Perfect Girl - Weebly

“We’re home, Mom,” I call up the stairs, swallowing
hard. The lump in my stomach feels thick and yeasty. Aunt
Marty flips on some lights; I stand still, dreading what is
about to happen. Suddenly, the floorboards creak and we
hear footsteps overhead. My mother, already in her flannel
nightgown, slowly descends the stairs.
“Ruthie, go to your room.” Her tone is ice. Betrayal has
turned her eyes black.
“But, Mom—”
“Now.”
I don’t dare disobey. Clutching my shopping bags, I bolt
for the stairs and run up to my room, loudly shutting the
door even though I’m still in the hall. No one told me I had
to go in my room.
Mr. Arthur, I notice, is peering over the third-floor railing.
He looks petrified. Apparently, he’s had an earful all evening.
“Who do you think you are?” I hear the quiver in my
mother’s voice.
Aunt Marty has recovered from her sobfest in Le Bistro.
Her tone is as sharp as a hangnail. “Who do you think I am,
Fay?”
“You can’t have my daughter.”
“Have her? Like she’s a piece of jewelry?”
“You know what I mean.” My mother’s voice trembles
with fear and rage. I don’t have to see her to know what she
looks like: a Christmas tree in February—hard, prickly needles.
“You can’t show up and throw your money around and
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