Perfect Girl - Weebly

“I’m only going to say this once, Ruthie,” she said. “I
have a very good reason for keeping you away from my
sister. One day, I’ll tell you what it is. And I will decide
when the timing is right. Not you. I don’t want to hear
about Martha or Richard or New York or Fabrique. You are
forbidden to call or write them. Do you understand me?”
“But, Mom, I—”
“Do you understand me?”
I knew that stony look. Mount Mommore. There was
no budging her.
“I mean it, Ruthie. My sister is dead to me.”
“Why does she have to be dead to me?”
Mom started the car and pulled back onto the highway.
“Because that’s the way it is,” she said. Then she refused to
say anything more. For the rest of the way, my mother stared
out the windshield, her fists tight on the steering wheel.
I never mentioned my aunt Marty again. Not to my
mother, anyway. But I read Fabrique every month in the
Middletown Wawa near school. Mr. Shabala, the owner,
keeps saying, “This isn’t a library!” but he doesn’t kick me
out because he knows I’ll just go to the Pathmark down the
street.
Celeste, Frankie, and I also dream of turning eighteen
and taking a train to New York and eating sushi on Aunt
Marty’s balcony. We plan to stay up all night so we can see
for ourselves what the city looks like when everyone really is
asleep.
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