Читать книгу Gabi, a Girl in Pieces - Isabel Quintero - Страница 20

August 18

My mom is at it (again), which means my dad finally came back home (and looked like hell). Whenever he comes home after being gone for weeks, with a beard and smelling like he’s never heard of a shower, she tries to make our lives seem as normal (whatever that is) as possible. And since Sebastian is here, she’s trying as hard as ever. However, all of her attempts make us seem more dysfunctional than before. She came into my room (un-freaking-announced!) and saw me in my underwear! I got super mad and told her to please get out. She was all like, “Ay, I’ve seen you naked, I’m your mom.” But she waited on the other side of my door anyway. When she came in, she had this pink sparkly thing hanging on her arm. I cringed, guessing at what it was. It was a dress. A freakin dress! Ugh! Why does she do that?!?! She knows I hate dresses! How am I going to look in a dress? Ridiculous! Like an overstuffed carne asada burrito, that’s how! Beans spilling out the top, tortilla squished together at the bottom. Horrible. Just horrible.

Dresses and I don’t get along. The way I see it, a dress is restricting. It’s a trap.

Let’s say, for example, you are with your friend Cindy at the local elementary school a few blocks from your house and suddenly these really cute boys and one not so cute boy pass by on their bikes. This is just hypothetical, but your friend Cindy thinks it would be funny to flash the boys. Because, you know, she has big boobs, double D’s, not like you because not even four of your boobs would equal one of hers and she can do tricks too, she can make them move up and down without even touching them. They have a life of their own, her boobs do.

So, she does it. She really does it! (Even though you thought she was just shitting you!) Shirt goes up and “Hello, boys!” You laugh but since you are laughing so hard you’re about to piss your pants, you realize too late that the boys are pedaling back and have decided to do a little flashing of their own. They are coming at you quick with their hands on their zippers! And in an instant, you’re in OH-SHIT mode. So now you have to run because maybe you have seen a penis in a picture, or you imagine what it looks like, or they showed a movie once in class about the Holocaust and you were like, “Wow. That’s what it looks like. It’s uglier than I imagined.” But to be confronted with the real thing was not in your plans for a sunny Saturday afternoon.

How does this relate to a dress? Well, hypothetically, you decided to wear a dress and suddenly you have to run home before José whips It out, and the shortest route home is to jump Mrs. Sanchez’ fence and then jump the other fence to your backyard, and you realize much too late that you are wearing a flouncy brown dress, and you say fuck it and jump the fence anyway, but much to your chagrin only you and half a dress would make the journey. You sneak into your room bare-assed and sweaty—and laugh until your side hurts.

Or if that is not enough reason for hating dresses, what about that time…

…when I was in eighth grade and was walking home and heard a group of boys whistling and laughing. The blonde one shouted, “I can see your underwear!” But I didn’t get it. See, I was wearing clothes, so he was probably just being an asshole, and I kept walking, but then I felt a breeze on my butt, a breeze that was just a little too cold. He was right. Blonde Boy could see my underwear and so could all of Sixth Street. I realized that when I put my backpack on at school (about twenty minutes before), my dress had gotten caught and up it went, and everyone could see my old beige underwear, those big old granny underwear that I used to wear because my mom didn’t let me buy thongs even though I was almost in ninth grade (or at least bikini underwear like the other girls in my class), and I thought, Trágame tierra! I wanted to be a worm or a mole or a gopher or any type of insect or vermin that lives underground where no one could see me or my calzones de abuelita.

But my mom doesn’t understand this. She never does. I don’t get it. I guess it’s because we have a lightswitch relationship. Sometimes she’s wonderful. Sometimes not so much. When she says, “No comas tanto. You’re getting fatter than a pregnant woman,” she’s not so wonderful. But when she says, “She loves to read. She has a 3.75. Mira, le dieron otro certificado,” like she knew it all along (that I’m smart and not as bad as she thought), she’s the best. On and off. Like light itself—bright and dark. Mother and daughter. That’s us. I wish it were different. I wish she would be more understanding, but that’s not who she is, I guess.

The pink sparkly dress draped on her arm is for my senior picture. So I will look pretty. Now I’m going to have to wear it, otherwise it would hurt her feelings. Oh well. Asi es la vida. That’s my life at least.