Perfect Girl - Weebly

I wiggle my freshly painted toenails and giggle over
retelling the awesome time we had at Tip-Top Nails in
Middletown over the weekend. (The truth: Mom came
with us and totally ruined everything by refusing a pedicure
for herself and insisting I wear only “natural-looking”
polish. “Red,” she said, “is for hookers.” Aunt Marty wears
red polish and looks like a Goddess.)
“Her husband is a major New York attorney,” I say.
“They’re an awesome couple.”
By the end of the school day, as I make my way to the
bus, a new feeling melts over me.
“She’s a really private person,” I say sullenly. “She hates
when people talk about her.”
I doubt that’s true, not that I know. The fact is, I barely
know anything at all about my aunt. Which bums me out.
My friends are all curious, but I don’t have answers. Not
that it stops them from pounding me with questions.
“Is she as beautiful as her picture in Fabrique?”
“Is she worldly? Sexy?”
“Does she look like she can turn men into quivering
masses of adoring goo?”
“When can we come over and meet her?”
Finally, I say to Frankie, “Did you eat garlic for lunch?”
Her hand flies up to her mouth.
“I have bad breath?” she asks through her fingers.
“Let’s just say you’re safe from vampires.”
Celeste breathes on me and asks, “How’s mine?”
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