Page 4 of Absorbed

“See you after six.” The line dropped.

“Bye,” Stacey muttered. Returning the phone to its cradle, she added bitterly, “Love you, too.”

It was still early to start dinner. She wanted to figure out the swimsuit situation. But shopping in Mesa Valley was complicated. Other than thrift stores, the nearest mall was over thirty miles away, and people got stabbed and mugged there a few times a year. Without Gabe, she was too afraid to go. Especially without knowing if the trip would even be worthwhile.

Crossing to the living room Stacey grabbed her mom’s stack of catalogs and turned on MTV.

“Now up two spots from last week,” Daisy Fuentes’ voice filled the room, “our favorite band from across the Atlantic, Oasis, with ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger.’”

Stacey flopped onto the orange corduroy couch. Envying Daisy’s shaggy bangs, she contemplated cutting her own with a spare pair of her mom’s professional scissors, then thought better of it.

With the catalogs stacked in her lap, she started flipping through them, talking to herself. “Spiegel? No. JC Penney? No. Sears? Definitely not.” Piling at least a dozen rejected home and linen catalogs next to her, she began losing faith.

“Victoria’s Secret? That’s promising…” Stacey flipped past Wonderbras and thong underwear, and found three pages of swimsuits. Lean, tan models stared seductively in barely-therebikinis. White sand clung to the smooth curve of their hips. A suit like that would get Gabe’s attention. Or Jessie’s.

Then her heart sank. Each piece cost $65! Her mom would freak. Plus, the only red suit was plaid, which wouldn’t work. It had to be solid red. So much for that.

She slapped Victoria’s Secret onto her discard pile, promising herself she’d buy one to wear to the beach after her first paycheck.

The final catalog was the Land’s End swimsuit sale edition. Boring, solid, one-piece swimsuits filled every page. The same thin model appeared in every suit in the same pose, even the ones with “tummy control panels,” whatever that meant. All for the “Season’s Lowest Price: $39.99!”

Stacey called the 800 number. The woman on the other end of the line assured her the expedited shipping fee would get her the cardinal red “waist shaping” suit before Saturday. Using the emergency credit card her mom kept in her underwear drawer, Stacey ordered the suit, feeling proud she’d solved the problem on her own.

The stench of manure from the chicken ranch at the end of their street wafted through the screen door. Stacey held her breath and pulled the sliding door closed. Her mom had rules about using the air conditioner when it was under 85 in the house. But 83 was close enough. Stacey hated the way their neighborhood reeked, and she worried people could smell it on her clothes. Outside, it was a boiling 95 degrees with no breeze.

“This is borderline abusive, Murphy,” she muttered, and flipped on the AC.

Stacey measured the butter and set it to melt on the stove, then started opening cans: black beans, stewed tomatoes, mixed vegetables. After making this meal at least once a week the past three years, she could have prepared it blindfolded. Stacey stirred the Rice-a-Roni into the saucepan, then added thestewed tomatoes. Her mom loved this dish because it made four servings for less than $5 total and it had all the food groups. Once the ingredients were combined it was a salty, colorful sludge Stacey regretted ever saying she liked.

“Why can’t we have TV dinners like normal people?” she asked Murphy, and switched off the stove. She filled her bowl and plopped on the couch, eating mindlessly while watching a rerun of Real World San Francisco.

At 6:30, her mother barreled through the front door, swatting at a cloud of flies swarming in around her.

“Hey, Mom…” Stacey said, turning off the TV and peeling herself from the couch. “Your food’s on the stove.” She set her empty bowl in the sink and sat on a barstool.

“Thanks, Bug.” Her mom set her purse down and took a bottle of cheap wine from a paper bag.

“Stopped at the liquor store?” Stacey’s voice was heavy with criticism.

“Long day. Don’t judge me,” her mom said, grabbing a mug. “How are you?” She took a sip of wine, then took a fork from the drawer.

Stacey shrugged. “I ordered the Lands’ End suit.”

“What? Why didn’t you wait?”

“I need it by Saturday. You always forget.”

Mom clenched her teeth. “How much?”

“Fifty bucks, including tax and shipping.”

“You can’t spend $50 without talking to me first.”

“You told me you want me to take more responsibility. I dealt with it.”

Her mother took a large gulp, her eyes on Stacey over the rim of her mug. “Maybe we can get your dad to pay for it.”

“Yeah…right. Good luck with that.”

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