Fat Lip

In a few minutes, you are going to die. You can’t see me curled on the staircase landing, behind the brass cherub. No one knows I’m here. Our mothers are out back, drinking beers in brightly colored wrap skirts and tight white T-shirts that cling to their chests—Granny’s in the kitchen, where she always is.

You are on the porch talking to Aunt Beth, your feet splayed, chin high as you yammer about everything you know. Through the screen door, I hear your froggy voice catch when you lisp, your high, curved forehead soaking up Aunt Beth’s attention because you think it is your right. I don’t care that our mothers are sisters, or that we’re supposed to be friends because we are cousins. With you dead, the whole summer will take a different direction. I won’t have to share the bed in the middle room with you. I won’t have to listen to you chew the ice at the bottom of your soda or crack your knuckles when we watch TV.

Aunt Beth is going on a date and doesn’t care what you have to say. She only cares about her hair and whether her mascara is running. She smooths her short skirt over her thighs, her knees pressed together like a lady as she sits waiting for her man on the white bench.

Soon, Dean will drive up in his light blue convertible with dark seats. He’s a lifeguard, so he’ll smell like a swimming pool even though he took a shower. Aunt Beth will stand up and shake her arm a little, jangling her loaded charm bracelet. He’ll get out of his car and lean against it, smiling like he’s got a secret, and she’ll stroll down the stairs to meet him. 

I got to lie on her bed and watch Aunt Beth as she sat at her dressing table, doing her hot rollers and applying her makeup. You missed it because, as usual, you were lying on the couch downstairs reading your dumb book with your ankles crossed and your stinking feet stinking up the cushions.

Bottom lip tucked in, Aunt Beth backcombed the top part of her hair until it stuck up like a crazy troll doll. Then, in two seconds, she smoothed it over with a brush, giving it a glamorous pouf, then curled the ends around her finger until they turned up perfectly. She told me to close my eyes while she doused herself in flowery-smelling hairspray. When I finally opened my eyes, there were tiny glistening drops all over her hair like dew. 

Granny says Aunt Beth bleaches her hair to draw cheap attention to herself. But Aunt Beth yells that she is her own person, and Granny can never hold her back. She uses Clairol’s Born Blonde, which looks amazing with her dark eyebrows filled in with a pencil. You were born blonde for real, but the color is washed out, your eyebrows are white like your hair and look stupid against your ugly pale skin. Your eyes should be pink like a rabbit’s. You can wish and wish, but your hair will never be the beautiful blonde of Aunt Beth’s. It’s only one of a million reasons you should die.

The main reason I am going to kill you, though, is because you won’t tell me about sex. 

“It’s not for me to say,” you said, pretending to be an adult with your stupid, know-it-all smile. “You have to wait until your mother tells you.”

I begged you to tell me anyway, but you shook your head and bit into your apple. I tell you about everything, like the magazine under my dad’s bed. Last week, I told you about that cream and that rubbery thing in Aunt Beth’s drawer, even though I could have kept it to myself. But you nodded like you knew already and said it keeps her from having babies. 

“If Aunt Beth has sex with her date, she will go to hell,” you said. “It’s a sin to have sex out of wedlock.”

“What’s wedlock?” I asked, imagining a big chain wrapped around Aunt Beth with a huge, shiny lock in the front like a bow on a present.

“Marriage,” you rolled your eyes. “Uh-doi.”

Ever since your mother gave you that book, you tell me rules about sex and what’s a sin, but you won’t tell me the actual thing. “It’s gross,” you said. “You will lose all respect for your mother and father when you find out.”

“No, I won’t.” 

“Seriously,” you say, looking at me with pity. “You’ll have to wait until Barb decides to tell you.” You never call my mother Aunt Barb like you’re supposed to, but just Barb, like you’re her friend, which you aren’t.

You are wrong about that and so many other things. You think eating apples instead of a Pop-Tart for a snack is better. But an unfrosted Pop-Tart has only 180 calories, and besides, your butt is already fat. Aunt Beth is the best dieter anyway. She told me she once went three whole days without food, and it made her feel clean.

