Throw Like A Girl

  Also by Jean Thompson

  Novels

  City Boy

  Wide Blue Yonder

  My Wisdom

  The Woman Driver

  Collections

  Who Do You Love

  Little Face and Other Stories

  The Gasoline Wars

  SIMON & SCHUSTER PAPERBACKS

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Jean Thompson

  All rights reserved,

  including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  “The Inside Passage” first appeared in Another Chicago Magazine. “Hunger” first appeared in Mid-American Review, Spring 2007, Vol. XXVII. “Pie of the Month” first appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Summer/Fall 2005, Vol. 10.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Book design by Ellen R. Sasahara

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Thompson, Jean.

  Throw like a girl : stories / Jean Thompson.—1st Simon & Schuster pbk. ed

  p. cm.

  I. Title

  PS3570.H625T47 2007

  813’6—dc22

  2006051259

  ISBN: 1-4165-5958-2

  ISBN: 978-1-4165-5958-0

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Let us now praise readers and writers.

  Thanks to those who helped, by their

  encouragement, by their example:

  David Sedaris, Bernard Cooper,

  Tayari Jones, Pete Rock, Dan Chaon,

  Kim Chinquee, and Bob Miener.

  Contents

  The Brat

  The Five Senses

  It Would Not Make Me Tremble to See Ten Thousand Fall

  The Family Barcus

  Lost

  The Inside Passage

  Holy Week

  A Normal Life

  Hunger

  The Woman Taken in Adultery

  Pie of the Month

  Throw Like a Girl

  Simon & Schuster Paperbacks Reading Group Guide

  The

  Brat

  She hated her mother and she hated her father too, at least when he was around to be hated. She hated school and all the snotty girls who put their heads together giggling and talking big and showing off their nail polish and their new shoes and new cell phones and whatever else they bought bought bought. She hated her brother but that was easy, it was automatic that they hate each other. She was twelve years old and she wasn’t pretty or smart or nicey-nice and she wished everyone she knew would just drop dead. Then she could go somewhere, a city or maybe the ocean, a place like on television where everybody knew everybody else and things were always happening.

  Her mother was yelling for her to get downstairs if she wanted a ride to school, honking out her name like she was a car horn: “Iris! Eye-ris! Three minutes, or you’re going to walk.”

  It went without saying that she hated her name.

  After she had dawdled enough, and after her mother had screeched some more, so that they both reached a point of absolute contempt for each other, Iris went downstairs. “You can’t wear that,” her mother said.

  “Watch me.”

  “You look like a drug dealer.”

  “Yeah, like you really know what drug dealers wear.”

  Her mother said that there were perfectly nice sweaters in Iris’s closet and that her appearance told other people about her attitude and her teachers would pick up on it if she dressed like she didn’t even want to be there (ha! she didn’t), and at the very least she could stop slouching and for God’s sake find a barrette or something to keep the hair out of her eyes. Her mother had coffee breath, bitter and dead-tasting. Iris could smell it from across the room. She studied her mother, the way her forehead bunched together when she was angry, how her chin fat wobbled in an unlovely fashion, how her entire pursy and ridiculous figure proclaimed, Don’t ever be like me.

  Her mother’s voice made an interrogatory pause, a question that Iris was meant to answer, and so she said, “No.”

  Her mother’s jaw tightened. “Fine. Get in the car, then.”

  In the car Iris did her best to pretend she was something insensate and boneless, some sluglike underwater creature that did nothing but burp plankton. She let her body sag and roll when the car took the turns. Burp. Burp. Her mother gave her a look of loathing. Her mother wanted her to be a lay-dee.

  Just when Iris thought they were going to finish the ride in blissful silence, her mother said, “I’m allowed to worry about you. I’m your mother. Oh for heaven’s sake, can you for one minute let your face look normal and stop trying to see how grotesque you can make yourself? What happens when you decide you don’t want to be a smart aleck and a little brat anymore, what if you want to have friends, I mean normal friends, not that disgusting Rico—”

  “Leave the Rico out of this.”

  “—because sooner or later you have to grow up, sooner or later certain important, girl-type things are going to happen to you, and everything changes. Am I saying something funny?”

  Iris shook her head, no. Her mother meant getting her period. Her mother was completely hung up on it, really looking forward to it, like then she would have won some kind of argument. Iris hadn’t bothered to tell her that she’d had her period twice already. Big deal.

  Here was school. Iris grabbed her backpack. Her mother put on her blinker to pull up to the curb. How lame was that! God! “Have a nice day, honey,” her mother said, and Iris sneered at this new piece of shallowness. Her mother went to hug her and there was a moment when their bodies jostled together like cattle in a chute and that was awful, awful, and Iris said, “Yeah, sure,” and escaped onto the sidewalk.

  She hated the school building. She hated the steamy cafeteria smell and the echoing halls and the rooms full of faces. She looked around for Rico but she must have been really late, there was hardly anybody in sight. Iris made it into homeroom just as Mr. Poodlebreath was about to call the roll.

