bumped against my legs, then swatted them with her tail as she bounded down the porch steps, rushing to check what Dori called her pee-mail.
Twyla announced, “Okay, you can look now!”
Aubrey collapsed in giggles the instant I uncovered my eyes and beheld the two little girls, Aubrey, the shy blonde, and, Twyla, the wild redhead, both done up with cartoon-sexy makeup jobs and draped in every scarf and shawl and flimsy, sheer bit of fabric that might be considered slinky in my sadly utilitarian wardrobe.
Twyla’s copper ringlets bounced as she pointed a showstopping finger at Aubrey’s pink boom box and commanded in her husky, baby Ethel Merman voice, “Hit it!” Aubrey, still the faithful handmaiden, rushed to press “play” and the girls sang along with an old CD of mine, “That’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it!” They put their hands on their hair and wiggled their skinny hips back and forth. Aubrey had glittered brightly at her own audacity, delighting in how shocking and outrageous she was.
But Dori, far from being shocked and outraged, jumped up and joined right in. She dragged me onto my feet so we all could have a girls-just-want-to-have-fun bonding moment. Dori and Twyla and I bumped our butts together and tried to outthrust one another. But Aubrey’s face had fallen the instant she saw that Dori, Twyla, and I were intent on outdoing her. When I’d tried to drag her into the fun, she’d gone back in the house and sat on her bed arranging her My Little Ponies by color.
Dori settles BeeBee back on the bed. “Well, at least on the untimely-pregnancy front, it’s a relief that Twyla is gay.”
I don’t say anything; I am still a bit dubious about Twyla’s lesbianism. Plus, I can’t get “That’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh” to stop running through my head. Finally, I ask, “You talked to Twyla?”
“Yeah, she called last night. For money, of course. I told her to ask her father. He’s the one with the rich, ridiculously indulgent, terminally screwed-up parents who destroyed their son’s marriage. Then she told me to forget it and that I was a bitch and had ruined her life.”
“Oh, Dori.” I take her hand as the scarlet patches bloom like geisha makeup beneath her skimpy eyebrows. She turns from me, scrubs the palm of her hand against her eyes. They come away clean; she’s stopped wearing mascara since Twyla left. Cried it off too many times.
I open another drawer. Dori peers in and asks, “Jesus, how many pairs of identical running shorts can one human own?”
Aubrey’s Nike shorts are folded neatly as a store display. Dori picks up a pair, maroon with a pink insert, and says, “I never figured Aubrey for a brand whore.”
I pluck the shorts from her, tuck them back where they were—precisely placed between the powder blue with white inserts and the burnt orange pairs—and slam the drawer closed. Dori has broken the Mommy Pact: It is fine for me to criticize my kid, but woe betide she who jumps onto that dogpile. I don’t snap at Dori, though; if focusing on Nike shorts for a few seconds helps, I’ll give her that. Maybe at that moment she’s even thinking, At least. At least I didn’t raise a brand whore.
Dori, struck with a sudden realization, claps her palm against her chest. “God. She’s not really pregnant, is she? I mean, seriously? Oh, shit. With Tyler Moldenhauer? The way she is now, she’d probably want to keep it. Oh, well, always room at PCC. If Kyle Dunmore and Stacy Adovada can get in, they’ll put Aubrey on the faculty.”
A bowling ball crushes my solar plexus. I can’t draw in a breath or release the one stuck in my chest. Dori has just put names to my worst fears: pregnancy and Parkhaven Community College, where Kyle Dunmore and Stacy Adovada, everyone’s favorite drug burnout and teen mom, are currently attending.
“Dori, could you please shut the fuck up?” I always liked that I could say “fuck” to Dori. Now I’m sorry that I ever gave up that word’s power to shock, because I would seriously like Dori to zip it.
“Sorry. Bad joke. Really, though, you have nothing to worry about. Aubrey is not like that.” She puts her hand on my arm. “Really, Cam, don’t worry.”
Don’t worry?
Dori, mother of a daughter who left home with a stash of stolen pills, who only calls her for money, stands in front of me like a living memo, a breathing