Aunt Beth thinks she’s fat, even though her body is perfect. I once saw her in front of the mirror in her underwear, punching the side of her thigh and whispering, “Ugly, ugly.” She skipped dinner and stayed in her room until the next morning. I get sad when she’s like this, like what she sees in the mirror is nothing like what the rest of us see. Like what she sees is a monster.

But you eat your apples and never get skinny. When I eat chips and ginger snaps, you smirk and say stupid things like, “A second on the lips, forever on the hips.” 

This is a house full of women. Every July, my father drives for 10 hours to drop my mom and me off, spends one night, and picks us up when the month ends. Uncle Steve only comes over sometimes for dinner. Even Poppy is in the shadows, chewing his tobacco and tending his flower beds. For the whole month, it’s just women laughing, drinking beer, frying chicken, and playing cards. When my mom smokes your mother’s cigarettes, she blows smoke through her nose like she’s a different person.

I push a pearly button, and the globe of light in its hand flickers to life, glowing warm. I press the other button—click—and it all goes dark. I alternate on and off so the light blinks like a secret code. My butt bones press into the hard wooden landing, and the lemony wood polish Granny uses on the staircase makes the back of my throat feel a little vomity. 

In a few minutes, Dean will drive Aunt Beth away for their date, and you’ll come inside, where it will seem dark because you’ll be blind from the sun, which makes your pupils tiny. It takes a few seconds after you come into the dark house for them to open wide and let in enough light so you can see.

You’ll be blind for only a few seconds, standing there stupid, but that’s plenty of time for me to lift off the ledge like a giant eagle, come down on your head feet first, and smash in your skull. You won’t even know what hit you. 

I’ve been dreaming about this for so long. When your dad drove us to the pool last week, you rode up front so you could talk about your butterfly stroke, hoping I felt inferior. But I didn’t care. I was thinking about the baseball bat Uncle Steve keeps under the seat, how I could pull it out and smash it over your head until your pathetic white hair turned red with blood. 

I’m not allowed to watch horror movies, but my old babysitter made me stay up with her one night to watch I Spit on Your Grave. At first, all the blood and gore were disgusting, but once the lady started killing the men who attacked her, my babysitter got so excited, shouting like she was cheering for a football team. I got into it, too. At school, I’d imagine swinging an axe like the lady did, burying it deep into a jerk boy in front of me. It made me so happy and calm. When I think about smashing your brains in, I can listen to you go on and on about any stupid thing, and it doesn’t bother me. 

I hear Aunt Beth’s date pull up. When I called him her boyfriend, she got annoyed. “He’s not my boyfriend yet—he’s still my date.”

I think she hates that, but that’s even more glamorous to me. Aunt Beth says she met Dean in the office where she is a secretary, but maybe she secretly went on The Dating Game. 

Maybe she sat in that swivel chair, her legs crossed, swinging those white square-heeled Mary Janes. She got to hold the little cards with questions and take her own sweet time. 

When she asked, “How would I know you were true?” Bachelor Number One said, “Because I would treat you like a princess.” Stupid. Bachelor Number Three tried to make the audience laugh and said, “Ask my other girlfriends—I’m a one-woman man.” But her perfect date, Dean, Bachelor Number Two, was calm and clear, his shaggy brown hair falling to his shoulders. “You would see it in my eyes.”

That’s what Aunt Beth needs, someone to hold the truth in his eyes, that she is beautiful and special because no one else seems to care. When she said, “he’s still my date,” I knew she hoped Dean would see her this way.

A car door slams, and the car squeals as Dean pulls away, Aunt Beth by his side, so I know you are about to come inside. I sit up, squatting beside the brass cherub, ready to swing my arms for the lift I’ll need so I’ll come down hard onto your head. Your skull will shatter like glass, pieces of bone piercing your big, ugly, gray brain. The story I’ll tell is that I have no idea what happened to you—maybe a stranger came inside the house and did this to you—but the important part is that I won’t have to listen to you anymore. All the books you’ve read and the facts you’ve memorized will be erased forever.

My legs wobble, but just as I think I can’t balance on the landing any longer, I hear the screen door open, and here you come.