  “Here,” she answered when Poodlebreath got to her name, but she wasn’t really there, not entirely. She was still sorting through the waking-up and mother parts of her morning, and two of the snot-girls were sniggering about something, probably her. Iris tried to catch Rico’s eye across the room, but he was hunched over his desk, playing his Game Boy. He always thought nobody could see what he was doing if he draped his fat the right way.

  When the bell rang for first hour, Iris waited for Rico to shuffle over to her. “Creep,” he said.

  “Loser.”

  They fell into step together, which meant Iris had to slow way down, since Rico was marshmallow fat and asthmatic. First hour was social studies. They were doing reports on the fifty states. Iris had chosen Kansas because nobody else would ever want it. Rico had done his report the previous week on Wisconsin, the Badger State.

  Rico stopped to get a drink from the water fountain. He had to be careful about bending over because he had so many folds and bulky parts. When he’d wiped his mouth he said, “Saw something really cool yesterday.”

  “Me too. A dead cat.”

  “This is better. A tree fell on my neighbor’s garage. Well, part of a tree.”

  “Yeah?” She thought the dead cat was better.

  “A really big tree. It was about a hundred feet tall.”

  Iris consi
dered this. “What kind of tree?”

  “I don’t know, dumbshit, it’s winter.”

  The social studies teacher was Mrs. Cake and that was her honest-to-God real name. She wore clothes she made herself that looked like tablecloths with buttons, and piled her hair in a bird’s nest on top of her head, and you wondered how some people got up in the morning and looked in the mirror and thought they were all right.

  Cake was pathetically excited about the fifty states reports. It wasn’t fifty because the class wasn’t big enough. A lot of states had been left out. Delaware. Oklahoma. Anything that was North or South. Cake stood in front of a big map of the United States that was colored like a checkerboard. She said, “I can hardly wait to hear about all the interesting places we’re going to visit today.”

  Everybody groaned. They knew they weren’t going anywhere.

  They started with Connecticut, the Constitution State. Then Hawaii, the Aloha State. The reports made all the states sound alike. Cake stood in the back of the room nodding and grinning, like this was first-rate entertainment. Iris wondered if the whole world was boring, if they’d used up all the interesting stuff before she was born.

  “Iris?”

  It was her turn. She stood at the front of the room. All the snickering, shuffling noise narrowed to a point and beamed down on the top of her head. She wiggled her toes inside her sneakers. One shoelace had come undone and the hems of her jeans had dragged the ground until they were split and dirty. She shuffled her index cards. Index cards were required.

  “Kansas, the Sunflower State,” she began. “Kansas produces wheat, corn, soybeans, and other important food items. Like sunflower seeds. Duh. The capital of Kansas is Topeka. The state was admitted to the Union in 1861. Amelia Earhart and President Dwight Eisenhower are two of the famous people from Kansas. Also, because Kansas was the Wild West before they discovered the real West, there were people living in Kansas like Billy the Kid whose real name was William Bonney who killed at least twenty-one people before he was shot dead at the age of twenty-one.”

  A few faces looked up, mildly interested. Iris shuffled her index cards and talked faster.

  “At the time of the Civil War, Kansas was known as Bleeding Kansas because of fights about slavery. Slavery was an abomination unto the Lord. It was during this time that Kansas had plagues of locusts, of darkness, of frogs, lice, flies, boils, hail—”

  “Mrs. Cake!”

  “—and all the cattle died, and all the water of the rivers and water in people’s houses turned to blood. That’s really gross. Worse than frogs in your hair.”

  “Mrs. Cake, she’s making all this up!”

  “I am not. It’s in the Bible.”

  “The Bible didn’t happen in America.”

  Cake said, “Let’s finish up, shall we, Iris?”

  “Then the firstborn son of every household died mysteriously overnight, and that was when the people of Kansas decided to let the slaves go and be a free state. Then nothing much happened in Kansas until 1959. That’s when they had a famous murder that was made into the movie There was a family named Clutter and all four of them—”

  “Thank you, Iris,” Cake said.

  “I’m not done yet.” Iris held up her last two index cards.

  “We need time for the other reports.” Cake clapped her hands. She called on a boy who had chosen Texas, the Lone Star State.

  Iris sat down. Feet kicked the back of her chair. “You are so weird.”

  “Shut up.”

  A girl turned around and said, “Are you brain-damaged? Is it something you really can’t help?” Iris told her to shut up too. From across the room, Rico mouthed the word, “Excellent.”

  At lunch she and Rico sat at a table with Barry Hamsohn. Barry was fat, but not as fat as Rico. He had red hair and so many freckles on his nose that he looked cross-eyed. Their table was called the Freak Table.

  Lunch was something brown, with mashed potatoes. Iris ate a little of hers and let Rico and Barry finish the rest. She was skinny. Barry and Rico called themselves the Two Tons of Fun. Sometimes she wished she was fat so they could be Three Tons. But then her mother would get all carried away with feeding her carrot sticks and making her enroll in the Chubettes class at the Y. Her mother probably didn’t like Rico because he was fat. If there was ever somebody perfect, that’s who her mother would be crazy about.

