Beth Bauman - Beautiful Girls

“It’s just that I think it’s a crying shame not to live up to your potential,” Janet said, blowing a thin stream of smoke from the side of her mouth.

“I’m the kind of person who’s on the quiet side. Why can’t I be quiet?”

“Rightly or wrongly, I’m the kind of person who’s highly opinionated.”

“Well, you’re ugly, Janet.”

Something flashed across Janet’s face, so quickly that Robin wasn’t sure she had seen anything at all. “Just plain ugly,” Robin said as a feeling like silk enveloped her. She took a long sip of beer, letting her eyes wander over to the window. “I’m not saying you’re not a good person underneath it all, but you’re a fault-finder and an extreme know-it-all.”

Janet lowered her eyes and then looked up at Robin, cowed. “I guess I am at times, and I can now see how that could be extremely annoying.”

“And what do you think my potential is exactly?” Robin asked.

“Well, you’re very pretty for starters.” Robin let Janet look deeply into her eyes. “And you have an interesting way of looking at the world. You’re mostly a loyal person and you’re always on time, and these things suggest a dependable person.”

Robin nodded. “That’s true, but that’s not all I am, Janet. You’re always talking so I think you miss some of my other qualities.” She wondered what some of those other qualities might be. “I hope you don’t think I’m being terrible or attacking you—”

Janet vigorously shook her head.

“I’m not. It’s just that I have to be straight with you, Janet, because I swear sometimes you act like something that crawled out from under a rock.”

Janet rose from the table. She pulled a bowl from the dishwasher and poured the soup in it. She reached to turn off the burner, saw it was off and looked confused. “Something’s wrong with this soup!” she cried. She flung the pot into the sink. “My life is just retarded!” she blurted. “I hate calculus and world history. My bangs won’t grow. No boys like me. I go to stupid matinées with you on Saturdays. When I need beer for a party I have to ask that pimply-community-college-moron up the street. There’s nothing to look forward to ever!”

Robin assured her there were things to look forward to, and she rattled off some possibilities. “And some boys do like you—”

“Not the ones I like!”

“But still…and you’re going to have your jaw fixed one day.”

“Of course I am,” Janet said, coolly. She turned away and started emptying the dishwasher, stacking the clean pots and pans on the counter. “What do you think my potential is, Robin?”

Robin stared at the back of Janet’s head and gathered her thoughts. “You’re smart. You speak extremely well. You’re always able to come through with free movie tickets or wine coolers or Carvel coupons. You’re a real go-getter.”

“Uh-huh…I’m also savvy and enigmatic.”

“Uh-huh.”

Janet’s face was still and soft, like a child’s, when she turned to Robin. “My mom and dad left me pizza money.” She picked up a twenty-dollar bill and made it dance for Robin. “Would you like to get a good dinner somewhere?” She suggested The Pier. Robin often pedaled past the chic restaurant, where the billboard said “fine dining” and featured two lobsters doing the tango. They counted the money in their wallets and decided they could afford some fine dining.

Janet went upstairs to fix her hair. Robin sat in the warm kitchen, fidgeting and feeling exhilarated. She waited a long time, mesmerized by the whir of Janet’s hairdryer. Unable to keep still, she finally bounded out of her seat and wandered into the dining room, where she searched for her face in the glass doors of the breakfront. She studied her dark reflection, the curve of her cheekbone, and her long hair falling past her shoulders.

As she tried to find herself in the glass of the breakfront, she saw it. There among the plates and bowls and serving dishes was the gravy boat. It must have been the roast tenderloin lunch gravy boat. Robin took it out of the case and held it in her palm. It was very pleasing sitting on its own little plate. She turned it from side to side, admiring its ring of periwinkle flowers and its elegant curled lip. Such a fancy thing—a gravy boat. She pictured it sitting on the dining room table among the plates of food and linen napkins. She imagined Nolan Fry holding it in one of his perfect hands, the same hand that had touched her hair, the same hand she’d held to her chest. She saw him pouring a smooth trail of gravy over his meat and potatoes—Nolan Fry, who would never know what it was to be anyone but Nolan Fry.

When Janet came downstairs Robin saw she had been crying. Janet had sprayed her hair several inches off her forehead and teased it. Her eyes were moist, but she stood on the staircase smiling brightly and jangling her keys. “Ready?” she asked.

“Janet!” Robin said, dashing toward her. Robin was struck hard with tangled feelings of tenderness and guilt. She needed to gush something, to gather up herself and Janet in some binding way. Janet, I didn’t mean it. That’s not who I am. I’m sorry, so sorry, Janet. I like you, Janet. Janet, how pretty you look. Janet, you are a good friend . But she just stood there, swelling up with the things she wanted to say, these things that weren’t true.

GEORGEANN STANDS ON THE RIM OF THE BATHTUB and peers through the little window, getting both a front and rear view of Sam Bailey’s house. His dusty pickup sits next to a barrel cactus in his yard the way it always does in the late afternoon. All’s quiet next door; his house is still, almost patient. “Don’t be,” she whispers.

As she steps down from the tub the lizard catches her eye, the same lizard she discovered a couple days ago, right after her night with Sam. While she’d brushed her teeth a movement had caught her eye and made her bend around the toilet to see the stricken lizard clinging to the bowl. “Damn,” she’d said with a foamy mouth, spitting into the sink. The lizards in the kitchen crawled under the stove or refrigerator and that was the last of them, but this bathroom lizard would have to be dealt with.

And yesterday as she stepped from the shower it had darted from behind the wastebasket. “Lizard,” she’d said, crouching down naked, determined to move it outside to the rocks and sun. “Go out the way you came.” Two whole days in her bathroom, she thought.

Now it gazes up at her from the tiled floor. It seems paler. “What can I do?” she says. In the kitchen she spins the lazy susan and opens all the cabinets before finally grabbing a piece of rye bread and a paper bag. Back in the bathroom she waves the bread at the lizard, saying, “In the bag you go,” and she places the bread in the bag with the opening facing the lizard. It hesitates with one shy foot poised in the air. “Please,” Georgeann says. Three days without food or sunlight. “Eat some rye bread,” she instructs the lizard, “and when I come back I’ll take you outside to the yard. All right?” The little lizard arches its slender neck and then dashes behind the toilet bowl. Georgeann shakes her head and sighs.

She hurries to the car and before the air conditioner has a chance to kick in she pulls out of the driveway, watching Sam’s front door as if he might suddenly appear. Yesterday, as she hung the wash, he stood in his yard cooking hot dogs while his two beagles waited by the grill, wagging their tails and looking up at Sam with a mixture of restraint and zeal. Georgeann said hello and stood with her back to him, feeling like a teenager as she emptied the washer and contemplated her underwear and bras and the grayed, stretched-out T-shirts. She rolled the wet pieces into a ball and then proceeded to hang the better-looking laundry when Sam, holding a paper plate, climbed the small fence and presented her with a hot dog in a bun, a handful of potato chips and a carrot stick.