I jump high enough to touch the ceiling, and then I’m flying in the air like a weightless bat. From the sides of my eyes, I can see into the living room. The couch, chairs, and coffee table sit where they always sit, but they’re different now because I’m moving in space. 

My body hits you, and bang! A hot shock flies through me. Something’s wrong—I didn’t land on your head. Instead, I landed on your arm, my chin on top of your bony elbow. 

I look at your thick ankle and the side of a green flip-flop. Your feet are too smooth because you never go barefoot and don’t get rock-hard calluses around the edges like I do. My tooth is sunk into the bottom of my lip, and my mouth fills with blood. 

The door opens again, and Aunt Beth comes inside. I’m confused—did Dean bring her back? Is he coming inside with her?

“Move,” she says, practically kicking me, and her heels clack up the dark wooden stairs. I can’t see her face, but the back of her head has that hard look. Something’s wrong— Dean drove away without her. She never left at all.

You look down at me, your round forehead shining. “I saw you up there,” you say calmly. 

“You couldn’t.” I spit a little blood when I talk. “Your pupils were dilated.” 

“Dilated?” you say with a snort. 

“I tested it. It takes twenty seconds for your pupils to get big when you come into the house. They were still dilated from the sun on the porch.” 

“Dilate means to get big. Uh-doi. When you’re out in the sun, your pupils are constricted.” You smile, smug, with your arms crossed like you aren’t even a kid but some freaky shrunken grown-up. 

I can’t believe I mixed the words up—I’ve been saying them in my head since yesterday. I wipe my mouth on the back of my arm and look at the bloody smear. My lip is already fat. 

“I tested it this morning. You would be blind when you entered the house, so there’s no way you saw me.”

“This morning? Do you mean when the sun is in the east?” You lisp like a snake. “You would be blind in the morning, but, uh-doi, in the afternoon, the sun is behind the house. God, you are stupid,” you say as you head toward the kitchen. 

I’m covered in prickly sweat, and my stomach burns. When I stand up, my left ankle hurts. I see a little blood on the floor, but I’m not sure how much. Maybe I’ll need stitches. You’ve never had stitches. Last winter, you broke your arm ice skating. In your family Christmas card, you wore two bandannas for a sling with your arm in a cast, like you thought you were cool. But stitches are a whole new deal.

Granny’s frying chicken in the kitchen, and through the back window I see our moms looking up at you, their mouths open a little, and I know you are telling on me. 

Attempted murder is probably the worst thing I’ve done in my life, definitely worse than cussing in gym class or stealing gum from the 7-Eleven. But you don’t know I was trying to kill you—you don’t think I’m smart enough—so I won’t be in that much trouble. And my fat, bloody lip will scare my mom out of being mad. 

I smell the greasy, salty chicken as it hisses in a big cast-iron skillet. “Granny?” I say in a high voice, knowing she’ll take one look and run towards me to bring my head into her soft belly. 

“Granny?” I say again, turning the corner into the kitchen, but she is already out the back door. I grab a dishcloth hanging on a hook over the sink and hold it to my mouth, where it soaks with blood in a second. I’m about to go out back when the door opens, and you and our mothers and Granny charge in, you, of course, leading the way.

For a second, I’m sure everyone’s coming after me, but you all head for the back stairs, clomping up single file as the chicken fries away on the stove. The clock on the wall says ten after five. We never take the back stairs; if we do, we get in trouble because one of the steps is loose. Poppy says we will break our necks if we run up and down. 

Now the chicken smells like it’s burning, and thin smoke rises out of the pan. Even though we’re not supposed to go near the stove, I use the bloody dishcloth to move the skillet and turn the burner off, watching the blue flame shrink until it sputters for a second and disappears. I spit blood into Granny’s white sink—it mixes with a trickle of water and turns pink before it runs down the drain. I run my tongue over my lip, the puffy part tender and raw. 

I want to sit down at one of the kitchen chairs and cry. If I had landed on your head like I was supposed to, I wouldn’t have said the wrong thing and have you happily correct me, this look on your face like you can’t wait to make fun of me to your nerd friends when you are back at school. 

