Perfect Girl - Weebly

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The thing I loved most about New York—besides my aunt
Marty—was the lack of time obsession. Nobody ate lunch
at noon, dinner at six. They didn’t need to get to the drugstore
before it closed at seven. New Yorkers were free.
Nobody noticed what you ordered on your pizza or bought
at the supermarket or wore when you didn’t have anything
that wasn’t in the laundry. They didn’t ask where you lived
in Middletown, then frown when you told them you lived
in Odessa. They didn’t care that your house needed paint
and you didn’t have a dad to do it.
“Ms. Bayer, may I show you to your room?”
Renata, the housekeeper, stood at the sliding glass door
leading to the balcony. She must have responded to some
private signal, because Aunt Marty nodded and said, “Good
night, sweetheart. Uncle Richard and I need to talk to your
mom.”
Mom looked a little wild-eyed, but that could have been
her balcony fear. I noticed she was clutching the edge of the
drapes.
“This was the best day of my whole life,” I said, nearly
bursting into tears. Kissing everyone good night, I followed
Renata to a bedroom at the far end of the giant apartment.
The guest room was all white, too. With a huge window
seat in a soft, robelike fabric. The bed was enormous—a
giant marshmallow—and the sheets were so smooth I was
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