Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl Read Free Page B

serving plates. I see the lady’s eyes open wider. Caroline throws the first plate to the floor, then grabs the second one and brings it up high above her head. The old lady unsteadily pulls herself up and stands on her rickety legs.
    “Please stop it. Please.”
    She shuffles over to the counter, which has this framed black-and-white photo on it. I’ve seen pictures on fridges and stuff, but never all nicely framed on a kitchen counter. It’s another old-time photo, only not as glamorous as the one in the living room. At least, I don’t think it is. It’sso faded, it’s difficult to clearly make out the images in it. But I can tell that there’s a woman holding a baby. The old lady bypasses this and instead opens a drawer and pulls out a book,
The Joy of Cooking
. She flips through it, to a page where there are two crisp twenty-dollar bills, then does this about six more times.
    Once the old lady is finished, Caroline grabs the book, turns it over, and begins shaking it so hard the cover separates from the spine. When she’s finally convinced that there’s no more money hidden away in it, she tosses the book onto the counter. She then snatches the bills from the old woman’s bony fingers and begins to count out loud.
    My eyes shift back to the faded photograph, and I absent-mindedly pick it up. But the old woman suddenly seems to gain some strength, because she lunges at me all Jack be nimble, Jack be quick–like and grabs for the picture.
    “That’s not yours,” she says. She latches on to my wrist. And her hand is really cold and damp. And her fingers look like they belong on the grim reaper. It’s just a stupid picture, so why’s she getting so up in arms about it? I mean, she didn’t act this way when Caroline was destroying her glass containers. So I pull my arm in, toward my chest. Only, she’s still holding on. Two seconds before, she could hardly stand up, and now all of a sudden, she’s like a member of the Super Friends with her Wonder Twin powers. So I gather all my strength and extend my arm, and she goes flying. I mean, it’s as if I shot her out of a cannon. I hear this noise, and the rest of it happens like a slide show. You know, as if I’m slowly clicking on a View-Master.
    There’s the old lady’s head against the edge of the table. There’s the broken glass from the stuff Caroline flung to the floor. There’s Gillian, with her jaw hanging loose and her mouth open wide. There’s Caroline, looking equally dazed. And the slides all stop once the old lady crumples to the floor like a ton of bricks.

The seven-block walk
from the old lady’s apartment back to mine is like a weird dream. It’s as if sight is the only one of my senses that’s really registering. I can see leaves and pages of the
New York Post
blowing right past me, but I can’t seem to hear the whistle of the wind or the rustle of the paper. I can see Gillian’s lips moving a little, but I can’t make out her words. A snowflake lands on my nose, but I don’t wipe it off. I was so cold earlier in the afternoon, with the dampness of the weather cutting through my jeans, through my long johns, and chilling me to the bone, but I don’t really feel the nip anymore. I don’t really feel anything. I don’t feel warm. I don’t feel cold. As Prospect Park disappears behind us, people spill out from the Parkside Avenue subway station. I can see them fighting with flyaway scarves, trying to clear wind-blasted hair from their eyes. I see their lips moving too but still hear nothing. Cars roll down the street, but in this strange silence. Not even the Madonna look-alike in her black lace gloves and blackleather jacket and black leggings is able to make much of an impression on me. As we turn onto Flatbush and pass the Jamaican bakery I always stop in front of to take in the strong, spicy scents, it’s as if I’m congested. It’s as if I was the one who conked my cranium against that table, and not the old woman.
    I