I take a freeze-pop from the freezer and hold it on my lip. Ice is supposed to stop the swelling, and the freeze-pop is lime, my favorite. I want to open it, but it will get all mixed up with my blood. So, I just hold it there, the plastic sticking to my lip a little, making everything worse. 

I want to go home to Rochester, back to the woods where everyone listens to what I say instead of here with you in this stinking, broiling small town with no woods. Even though I love Granny and Poppy, a month here is too long. Back home, I wake up in the middle of the night and think I’m still in their giant, old house, lying in the big bed with you. I’ll go to the bathroom and try to turn on a light switch that isn’t there.

Scuffling noises come from upstairs, and I want to see what’s happening. My lip makes me not want to take the back stairs, so I walk through the house to go up the real stairs. I want to kick the brass cherub, but my ankle hurts; my plans and practice were for nothing. I’ll never be able to jump on your head again because the element of surprise is dead. 

I hear Aunt Beth crying with big swallows of air like she’s about to die. I hear the big box fan in her window—the one I got my long hair all tangled up in that time you dared me to see if the fan blades would chop the ends off. They were too dull to chop anything, but my hair wrapped around the inside of the blades until my head was smashed against the screen, and the fan came to a stop. I screamed. You unplugged the fan and ran down to get our mothers. They tried to untangle the clump, but it was too knotted, so they got scissors and chopped that piece to my chin. You stood behind them, thrilled by my messed-up hair since yours is too thin to grow long. 

Aunt Beth is lying in her bed with mascara smeared down her cheeks, her perfect hairstyle a mess. Teased clumps of hair show through the smooth, like she’s the fallen woman in a movie. The box fan blows her pink curtains into the room, the smell of her hairspray lingering in the air. Everyone stands around the bed, and you are next to her with this look on your face like you’re solving a brain teaser.

I wish I could sit at Aunt Beth’s dressing table and play with the hairpins in the little glass box. I want to purse my lips and put on lipstick slowly, like she does, blotting it with a tissue as I think about my date coming to get me. I wish I was 19, like Aunt Beth. She works and makes money to shop for beautiful dresses with thin plastic belts and shoes that match with a perfect buckle in the front. I want to sit on that seat, close my eyes, and become her. 

Instead, I just stand in the doorway. 

The lights are off, and everything’s getting a pinkish glow from the sun setting out back. The smell of Granny’s powder mixes with the hairspray and your mother’s sweet perfume. There’s something dirty underneath, like old sweat and the bathroom after Poppy’s been sitting there a long time. When I notice the bottle on Aunt Beth’s bedside table, the smell of gin washes over the other smells, tightening the back of my throat.

“Get her walking,” your mother says sharply.

My mother crawls across the bed and grabs Aunt Beth’s wrists, pulling her so she sits up. Aunt Beth kicks one of her perfect shoes into Granny’s knee. “Leave me alone!” 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Granny says in a growl that she only uses when she’s mad at Aunt Beth. “Barb, go call the hospital. Ask them, should we bring her in or what?” 

My mom lets go of Aunt Beth, who drops back on the pillow like a rag doll. 

“Here, take this with you so you can tell them what she took.” Granny throws a prescription bottle across the bed.

I admire the way my mother catches it with one hand. As she rushes by me in the doorway, I take the freeze-pop off my mouth and thrust my chin up so my lip sticks out. “Mom! I need stitches!” 

She bends down to squint at my mouth. “It’s nothing—just a little ol’ fat lip.” 

When I start to protest, she snaps. “You’re fine. Can’t you see we have a crisis?” The way she says we makes me sick, like all the women in the family are in this together except me. 

I leave the room to sit on the built-in bench in the hallway. It’s hardwood, like the landing, with the same vomity furniture polish smell. I want to go home to the green trees in our backyard, the dirt, and the hard clay I dig up from deep down. I want to pull up a wild carrot and taste its sweet juice. I want to see my dad. He’d take one look at my lip and drop to his knees in front of me to cup my chin in his hand and take a serious look.

Soon, my mom runs back up the stairs, breathless. “The hospital wants us to bring her in!” 

