Read Sliding On The Edge for Free Online Page B
Authors: C. Lee McKenzie
shift my weight to one foot and
stick out my left hip. “All right.” I’m giving in, but I want her
to know it’s only this time. “But you gotta take me someplace
that’s got clothes, not cowgirl getups.
Her look could shrivel a Vegas pit
boss I swear.
“ Get in.” Kay climbs into
her battered truck. “We are going to Sacramento.” She starts the
engine. “Buckle up. And from now on, drop the tacky
language.”
This ride is like the others: silent,
except for the whir of traffic outside and her truck, of course. It
rattles so much I expect parts to shake free and hurtle into the
cars behind us. She never turns on the radio, and I’m sure from the
way she looks she won’t let me turn it on either, so I hum to
myself. This used to drive my mom up the wall, so I hope it will
get to Kay too. That’s exactly what I want to do for the next forty
minutes—push all her buttons. Rile her up. See her turn
red-in-the-face angry. I’ll show her who’s callin’ the shots about
work, about clothes, about my life.
When she pulls into a parking lot and
gets out I follow, dragging my shoes over the steamy asphalt. Push
a button here. Push a button there. Push a . . .she disappears
inside a store without turning around to look at me.
“ She’s pissed.”
I enter the store and find her waiting
next to the drinking fountain just inside.
“ Here’s three hundred
dollars.” She holds out three single bills. “I’ll meet you here
when you’re done.”
I work on looking casual when I take
the money. I don’t say anything. But when I do a one-eighty and
scuff my way to the racks, I roll my eyes at the three hundred
bucks Kay just plunked in my hand. That’s the electric bill, the
water bill, a few movie tickets, and some burgers with curly fries.
Maybe even a rehabbed air conditioner, one that actually works all
the time. Living with Kay might be cushier than I
thought.
I look around the store. This place
holds more promise. Other girls with some style savvy are alongside
me, pawing through the clothes. I take my time, and once in a while
glance toward the drinking fountain. There she is: Kay Stone,
looking like she’s the store greeter, with nothing better to do
than stand where she is.
When I’ve loaded my left arm with
possible buys, the clerk counts out my allotted seven items and
unlocks a dressing room.
“ I’ll check back,” she says
and leaves me inside with a three-way mirror under fluorescent
lights that, with my dark eyes and black hair, turns my skin
pasty.
Mom used to hate dressing rooms like
this, and when it came her turn to try on something, she’d boot me
out the door. “You bring me stuff when I need it, okay?” she’d
say.
“ What’s the deal? You
watched me with my butt hanging out.” “Shut up, Shawna.” And in a
few minutes she’d stick her hand out, dangle the jeans or the
backless top and send me to find another size. Another color.
Another style. This would go on a loooong time.
“ Well,” I asked her once,
when she unlocked the door and stepped out after an hour-long
dressing-room session. “What are you getting?”
On her index finger she twirled a
halter-top.
“ That’s the one I wanted,” I
said. “You told me it was too . . . skimpy or some kind of crap
like that.”
“ Who’s paying for this, you
or me?” She shoved her face close.
I could have said something. Something
like, who does the kid part of your act? But I didn’t. The
halter-top wasn’t worth it. I could have said she was a little old
to wear clothes from the Junior section. But I didn’t. Nothing was
worth the hell I’d get for saying that.
Now, without Mom, I take my time under
the fluorescents. I pull on pants and a top, turn to check my
backside. Not bad. But maybe no more curly fries for a
while.
I’m into and out of the next outfit
before I finish zipping up.
That’s totally not
happening.
And before I know it, I’ve tried on
everything. In little more than an hour,
stick out my left hip. “All right.” I’m giving in, but I want her
to know it’s only this time. “But you gotta take me someplace
that’s got clothes, not cowgirl getups.
Her look could shrivel a Vegas pit
boss I swear.
“ Get in.” Kay climbs into
her battered truck. “We are going to Sacramento.” She starts the
engine. “Buckle up. And from now on, drop the tacky
language.”
This ride is like the others: silent,
except for the whir of traffic outside and her truck, of course. It
rattles so much I expect parts to shake free and hurtle into the
cars behind us. She never turns on the radio, and I’m sure from the
way she looks she won’t let me turn it on either, so I hum to
myself. This used to drive my mom up the wall, so I hope it will
get to Kay too. That’s exactly what I want to do for the next forty
minutes—push all her buttons. Rile her up. See her turn
red-in-the-face angry. I’ll show her who’s callin’ the shots about
work, about clothes, about my life.
When she pulls into a parking lot and
gets out I follow, dragging my shoes over the steamy asphalt. Push
a button here. Push a button there. Push a . . .she disappears
inside a store without turning around to look at me.
“ She’s pissed.”
I enter the store and find her waiting
next to the drinking fountain just inside.
“ Here’s three hundred
dollars.” She holds out three single bills. “I’ll meet you here
when you’re done.”
I work on looking casual when I take
the money. I don’t say anything. But when I do a one-eighty and
scuff my way to the racks, I roll my eyes at the three hundred
bucks Kay just plunked in my hand. That’s the electric bill, the
water bill, a few movie tickets, and some burgers with curly fries.
Maybe even a rehabbed air conditioner, one that actually works all
the time. Living with Kay might be cushier than I
thought.
I look around the store. This place
holds more promise. Other girls with some style savvy are alongside
me, pawing through the clothes. I take my time, and once in a while
glance toward the drinking fountain. There she is: Kay Stone,
looking like she’s the store greeter, with nothing better to do
than stand where she is.
When I’ve loaded my left arm with
possible buys, the clerk counts out my allotted seven items and
unlocks a dressing room.
“ I’ll check back,” she says
and leaves me inside with a three-way mirror under fluorescent
lights that, with my dark eyes and black hair, turns my skin
pasty.
Mom used to hate dressing rooms like
this, and when it came her turn to try on something, she’d boot me
out the door. “You bring me stuff when I need it, okay?” she’d
say.
“ What’s the deal? You
watched me with my butt hanging out.” “Shut up, Shawna.” And in a
few minutes she’d stick her hand out, dangle the jeans or the
backless top and send me to find another size. Another color.
Another style. This would go on a loooong time.
“ Well,” I asked her once,
when she unlocked the door and stepped out after an hour-long
dressing-room session. “What are you getting?”
On her index finger she twirled a
halter-top.
“ That’s the one I wanted,” I
said. “You told me it was too . . . skimpy or some kind of crap
like that.”
“ Who’s paying for this, you
or me?” She shoved her face close.
I could have said something. Something
like, who does the kid part of your act? But I didn’t. The
halter-top wasn’t worth it. I could have said she was a little old
to wear clothes from the Junior section. But I didn’t. Nothing was
worth the hell I’d get for saying that.
Now, without Mom, I take my time under
the fluorescents. I pull on pants and a top, turn to check my
backside. Not bad. But maybe no more curly fries for a
while.
I’m into and out of the next outfit
before I finish zipping up.
That’s totally not
happening.
And before I know it, I’ve tried on
everything. In little more than an hour,