What Every Girl (except me) Knows Read Online Free PDF Page A

It was one of those situations where I was deficient as a girl, a girl who otherwise would have understood what was expected of her.
    Taylor took off her shoes. So I did, too. There were two other pairs of shoes already there. I placed my sneakers beside Taylor’s. (Taylor hadn’t worn her platforms that day, but I was still betting some One would have an identical pair by the end of the next week.)
    I felt Mrs. Tyler’s eyes on my back. I switched my sneakers around so they were lined up left then right, both pointing in like the others, and I stood up.
    “Would you like a little snack, girls?” Mrs. Tyler asked. She was very tall. And thin. She had blond hair, too, though not as blond as Taylor’s.
    “Thanks, Mom,” Taylor answered. I decided it would be best to not say anything, so that I couldn’t say the wrong thing.
    But that was the wrong thing. “Would you like something to eat, Gabby?” she asked me.
    This was more than a test.
    “Sure,” I answered.
    This was a minefield.
    “Sure, please,” I added. We followed Mrs. Tyler into the kitchen, single file. Taylor looked back at me and smiled. She raised her eyebrows luringly and, just before she was seen, stuck out her tongue at her mother.
    I wanted to smile at Taylor’s joke, but I was too awestruck by her home.
    It looked to me that everything in Taylor’s house was white. The walls were white. The rugs were white. The sofa in the living room, where, Taylor told me, no one was allowed to stand for more than a few moments to admire, was white. The leather couches in the den where the TV was were the color of perfectly mashed potatoes. The bathroom was filled with white towels, Dove soap, white curtains, and chrome.
    Even Taylor and her mother looked white in that house, with their blond hair and creamy skin. I felt dark, big, and too loud and clumsy.
    The more uncomfortable I felt, the more I acted dark and big, too loud and clumsy. Just like when I was in third grade and I was invited to Beth Moore’s birthday party. The whole memory is a blur, like a photograph that’s out of focus. I do remember jumping on Beth Moore’s couch, and I remember when Beth told me I wasn’t allowed to come to her house anymore.
    To credit her eight-year-old politeness, Beth didn’t actually volunteer the information. It didn’t come out for two whole days, when at school I asked Beth if she wanted to play on the playground with me.
    We had just come out for recess, and I had my eye on something just past the sandbox. The two best swings were still empty.
    “Do you want to play with me, Beth?” I asked.
    Beth said, “My mom says you can’t come to my house again.”
    It took my eight-year-old brain a few minutes to figure out what she was saying. But I did figure it out. Beth’s mother had banned me from her house.
    “What are you talking about?” I asked Beth, as if I was really annoyed, instead of horribly embarrassed and tremendously sad.
    “My mom said you were too wild and you jumped on our couches.” Beth looked down at the ground. She flicked a little rock around with the tip of her sneaker.
    I knew then, as much as I liked Beth Moore (and as much as Beth liked me), we weren’t going to be friends.
    “I was just asking you if you wanted to swing,” I snapped. “But now, forget it.”
    “I’m sorry,” Beth said, still looking at her feet.
    Not as sorry as I was. Still, I was glad I wouldn’t be going to her house again. I didn’t know mothers could disapprove of and dislike one little girl so much. I never thought anyone noticed me at all. But from then on, I knew I had to be more careful, had to watch my step.
    *
    And here I was, watching my step. Steps I hadn’t been taught to take.
    At the Tylers’ house food was only allowed in the dining room. Mrs. Tyler put out milk (white!) and cookies (also white). Each cookie had delicate stripes of chocolate across the top and a hole in the center, so you could put it on your finger and spin