seem so relaxed and frantic at the same time. She spoke rapidly like she
didn’t have enough time to get all the words out, yet she did not fidget
or even blink funny. Her legs remained uncrossed, and she had a warm,
pleasant sort of smile. But her vanilla smell did not mix well in a house of
men’s cologne and lavender.
A sort of relief came over Rebecca. Her dad could like this woman
all he wanted; he could even invite her over to the house. She could wake
up every morning with his sportswear swallowing her body whole, while
she poured the family cereal. But it would never be toast. Her mother
would never be replaced. Rebecca was safe.
Vanilla Woman asked her if she had a boyfriend. Rebecca slowly
shook her head.
“Men are fragile creatures,” Vanilla Woman said. “Make sure you
kiss them first.”
Rebecca tried to smile, but ended up biting her bottom lip. Pushing her virtually untouched bowl of cereal away from her, she thanked
Vanilla Woman for the advice, and quickly left the room.
Rebecca stood barely in Tony’s room, with the book in her hands
scanning for a certain passage. Eventually, upon finding it, she leaned
over the chair on his desk to type out what she discovered. Hunched and
uncomfortable, Rebecca desperately wanted to sit down. But she couldn’t.
It was Tony’s room. His bedroom. And the familiar smell of his deodorant
or cologne or shampoo or whatever it was that cultivated that particular
boy smell was overbearing. At least it didn’t smell like socks, but perhaps
that would’ve been less intimidating. So she leaned, trying to touch nothing and glance at everything at the same time. What constituted Tony’s
life? He had only one poster of an Andy Warhol painting, hanging dutifully above his pillow like a canopy.
They were only in his room because it was the only room in the
house Tony didn (