Perfect Girl - Weebly

ehind the closing elevator doors. Wrapping me in her
arms, my aunt held me for a long time. If my mom had
embraced me that long, I would have gasped for air and
wriggled away. Aunt Marty’s cocoon felt delicious.
“You smell nice,” I said.
She loosened her grip and guided me into what I can
only describe as a mansion in the sky. Everything was
white—the couches, the marble floor (just like the lobby),
the sunlight streaming through the windows that ran the
length of one wall, from floor to ceiling. The only thing that
wasn’t white was the shiny black piano. Its lid was lifted, the
keys polished.
“You live here, Auntie Martha?”
“Call me Aunt Marty,” she said. Then she smiled the
way I imagined a queen would smile when she peered down
from her throne and knew, just knew, the whole kingdom
belonged to her.
“No luggage?” Aunt Marty asked.
I tried to tell her that my suitcase was in the car, with
my mother. But the view took my breath away. The river
was a silver ribbon. We were so high above the city, the
buildings looked like gray Legos.
“Sit down, sweetie.”
“Here?” The white couch scared me. I was certain my
dress would smudge it.
Aunt Marty laughed. “Would you rather sit on the
floor?”
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