Brooke (Orphans 3)

"It has to be that way to get out the poisons. Now you need your bath."

Joline had been called to prepare it. After I got into the tub, Pamela began to scrub my skin with a stiff brush, making it redder in spots than the bug bites, I thought. She poured all sorts of different oils into the water and shampooed my hair with such vigor I thought my scalp would bleed.

I stepped out, exhausted, when she told me to, and I barely had the strength to wipe myself down. I was taking too long, and she yelled at me to hurry up.

"Blow-dry your hair," she ordered. Before she wrapped the towel around me, she suddenly stared at my body with more interest than ever.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She shook her head. "It's still happening. In fact, it's getting worse. You look too . . masculine. You don't have any soft places. Even your breasts are like little puffs of muscle." She grimaced, twisting her mouth, her eyes filling with concern. "I want you to see my doctor."

"Doctor? Why?"

"I don't think you're developing right," she declared. "I'll make an appointment."

"I feel fine," I said.

"You don't look right to me. Maybe you need some feminine hormones. I don't know. Let the doctor decide," she said, and left me.

I was almost too weak to hold the hair dryer. When I'd dressed, I headed downstairs for dinner. The only way I could be more listless was to be asleep. Peter was away on another trip, and there was even a possibility he would not be back in time for the big game on Saturday. Pamela sat at the table and lectured me about the importance of protecting my skin.

"There is just so much makeup can do," she declared, "and some of these pageant judges get so close, they can see the smallest imperfections. Don't think that doesn't play a role in their decisions. It does. They see an ugly blemish on your neck, they'll drop you a place no matter how well you do in the other categories, especially the male judges." She stopped to take a breath and then continued with her criticism. "Why aren't you eating?"

"I lost my appetite because I was in the steam room too long," I said.

That threw her into a new tirade. "It's not the steam room. Removing poisons should make your body more efficient. It's that stupid softball, standing out there in the hot, destructive sunlight, letting yourself be feasted upon by bugs, filling your pores with dirt. And you're not using the hand cream enough," she added.

She stared at me, her fingers thumping the table as Joline moved as quietly and as quickly as she could around us, removing plates, straightening silverware, filling the water glass. I stared back at her. Not a hair was out of place. Her makeup was perfect. She looked ready for a professional photo shoot. It occurred to me that she made a bigger effort to look pretty than the effort most people made to do their jobs well.

Afterward, my piano lesson was grueling. Professor Wertzman seemed to sense my exhaustion as soon as I began. Instead of taking it easier on me, he made me do all my exercises repeatedly, finding fault with everything as usual. At one point, he became so annoyed, he actually slapped my left hand. He didn't hurt me, but it was so surprising and sharp, I felt an electric jolt in my heart and lost my breath for a moment.

"No, no, no," he said. "No, no, no. Again. Again!"

As usual, I was nearly in tears by the time the lesson ended. When I went up to my room, I just sat dazed and looked at my remaining homework. I didn't have the energy to open the book, much less begin the written work. I fell asleep at the desk and woke with a start when I heard my door open.

"What are you doing?" Pamela demanded.

I rubbed my eyes and looked at my open textbook. "Just finishing some math," I said.

"I want to check your skin," she said, and inspected my neck. "I'm calling Mrs. Harper in the morning and making a formal complaint about all this. They shouldn't be permitting you girls out there until those bugs are gone."

"No, please don't do that, Pamela. I'll keep my neck covered. I promise. There won't be any bites on me tomorrow. Please," I pleaded.

"Ridiculous," she said. "All of it. Beautiful girls exposing themselves to such damage. Sports are for boys. Their skin is tougher than ours. Their muscles are bigger."

"Lisa Donald and I beat her cousin Harrison and his friend at tennis the other day," I pointed out.

She stared at me again with that strange look in her eyes, a mixture of concern and bewilderment. "I have heard where some girls because of hormone deficiencies actually think like boys. I'm beginning to wonder if you have this medical condition. Instead of taking pride in beating them at tennis, you should be taking pride in the way they look at you, at how you attract and capture their attention," she lectured. "Your doctor's appointment is next Tuesday, after school, so make sure you come right home."

"I don't need to see a doctor," I complained.

"I'm your mother now, and I'm telling you I want you to be checked by a doctor." She smiled cruelly. "I know you're not used to having someone care this much for you, Brooke, but that's what it means to have parents. You should be grateful and not rebellious. I'd like to hear a thank you once in a while instead of this constant stream of complaint. It's all because of your stupid involvement with that softball team."

"I'm grateful. I just don't understand why I have to see a doctor. I'm not sick or anything."

"Sometimes we go to see the doctor to prevent sickness. Don't you understand that? Well?"

"Yes," I said, taking a breath and looking at my textbook.