Beautiful Read Online Free PDF Page B

or a puppy.
    â€œYes,” she says. “That would be nice.”
    As I set the table, I can see Dad on the porch through the sliding glass doors, still in his suit from work. He is standing with his leg propped up on one of the plastic chairs, looking out at Seattle. He started smoking cigars when we moved here, standing out on the porch with his chin in the air like he’s posing for a magazine about rich businessmen.
    â€œGet your father,” my mom says.
    â€œYou do it.”
    â€œCassie, just knock on the window.”
    I knock on the window and he doesn’t hear, just keeps standing there like he’s the king of the world. I knock harder and he turns around with smoke coming out of his face and I think this is what demons must look like. But he waves and puts out the cigar, and I think maybe tonight won’t be totally awful. Maybe we’ll actually act like a family. Maybe he won’t hate us and maybe moving here was a good idea like Mom said.
    The smell of cigar smoke follows Dad inside and makes everything taste like it. I can tell Mom’s been drinking because she’s talking too much, something about the talk show lady she watches every day and bulimic girls whose teeth fall out. “Jesus, Olivia,” Dad says. “I’m trying to eat.”
    She stays quiet for about two seconds, then says, “How was school, Cassie?”
    â€œFine,” I say.
    â€œIt’s so nice that you’ve made friends so quickly.”
    â€œ
Friend
, singular,” I say.
    â€œBe patient,” she says. “You’re just a little bit shy. But you’re so pretty now, soon you’ll have more friends than you know what to do with.”
    â€œThe spaghetti’s good, Mom,” I say, even though it’s cold and too salty.
    Dad’s looking at me with squinty eyes and a tight jaw and I try to ignore it and focus on eating, but the noodles won’t stay on my fork and I’m just waiting for him to say something, to throw one of his temper tantrums that make us all shut up.
    â€œWhat did you do to your face?” he says slowly. This is how it starts.
    â€œCassie and her new friend were just playing around with makeup,” Mom says.
    â€œDo you think that actually looks good?” he asks me with his eyebrows, which means I’m the stupidest piece of shit that ever lived.
    â€œI don’t know,” I say to my plate of spaghetti.
    â€œYou are so naturally beautiful,” says my mother. “You’re so lucky not to need makeup like other girls.”
    â€œYou look like a slut,” says my dad.
    â€œHoney,” says my mom, picking up her drink, trying to suck out the little liquid that is left.
    â€œWhat?” says my dad. “She does. What am I supposed to do, just pretend I don’t see her face all painted up like a piece of cheap white trash?”
    â€œIt just sounds a little mean, is all,” Mom says, looking at her drink like it let her down.
    â€œMean is not the same as honest,
dear.
” He hates her.
    Mom gets up to make another drink. I’m staring at my plate, trying to make the spaghetti move with the power of my mind. I want the noodles to tie themselves into knots, the intricate kind Boy Scouts know. I can see them moving, slithering around and making slurping noises, becoming bows, braids, nooses.
    â€œDid you hear me?” he says.
    â€œYes,” I say.
    â€œDo you have anything to say?”
    â€œNo.” I have nothing to say. I can barely hear him. I am making spaghetti move.
    â€œHow was work today, honey?” Mom says, and that is the cue to ignore me. Dad says, “Fine,” and Mom says, “Don’t be so modest, honey. You know all that hard work’s going to pay off soon,” and he’s chewing like he wants to kill her. She starts talking about how we’re going to have a big house and a swimming pool and a maid and now I want to kill her,