Aunt Beth is propped up on your mom’s shoulder, walking around now. She’s barefoot, her shiny red toenails crumbling under her feet as she tries to stand.

“They want to give her something to make her upchuck,” my mom says. “They said she took enough Valium to kill her.” She says it “val-yoom” since she always gets her southern accent back when we visit.

The air fills with an excited, electric buzz as the whole herd of you file out of the bedroom, you right in the middle, brushing past me without a glance. 

“Girls,” Granny says. “You stay here. The emergency room is no place for children.”

You stop dead on the stairs, eyes popping out of your head. Ha! You are still a child, no matter what you think in that fat head of yours. 

“I’ll stay with them,” my mom says, her shoulders relaxing like she’s letting go of something that hurts her body. She sits down on the bench next to me and pulls her hair into a topknot. “Let me see your mouth,” she says finally, turning my jaw so she can see my lip. “It’s fine. I don’t think it needs stitches.”

You sit on the other side of the bench. “The mouth heals the quickest,” you say, like a little scientist. “The cells regenerate quicker than anywhere in the human body.” 

I want to slime you, shoot a big mouthful of spit mixed with salty blood right in your face. 

“Aunt Beth wanted to die,” you say. “I heard the whole thing. I was right there.” 

My mom whips her head to look at you. “Stop saying that,” she scolds. 

Your jaw drops. “She said she hated being alive!” you shout, popping up from the bench. “She wanted to die!” You stand in front of us with your arms straight at your side, weak, like you might have to fight but can’t. 

“You’re a liar,” I say, even though I know you are telling the truth. “You didn’t hear shit.” 

“Jane!” my mom barks and lightly smacks the side of my face, hitting my swollen lip. 

“Ahh!” I yell and press the back of my hand to my mouth and look at the watery smear of red on my skin. “I’m bleeding again!” 

My mom pulls me against her shoulder. “Put the freeze-pop back on it.” She strokes my head, and I’m finally getting what I deserve. 

“I am not lying,” you say, a new desperation in your voice. “I heard everything—Aunt Beth went crazy over a stupid date and tried to kill herself!” 

“Stop saying those awful things,” my mom says, looking at you as if you’re a stranger. 

Your face turns bright red, as if you are about to explode like a tomato. From the safety of my mother’s shoulder, I laugh at you because you’re a fool. 

“Shut up!” you yell, kicking me hard in the shin. 

I kick you back harder, and you start to cry. I get a little nervous because now would be the perfect time for you to tell how I tried to murder you. 

“Girls!” my mother exclaims. “My God! Everything’s bad enough without you two acting like wild animals.” She pushes my head off her shoulder and stands up. “Both of you go lie down. No talking, no fighting. I just want you to think about being cousins and how you are supposed to treat each other with love.” 

You look at me in a panic, and I see it for the first time—all I have to do is do nothing and let you spin out. 

“Now!” my mom yells. “Lie on the big bed. Not a word.” 

We walk into the middle bedroom where we sleep and climb onto separate sides of the bed, laying our heads on separate white pillows. Soon, we are roasting like potatoes in the oven. Even though the ceiling fan is moving, there’s barely a breeze. I look over at you, and there’s a fine film of sweat across your broad forehead. 

You stare at the ceiling and finally turn your head and look at me. “How’s your lip?” 

“Fat.” I pull out the corner of my mouth. 

You move closer and peer in. “Whoa,” you say, admiration in your voice. “Really fat.”

“This bed’s too hot,” I say. “Let’s lie on the floor.” 

We scramble off the bed and onto the blue and green patterned linoleum in front of the dresser. 

“Lie on your stomach,” I say. “It feels cool against your cheek.” 

You obey, and we’re both lying there, our arms outstretched like wings, like we’re hugging the whole floor. “Make angels,” I demand. “It will be less hot.” Our arms glide up and down the smooth floor.

“Want to know why she did it?” you ask, voice rising. 

I remain quiet.

“Want to know what he said to make her cry?” you say, nearly sobbing. 

“Not especially,” I answer, sure you will tell me everything anyway. 

If I keep making angels, you will tell me the whole thing. And you won’t stop running your mouth until you’ve spilled the part about sex.