Y: A Novel by Marjorie Celona Read Free Book Online Page A

I am prohibited from going up there, as is her daughter, Lydia-Rose. It is “off-limits,”
     she says. She “needs her space.” Lydia-Rose and I share a bedroom on the second floor,
     across from the living room, bathroom, and tiny kitchen, a beaded curtain hung in
     the doorway. A short flight of carpeted stairs leads down to the first-floor laundry
     room and front door.
    There are rules here: no staring, no chewing with my mouth open, no sugar before bed,
     no wasting food, no talking back. I can handle most of it, but I can’t stop staring.
     I want to stare at Miranda forever. I am fascinated with her. She wears her hair in
     a tight bun at the top of her head and has a big bright face, as if the moon itself
     had walked into the room. After work, she pads around the town house in Chinese slippers
     and a plaid housecoat. She makes us lentil soup, then slides an ice cube into each
     of our bowls until it cools.
    Each morning she wakes at five, showers, puts on her Molly Maid outfit (a pale-pink
     polo shirt with Molly Maid stitched over the left breast pocket, khaki pedal pushers, white tennis shoes), fusses
     with her impossible hair, and then makes breakfast. There is always something different:
     creamed honey on toast, boiled eggs, Cheerios, jam on toast; on Saturdays, dollar
     cakes with fake maple syrup. She teaches me her trick: she fills a saucepan with one
     or two inches of water, brings it to a boil, then adds spoonfuls of brown sugar until
     it is thick and golden. If we’re lucky, she stirs in a little butter at the end. This
     is something I will grow to despise—this cheapness—but for now I find it ingenious.
    Miranda’s real daughter, Lydia-Rose, looks just like her, with her big face and honey-brown
     skin. I’m told that she looks like her father, too: she is a tall, intimidating girl
     who wears his thin smile, and her lips curl up with every laugh. Her hair, thick and
     copper-colored, rests in a messy clump at the nape of her neck, a yellow crayon in
     the fold of her ear. She is six months older than I. She has long skinny legs and
     runs as thoughshe were flying. Her face is fierce and determined; her eyes, impatient and keen.
    Miranda loves to play dress-up with us, give back-scratches and spend hours French-braiding
     our hair. She dresses us in shades of pink and purple, always matching, always bright.
     Although we never go to church, she tries to get me to believe in God. She says I
     only need to have faith the size of a mustard seed. This seems reasonable, doable,
     and so, for about an hour, I am a Christian.
    But the most exciting thing about this place is that Miranda has three cats and a
     rangy-looking dog. The cats’ names are Scratchie, Midnight, and Flipper. Scratchie
     and Flipper are from the same litter; Midnight is a stray. Flipper is a longhaired
     Siamese. He has ten toes on each paw, which is why he is named Flipper. Scratchie
     is tortoiseshell-colored and a fighter. He and Flipper are best friends. Midnight,
     the stray, is black with a white blaze. She is the only shorthaired cat among the
     herd.
    The dog’s name is Winkie and she is part fox terrier and part something else that
     has given her long, gangly legs that don’t work very well. We don’t know why. Miranda
     found her one day, soaking wet and whining, by the side of the road. She is mostly
     white, with a black saddle and a little brown head. She has big goofy eyes and the
     longest tongue in the history of tongues. She only harasses the cats if her legs are
     hurting her, and, for the most part, it’s a peaceable kingdom.
    Lydia-Rose and I aren’t so lucky. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to call Miranda,
     and so I start calling her Mom. Lydia-Rose drags me around the bedroom by my hair
     until I promise never to say it again, then she cries so hard that Miranda takes her
     to the forbidden upstairs bedroom and they don’t come down for hours.

    Once a month, a social worker comes by for a