace,” my mother tries, just before my frozen hot chocolate comes. I don’t answer her.

  Later, while she’s waiting for her credit card back from the waitress, she says, “I’m sorry.”

  Monique

  I WAKE UP in the middle of the night, my leg warm and wet, and it takes me a second to figure out I’ve peed in the bed. The wetness turns cold almost right away, and I’m so tired, I can’t even get up to change the sheets. God damn it.

  I forget about it until the next morning, when my sister comes by to drop off old baby clothes she got from the rich lady she whores for.

  “They’re clean,” Molly says. “I washed them myself.”

  “What’s this?” I ask. It’s a rag doll with no eyes and the yellow hair almost off.

  “Oops,” Molly says. “That’s Ms. Nelly. You can’t have her. Caitlin will go ape shit.” Ape shit. Only my sister would use that word. “She peed in her new bed the last time she lost Ms. Nelly,” Molly tells me.

  I try to figure out who I lost last night.

  “What’s the matter?” Molly says.

  I think about telling her about the piss. I think about telling her I’m through with the baby’s father for good.

  Molly touches my belly. “How are you feeling?”

  “Still blowing my breakfast,” I answer.

  She makes a face. Molly thinks I’m disgusting. And I am.

  “When’s your next appointment?” she says.

  “Tuesday.”

  She puts her hand on my stomach again. “There’s still time to get rid of it, you know,” she whispers.

  “Fuck you,” I whisper back.

  * * *

  The baby’s father calls me from his program.

  “I thought you didn’t have phone time yet,” is the first thing I say.

  “How’s the baby?” is the first thing he says.

  “I got rid of it,” I lie.

  There’s this big silence, and I know he’s crying.

  “Jesus,” I hear him whimper after a while. “Jesus.” If he were here, he’d be punching me instead. Bastard.

  “And I’m moving,” I lie again. My heart shifts, like a rock keeling to one side. “I’m moving upstate, and don’t try to find me.”

  He’s wailing now. A low pitch, like a ghoul pissed off. I need to vomit.

  “Monique. Jesus. Monique. Please.” It’s aggravating how he says the same damn thing whether he’s fucking or punching or crying.

  He blubbers about how he’s got three months clean now and he’s through with his old ways and please please please.

  “I probably loved you once,” I tell him, because it’s true. “But I hope you get fucked in the ass three ways before Sunday and die.” Then I hang up.

  I am disgusting.

  * * *

  I try going to school Monday morning, but I can’t. I end up smoking cigarettes on the handball courts. Ms. Crosky, the tenth-grade tutor, comes out the side door, surprising me. She’s supposed to be at the middle school during the day.

  “You look lost,” she says.

  I shrug.

  “You look pregnant, too.”

  I didn’t think I was showing yet.

  “Fuck off,” I say.

  “Are you going to drop out?”

  She doesn’t even know me.

  “I asked you nicely to fuck off,” I tell her. I’m hoping she’ll disappear after that, but she stays put. I get through a whole other cigarette before she says anything again.

  “There’s a high school in this district that has day care,” she tells me. “Maybe you’d be interested.”

  “Maybe I’m getting rid of it,” I say.

  “Maybe,” she answers.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  * * *


  If I were really going to move, I’d pack all my stuff and my mother’s marbles, and I’d go to Greenland. The only person I’d write to would be Molly, and she’d be forbidden to tell anyone where I was at. I saw Greenland in a movie once. It’s nothing but white and blue and cold and people in brown skin coats, dog-sledding to get around. In Greenland you can always see the air thickening out of your mouth and little crystals on your eyelashes, and every second is pure, uncluttered peace.

  My mother’s marbles would go pretty well there. There’s one thousand of them, exactly, all milky clears. They belong somewhere cold, icy. They look like they sprouted right out of a glacier. My mother counts them every Sunday. She dumps them out of a black drawstring bag and counts them over and over.

  She was counting them the morning I told her I didn’t want to go to my father’s anymore. I was seven, and he’d just dropped me back home after our Saturday sleep-over visit. Molly came running out of our bedroom to see what he’d bought me. She hadn’t ever even met her dad, and mine wouldn’t let me share him with her.

  “I don’t want to go anymore,” I’d told my mother. I felt disgusting.

  “I’m counting,” she’d answered.

  “Don’t make me go next week,” I said, louder. She didn’t look up from her groups of ten.

  Molly tugged at my mother’s hand. “Monique’s crying,” Molly had said.

  My mother slapped her hand away, and I’d leaped at the marbles, raking my fingers over and through them, scattering the neat piles into hard clicks of rolling glass. My mother grabbed my hair and yanked me across the rough carpet with one hand until the other had put the mess right.

  She never even asked me why, and when Molly did, the next Sunday morning, I knew it was too dirty to say.

  * * *

  There’s a guy I notice at the prenatal clinic on Fourth Avenue. He’s Spanish, and he’s wearing one of those white lab coats. He’s the one who takes your blood. I notice him because he’s looking at me. And because his eyes aren’t brown, or green, or even blue. They’re white. Frost white.

  “What are you staring at?” I ask him, after they tell me the baby’s alive and well and don’t drink alcohol.

  “What are you staring at?” I say again.

  He smiles a huge smile. He’s got a ton of white teeth.

  “What’s so goddamn funny?” I spit.

  “You,” he says, and I want to kill him. “You’re trying to look so ugly, and you can’t do it because you’re so beautiful.”