Sylvia was most rigid about swearing, offended when as much as a damn or a shit came out of Nicky or me. Sam coached us on the alternatives — darn, shoot, heck— but I got caught saying the F-word and had to be dragged then shoved, into the bathroom where Sylvia held a pink bar of Dove under warm water until it was sudsy then rubbed it on my tongue. She let me spit after and rinse with Listerine but my mouth smarted and swallowing was hard, even with water. Nicky swore too but managed to avoid getting his mouth washed out.
For me the rules were stricter than for Nicky, but I never complained. The more exact the rules, the more able I was to perform them to the letter. My appearance had to be precise: T-shirt tucked in, pants belted, socks pulled up, not a hair out of place. Each morning I came to Sylvia with a hairbrush and a jar full of barrettes, ribbons, bobby pins and toggles. I leaned into her thighs as she brushed my tatted hair up into bunches which she fingered into two long ringlets and sprayed with Final Net. My room was spotless too: floor swept, rag rug lined up with the floorboards, all surfaces dusted, windows clear, socks rolled in pairs, sweaters folded with the arms crossed, panties in balls. It wasn’t that I liked cleaning; I loathed it and spent hours hanging my head off my bed agonizing over whether to do it in the first place: how much was plenty and how much was too much and had I gone overboard enough? The rules themselves concerned me, not the cleaning. Sylvia’s love depended on me not only obeying but excelling at those rules. It was unclear whether the rules were Sylvia’s or my own.
That spring, when Sylvia took to the couch, Nicky and I forgot to bathe. It was Sam who noticed the grimy cuffs on our necks, wrists and ankles. He grabbed a hank of my sticky hair as I sat down for dinner and held it as if weighing it or testing it for ripeness. A close, feral scent rose up and I. glanced at Nicky. Our eyes met. After a few seconds, Sam let the hair drop, and searched for somewhere to wipe his palm.
Sam pulled a pressback chair from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs. He sat with the newspaper folded open to the crossword puzzle and pointed up.
“March,” he said, and we did.
At ten and eleven, Nicky and I hadn’t taken a bath together for a long time. Usually Sylvia stood over us one at a time, arms crossed, big hands cupping hipbones, ensuring that every crack and crevice was sufficiently scrubbed. This time Sylvia was in bed already and Nicky let the water run until it covered the drainage holes. In our bedrooms, we stripped down to the long white undervests that made us indistinguishable. Then we met in the hallway.
“You’re not marching right. Raise your knees higher,” I commanded.
Nicky tried, but his feet were so dirty they stuck to the floor.
We took turns sliding down the sloped end of the claw foot tub and splashing water onto the mirror. It became a contest to make the most noise so Sam would know we were taking a bath.
When I slid, my bum stuck to the porcelain and squeaked. It felt like a pinch and I squealed, causing Nicky to let out a loud fake laugh.
It was a long time before I realized that contrary to what Sylvia had told me, everything between my legs wasn’t called my bum.
My bum held great interest — a place where I put marbles and pushed them around with my fingertips, savouring their glassy coolness, imagining an eye staring inside me. I’d take the marble out and hold it under my nose, compelled by the salty, slightly sour odour. Sometimes I tasted it. When I was eight, Jenny Watson had held out her finger and said, “Smell this.” I had wrinkled my nose, but even then I was attracted. The between-my-legs smell. The smell of my underpants before bed.
After drying off, we fought over the square white container of baby powder, shaking it wildly, some of the powder sprinkling our bodies, the rest scattering across the bathroom, leaving spots on the mirror. Giggling, we whacked each other’s bottoms and backs with flat hands, marking the sheer powdered skin. Then we tripped down the hall.
I broke free of Nicky’s slapping hands and tramped white barefoot prints across my wooden floor and rag rug. I grabbed my red nightie from under my pillow and pulled it on, kicking my legs and arms out in a crazy dance so Nicky couldn’t touch me.
He stopped.
Our eyes met for an instant. I turned and pulled the gilt scoop handles on the top drawer of my white dresser. I selected another nightgown, a seersucker baby doll with green and purple flowers, and turned to Nicky.
“Come here.”
He did.
“Lift your arms up.”
My tone of voice promised adventure and threatened menace if it wasn’t obeyed. So Nicky obeyed.
“Lift them higher.”
He lifted his arms higher. I slipped the cap-sleeved nightie over his up-stretched hands and wriggled it down until his head stuck out. I pinched and straightened with the attention and expertise I usually reserved for Barbie.
He stood still while I brushed his wet hair straight back and tied a purple ribbon around his head. He lifted his face while I rubbed berry lipgloss into his lips and wrapped a length of beads around his neck. Finally, I painted his nails red.
“I christen you Nina,” I said, turning the comers of my mouth down and curtsying.
Nicky made a face. “I don’t want to play with that name.”
I considered. “Nicole. How about that? It’s close to Nicholas. Or Nicola. What about Nicola? It’s pretty.”
“Okay,” he said. His face shone.
The crinkly fabric looked bright and crisp on his dusted skin. His winter skin was a hard beige, like the rinds of certain melons. Streaks of missed dirt showed through the white powder and his body looked strange compared to mine. I stood in front of the mirror. Nicky fixed his eyes on me and would not look at his reflection.
I patted his shoulders and hips and twirled him. around. No matter where I moved him, his eyes gripped mine.
I looked in the mirror, hoping he would do the same, and saw two girls: me and the one I had named Nicola. I stared at Nicola in her flouncy crinkled dress and brazen purple ribbon over dark wet hair, and finally Nicola’s eyes darted off my face. She glanced back at me then slowly turned to absorb her full reflection. Her chest expanded.
With one hand on my waist, Nicola took my hand and two-stepped me across the wooden floor. Her feet were unfettered, expressing complex rhythms with natural confidence. The powder was like silk under our toes. I let my own feet go, and threw my head back in long, toothy laughter. As the room spun past and Nicola’s purple and green image cut across the mirror in the golden taffy evening light, Nicky didn’t seem to care one bit. Who could care? In that moment he was Nicola. It was enough.
In the evenings I lay in bed and listened for the crunch of Sam’s car in the driveway. Every night he went to committee meetings for the town or to play ball or to umpire or referee. When I heard the gravel, I pushed my chin into my chest and pulled my shoulders up around my ears. Some nights I called downstairs for my mother, but Sylvia no longer responded. Nicky called for her, too, but it was like yelling into a vacuum. She was in the bedroom below or sprawled on the couch. Maybe she was ignoring us. Neither of us had the courage to get up and check if she was there. What if she had left, crawled out the window and left us behind?
Nicky’s