  Across the cafeteria, a bunch of boys were doing Freak Table imitations again. One of them was leaning over a garbage can pretending to eat food from it. Another had his cheeks puffed out and was walking in a bowlegged, gut-heavy way. Then he squatted down and pretended to take a giant crap.

  All three of them watched this, until one of the teachers broke it up. Barry said, “Those guys suck so bad.”

  “We should kill them,” said Rico. He was wheezing and he pulled out his inhaler.

  “How?” Iris asked. There were always a lot of details, the different ways they planned to kill people.

  “Guillotine,” said Rico. He drew one hand across his throat in a slicing motion. “Gughhh.”

  Barry and Iris nodded in appreciation. Nobody had thought of a guillotine before. Barry said, “We could put their heads on sticks and carry them around.”

  “They’d bleed like crazy.”

  “Buckets and buckets,” said Iris. Sometimes she thought she could feel her own blood sloshing around in her, like she was a half-empty milk carton. But talking-blood was different from real blood.

  “We should write them death threats,” Rico said, and everybody got excited about that. After lunch they all had English together. They spent the hour at the back of the room, passing different versions of the death threats around. By the end of class they had produced four very artistic representations of guillotines, severed heads, and red Magic Marker blood in wavy rivers, blood in shapes like teardrops, blood that spotted and stained the scowling heads on sticks. The death threats read

  ATTENTION ALL STUPIDASSES!

  THIS MEANS YOU!

  Congratulations! You have been chosen to get a free trial of our new Guillotine! It will chop off your head and leave a bloody stump. You have been chosen because you are one of the stupidest people we know and when you are dead everybody will be happy. P.S. You will look a lot better without your head.

  Right after English they snuck around to the lockers and waited until nobody was watching. They slipped the notes into the lockers of the four meanest, loudest boys and went off to their next class, feeling pleased. The rest of the day they waited to see if anything would happen, or if anybody knew it was them. But nobody said anything, and by the end of the school day the air had largely gone out of the idea. It was like everything else they tried to do, a big deal that went nowhere. “You wait,” Rico said. He wasn’t ready to let it go yet. “Tomorrow we sneak up on those guys and make guillotine sounds. Fff-tt! Fff-tt! Watch ’em jump.”

  Iris took the bus home. Nobody was there except her brother Kyle. He was watching television in the den, and when Iris walked in, he threw a Nerf football at her.

  “Cut it out,” said Iris. She pitched the football at his face. It knocked Kyle’s glasses off and he jumped up from the couch and chased her through the downstairs until Iris ran into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. There were other times when Kyle caught her and wrestled her to the ground and she shrieked until she wet her pants and couldn’t breathe and it was horrible but thrilling too, and that was when she hated Kyle most of all.

  After a while she got bored with being in the bathroom and came out. She loitered in the entrance to the den to see if Kyle was going to start the war again. He was talking on the phone, so she walked in and sat down in front of the television. He was watching COPS. Two policemen were sitting on top of a man and they had his arms all pretzeled behind him.

  Kyle held the phone away from his mouth. “Little privacy here.”

  “It’s my house too.”

  “Nobody,” Kyle said into the phone. “
Just Coyote Ugly.” That was his name for her.

  “Who are you talking to, stupid Michelle?” Michelle was his girlfriend. She had big teeth. Kissing Michelle would be like kissing a piano. Plus she laughed at things that weren’t funny.

  Kyle kept the phone wedged into the couch cushions. He said, “Uh-huh,” or, “Yeah.” When he got to the end of their love chat, he lowered his voice even further, so all Iris heard was dirty-sounding heh-heh noises. When he finally hung up, Iris said, “You and Michelle make a great couple. You’re both totally spastic.”

  Kyle yawned and scratched deeply along the inside of his leg. He was skinny, like Iris, but parts of him were overgrown, his hands and feet and his head, stuck on the end of his neck like an onion on its stem. He said, “So, did you and Fat Rico do it yet?”

  “Shut up, asshole.”

  “Because you two would really make a cool couple. Of course, you’d have to get on top so he wouldn’t smother you.”

  Iris kicked him pretty hard in or near the balls and then she ran upstairs to her room and listened to him rage and curse and rattle the doorknob until he got tired of it and went downstairs again. When she heard her mother come home, she went down to the kitchen to get some orange juice. Her mother asked her what was new at school and Iris said, “Nothing.”

  They got into trouble for the death threats. Everybody in homeroom seemed to know about it. Poodlebreath walked around looking like a doctor who had to tell somebody they had cancer. All the secret noise of the room, all the whispers and shuffling that went on around and under the teacher talk, lapped around them like a shallow ocean. They came and got Rico, then Barry, then Iris. She sat in the hall outside the guidance office for a long time. She decided she didn’t like her hands. They were ordinary. She wished that one of them was a claw, or maybe a robot arm, like Darth Vader’s.

  The guidance counselor was Mrs. Hopper. She was about ninety years old. “Iris,” Mrs. Hopper said. “Goddess of the rainbow.”