Club Sandwich Read Online Free

cool. Hey, would I lead you wrong?”
    “No.” I really should listen to Lyra more often. I have no shape really. There’s no time to work out or grab a decent meal these days. And while a lot of women yearn to be thin, I don’t imagine they picture this androgynous figure I own, or the hunched look I walk around with. I have no boobs, no butt, no defined waistline—nothing but big hands, elbows, and knees. And feet. Size 10 feet. I am a tie box with a head and appendages. I hate what I’ve become. I’m not a woman anymore. Not at all.
    But then, is it necessary these days? With Rusty always gone, it’s not like sexiness matters; it’s not like my pitiful 34AA bra size means anything anymore. Maybe I should buy one of those tubs of breast-enhancement cream.
    The kicker is that Rusty’s such a nice guy. He lost it with me only one time … one single time. And honestly, after waiting in twenty-degree weather for thirty minutes wearing nothing but galoshes and an overcoat, I’d have yelled at me too. That’s a story that deserves a venue all its own.
    Lyra stands up. “Here, let me do your makeup. That eye shadow is all wrong.”
    “Fabulous. I’m so nervous I can’t even hold the applicator.” I turn toward her. “Do what you can. But believe me, I don’t expect miracles.”
    “Oh, stop it, Mom. You’re so pretty.”
    But I know she speaks as a daughter who entered the world with a sweet young mother and fails to notice the change.
    She roots through my makeup case. “Mom, when was the last time you bought eye shadow? Look at this CoverGirl stuff. There must be twelve different colors in this thing. Do they even make this kind of thing anymore?”
    “Oh please, Lyr, I hate to throw out good makeup.”
    “It’s not good makeup, Mom. It’s probably full of creepy-crawly bacteria. I just read an article about that in
Seventeen
, and it said …”
    I tune out the infomercial. I’m going to be late. I hate this. I’m always late these days. “Can you hurry, sweets? It starts at six.”
    “Let me get my stuff. You shouldn’t be wearing blues and purples and greens anyway. Neutrals are best at your age.”
    Great. Render me even more insignificant than my present state. But hey, that might ward off further mental monologues about Rusty.
    Wait.
    Did she really say, “at your age”? Another passage across yet another river crisscrossing the aging process. Man.
    Lyra returns. She does what she can. Not nearly enough, but honestly, nothing short of a face transplant would suffice. Still, the feel of her fingertips against my skin … Well, nothing, absolutely nothing comes close to the touch of your child. I know some perfectly fertile people choose to forgo parenthood, and what can I sayto that? However, if they felt what I’m feeling right now, they’d conceive in a heartbeat, career or what have you be cursed.
    I praise Lyra’s heroic efforts. The doorbell rings. She runs out of the room hollering, “I’ll get it!”
    Trixie yells from downstairs, “No! Me!”
    “I said I’ll get it!” Yep, still a kid. She tromps down the steps three at a time. Trixie’s little feet thump at steam-engine speed from the kitchen where I set her up with some Play-Doh.
    Persy, nine years old and all boy, couldn’t care less who gets the door. Biologically attached to the GameCube, that one.
    “Winky!” Both girls yell my mother’s grandma name in unison. Winky. It’s horrible, but Lyra started it, and it never evolved to a proper Grandma, Granny, Gran, or Nanny. And Mom likes being a little different. Not a lot different, just a little.
    I hurry down. I’ll apply my lipstick in the car. “Mom!”
    She looks up from where she stands just inside the door. “Hello, dear!” And she smiles like Debbie Reynolds before everybody found out she was so self-centered. Mom’s never once greeted me with anything other than that smile.
    The late-afternoon light, pale gold and jangly from the fluttering leaves