GB96 s2 - You are still Carla

Pinkish sunlight washes over Gurlberg in the humid daybreak. The curtains are open, and it inches across the floor as the AC hums quietly. The glossy photographs tacked to the corkboard on the desk gleam.

It’s mostly photos of you and Stef. Ellen is in a few of them, and so is Mary in the ones that were taken after she broke up with that guy at the end of the school year.

The light kisses your tanned skin, all of which is on display as you sleep on top of rumpled sheets in only plain, cotton panties. Florida isn’t hotter than California, just muggier. It's the end of June and the AC struggles.

The room isn’t exactly tidy, but it isn’t the disaster that it was when you first moved in. A sign of maturity? Maybe.

The alarm clock on the bedside table goes off, playing the radio instead of an annoying noise. Your eyes open. You yawn, then stretch with a groan before sitting up. You wipe your hair out of your face and stare at the wall for a moment as you come to your sense. Then you sigh and stand, arching your back and reaching for the ceiling.

Still yawning, you pad over to the AC and switch it off, then throw open the window.

Leaning against the side, you take in the warm breeze as you light a cigarette. One long drag is all it takes to make everything feel OK. It’s going to be a good day. You smile and gaze across at Mary’s house.

Right on time, her window opens and she’s there, wearing a cute little set of jammies: perfectly short, ruffled shorts and a top that’s tight enough to give you a show and a little bit of her pale belly. Her beautiful red hair is a wild and chaotic mess.

She leans on her windowsill, and you can hear the same song playing on the radio in her room. You’re perfectly in sync. She cocks her head and gives you a look, then gestures at her chest.

You look down at your bare breasts, then at the street. Nobody’s out; nothing’s moving. It doesn’t matter. You shrug and toss the pack of cigarettes across.

Mary leans out and catches it. You throw her your Pearl Jam Zippo and she lights up.

The moment is perfect, and it stretches on as long as the song. She gazes without seeing out at the sunrise and you look at her.

But it can’t go on forever. She flashes you a smile and throws the pack and lighter back, then shuts her window. She likes her AC on high.

You pull on a tee and head downstairs, where your mom is making breakfast. She’s not dressed for work yet. You didn’t understand the tension in the house or the depth of her worry until it was gone. As you fucked around for your whole high school career, you never knew how much it bothered her. She wasn’t upset because you were partying and chasing girls; it’s not like you got that much action anyway. She was just worried about your future. Now you know that you reminded her of herself at your age, and that scared her.

That’s all gone now. You did exactly what she asked you to, and you know that it was the right decision. She’s so relieved that she’s like a different person. There’s no tension and no judgment. You’re close in a way that you haven’t been since you were little. You feel safe.

You’re still dying to move out, of course. But it’s just so much better now than it used to be. There’s… one thing left.

Your mom looks back from the stove, wrinkling her nose. She smells the cigarette smoke, but says nothing. She just puts a plate in front of you with a few slices of orange, a piece of toast with jam on it, and two fried eggs with salt and pepper.

“Got a present for you,” your mom says, taking a hangar from the closet and holding it up.

You stare uncomprehendingly at the outfit.

“What’s that?” you ask with your mouth full. You literally see your mother choose not to tell you to swallow your food. You’re eighteen. If you were going to stop doing this, you would have by now.

“It’s clothes. For a professional. Don’t worry. I made sure that it’s cute and hip,” she adds, giving you a look.

You snort. It’s a… gray skirt and a blouse. Not quite like a preppy school uniform, but close.

“You’re working now. You should look the part,” she says.

Your mother has not seen where you work. She knows what your job is, but she doesn’t quite… get it.

“Mom, if I wear that I won’t get any work done,” you tell her honestly.

“It’s not that bad, Sweetie. I want you to try it. Hear me out,” she goes on before you can protest. “I know that you have your style, Carla. But I want you to try wearing this and pay attention to how people treat you.”

You try not to laugh.

“I’m serious,” she says. “Just try it a few times. Please.”

You can’t fight her. She’s being so sweet. You take a deep breath. “OK, Mom. I’ll try it.”

“Thank you.”

At least your mom wasn’t lying. The skirt is cute. You take a shower and get dressed. The clothes look good on you, especially since you and Stef just got matching Winona Ryder haircuts. It bugs you, but it looks better on Stef. When she has a haircut and bothers to wear makeup, Stef is definitely the pretty one. This outfit on you… you aren’t sure what to think. You look from a couple of angles, then feel silly when you pick up your purse, which is denim. It does not go with these clothes, but it’s the only one that you own. You could borrow one of your mom’s, but you don’t care that much.

Outside, you climb into your car. That’s right: your car. It’s a yellow Beetle that your mom surprised you with when you got your diploma. It’s not… the best car. But you still love it. And as you climb into it in your professional little outfit to go to work, it’s a strange feeling that you don’t hate.

You head out of town. The Gibson Garage is at the edge of the swamp on its own gravel road just off the main road to the next county. It’s already hot. In an hour or two it will be sweltering. Your nice, new white blouse is about to have some fresh sweat stains, because there’s no AC here.

You park beside the big, rusted pickup truck that was once black. It’s a Toyota that’s older than you are, but its owner is also a mechanic, so it runs better than most of the cars in Gurlberg, including yours. The garage is just a rudimentary structure of corrugated steel with one big shutter door. Inside is a single mechanic’s station. It’s the very definition of a small business, but Stef’s father has supported his family with it for twenty years, and they aren’t rich, but they aren’t broke, either. People like the Gibson Garage. They trust Mr. Gibson in a way that they don’t trust the larger, commercial auto place in town. Several cars are already parked in the lot, and the locked dropoff is probably full of keys. It’ll be another busy day.

You get out and head in to find Mr. Gibson underneath a green Plymouth while music plays from the boombox in the corner. He doesn’t listen to the same radio stations as you and Stef, but you don’t mind it. You’ve gotten used to the ambiance here.

“Morning, Mr. Gibson.”

“Morning, Carla,” he replies.

You head into the office, which is really a closet. To make you comfortable, Mr. Gibson has added a fan. It doesn’t help, but it’s a nice touch. When you first got here, this office was a chaotic mess of ancient paper. Now it’s an office. You have file cabinets. Things are where they belong. Mr. Gibson hasn’t gotten you a computer yet, but you have the hang of the accounting ledger and the binders that you keep everything in. You hate what carbon paper does to your hands, but… this is your job. You set your purse down and take your seat.

“Who are you?” Stef asks from the doorway.

You look up and roll your eyes. She’s wearing her usual oil-stained overalls and a white tee. You should be in shorts and a crop top, but… you know. Mom.

“Mom made me wear it,” you say.

“Sexy secretary clothes,” Stef replies, leering openly. “Stand up again so I can see that skirt.”

“Go work,” you tell her.

“I dropped a pencil back there,” Stef says, pointing. “Can you just bend over and pick it up?”

“You don’t know how to use a pencil,” you say, indignant.

“What?” She balks. “I can use a pencil. A pen, even.”

“Your pencil. It was a dick joke,” you say.

She stares at you, then grins and points. You point back.

“Girls,” Mr. Gibson says tiredly.