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She’s not going to mention it.
On the other hand, she doesn’t have to. She made her point.
I trip into the bathroom. If she isn’t going to say anything to me, I’m certainly not going to say anything to her.
When I exit, Peggy is standing there with a blow-dryer in her hand. “Excuse me,” I say as I wriggle past her.
She goes back into the bathroom and shuts the door.
While the apartment is filled with the buzz of the dryer, I take the opportunity to check in on L’il. She’s so tiny, she looks like a doll someone laid under the comforter, her round face as pale as porcelain.
“She’s drying her hair,” I report.
“You should sneak in there and drop her blow-dryer into the sink.”
I tilt my head. The whirring has suddenly ceased, and I skittle back to my cell. I quickly plop myself in the chair in front of my mother’s old Royal typewriter.
A few seconds later, Peggy’s behind me. I just love the way she insists we respect her privacy, yet doesn’t believe we deserve the same, barging into our rooms whenever she feels like it.
She’s slurping down her ubiquitous can of Tab. It must be like mother’s milk to her—good for any occasion, including breakfast.
“I’ve got an audition this afternoon, so I’ll need quiet in the apartment while I’m practicing.” She eyes my typewriter doubtfully. “I hope you’re not planning on using that noisy thing. You need to get an electric typewriter. Like everyone else.”
“I’d love to, but I can’t exactly afford one right now,” I reply, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my tone.
“That’s not my problem, is it?” she says with more saccharine than an entire six-pack of diet soda.
“It’s that little itch.” Pause. “No. It’s that little itch.
“Damn. It’s that little itch.”
Yes, it’s true. Peggy is auditioning for a hemorrhoid commercial.
“What did you expect?” L’il mouths. “Breck?” She checks her appearance in a hand mirror, carefully dabbing her cheeks with a pot of blush.
“Where are you going?” I hiss in outrage, as if I can’t believe she’s going to abandon me to Peggy and her little itch.
“Out,” she says, mysteriously.
“But where?” And then, feeling like Oliver Twist asking for more grub, I say, “Can I come?”
L’il is suddenly flustered. “You can’t. I have to—”
“What?”
“See someone,” she says firmly.
“Who?”
“A friend of my mother’s. She’s very old. She’s in the hospital. She can’t have visitors.”
“How come she can see you?”
L’il blushes, holding up the mirror as if to block my inquiries. “I’m like family,” she says, fiddling with her lashes. “What are you doing today?”
“Haven’t decided,” I grumble, eyeing her suspiciously. “Don’t you want to hear about my evening with Bernard?”
“Of course. How was it?”
