When the other little girls—like Blair—came over, instead of nice pretend play—picking out clothes, dressing them up—I’dundressthem. Have Ken and Barbie make out, put him on top of her, and make them grind. Tear off a limb. Strike a match so I could smell their plastic body parts burning. Which was way more fun. But it freaked the other kids out.
I’ve always been like this.
Darker. Different. Meaner. Rougher.
I blame it on being an only child. No brothers or sisters to check me, to bounce things off of. And Mom, of course, has done nothing but spoil me. When my kindergarten teacher suggested I might need to possibly be evaluated by a shrink, because ofcertain signs—drawing a stick figure of a girl peeing, making little Billy Peters cry when I hit him in the face during recess because he wouldn’t share his Christmas cookies with me—Mom shot back at her:There’s nothing wrong with my daughter.
So yeah, I can sometimes take things too far, but I actuallyliketaking things too far. Shocking people.
When Denise Ward had me over to play hide-and-seek—I think I was five or something—I locked her little sister, Sara, in a cupboard in the upstairs laundry room, far away enough that no one could hear her crying. I made sure to shut the door to the room to muffle it even more. Pretended to look for Sara outside, as if she were out there. Kept it up for an hour. When I finally let her out, she was shaking, wet and stinking of pee,her eyes red and puffy, her face covered in tears. The little brat told on me.
Mom, of course, made her excuses when she came to pick me up. “Nellie didn’t mean it; she just doesn’t know how to act sometimes. We’re so sorry. Would y’all like to come swimming tomorrow at our place? I’ll have ice cream for the kids.”
But in private, she grabbed me by the shoulders, shook me. “You could at leasttryto act like a little lady sometimes.”
I wanted to kick her shin with my patent leather shoe.
Next thing I knew, she threw me into etiquette class, a sad little joke I was forced to attend every Saturday morning in the basement of the local museum. I learned the absolutely useless skills of wearing white gloves, how to properly hold a teacup, and lay out silverware in the correct order.Kill me now.
The toaster pops, and my Pop-Tarts shoot up. I take a seat next to Dad, burning my hands as I tear one in half to eat it.
“Whaddya say, kiddo? I’m about to head out to the rifle range. Wanna come?”
We don’t really go to the land anymore, but we do still hit the rifle range sometimes. Dad is really sweet, but him asking me is a bit depressing. Because he knows I have nothing better to do. Which makes me not want to do it.
“Maybe next time,” I answer, staring past him out the window while still chewing my breakfast.
“What? Scared I’ll beat your score this time?”
“Ha! Fat chance.”
He taught me well, so well that I shoot better than him now,outscore him every time. I’m a marksman. And I like it. Being really, really good at something. No,greatat it. Something none of the other prissy bitches can do. But I’m in no mood to go today; I’m too keyed up about Jane.
Dad walks his bowl over to the sink, leaves it for Lettie to rinse. He messes up my hair before leaving the room, like I’m still a little girl. “Next time, okay?”
“You got it,” I answer, hot tears forming.No, no, no. I shake my head, flick them away with the back of my hand. It’s kind of pathetic how much Dad showing his feelings really gets to me.
After he exits, I twist the knob on the television, tuning it to another station.Little House on the Prairieis on. Great. I walk to the fridge, take out the jug of milk, pour myself a cold glass, then settle back down on the barstool to watch it. It’s a rerun, the episode where Johnny Cash plays a preacher coming through town, but we find out he’s up to no good. I like the newer ones, where Laura and Nellie are teenagers, and Nellie is even meaner.
Mom named me Nellie for two reasons. First, Nellie was my great-grandmother’s name, on Dad’s side, supposedly a take-no-bullshit Swede. And second, Mom grew up reading the books the show was based on. God knows she didn’t have anything better to do out on that wasteland. She wanted, she told me when I was younger, to name her daughter something strong, something brave.
And for some moronic reason—I think to try and somehow please her mean-ass mother—she gave me the middle name Jo, which is her own middle name and Gran’s middle name as well.I wouldn’t hate it, except when Blair found out, she used to taunt me with it when we were little, call me by it.Jo! How perfect! A boy’s name to match your flat chest!
But I love the name Nellie, love being named after someone on TV, someone tough. I used to have Mom try and fix my hair like Nellie’s. Instead of the ringlets, she’d do French braids, with glossy red ribbon on the bottoms.
I’m pretty freaking sure that Mom now regrets ever naming me that.
“Nellie!” Her voice cuts through the air, instantly irritating me.
I spin around.“What?”
“I’m running a little errand. Be back later. There’s leftover lasagna from the party last night and—”
“Got it, Mom,” I say, cutting her off, spinning back around, and twisting up the volume until it’s so loud, she won’t dare try to talk over it.
Sometimes I think my darkness comes fromher. That beneath all her beauty and high-society bullshit, the scrawny girl who grew up with my mean grandparents is still there, lurking, readying to pounce. No one else knows that sometimes Mom drops the act. Snaps. Strikes out. With a cuss word or three. With a slap. She grew up rough. She can hide who she truly is only for so long.
10
