Free Glitter and Glue by Kelly Corrigan Page B

Thomas of Villanova, her attention made me so giddy. On the ride to church, I stared at myself in the side-view mirror, going on about my perfect hairdo as I ran my finger in and around the curl closest to my ear, until my mother turned around, her expression firm.
Remember, Kelly, today is about the good Lord, so let’s focus our thoughts on Jesus and Mary
. She had gotten carried away and she regretted it.
    When Milly comes back, I take her to my room, sit her on the floor between my knees, and brush through her shampoo-commercial hair, careful not to pull or rip a single strand, nothing that might make her repeal the privilege. She’s given me a chance to solve a problem, and if I can do it—if I can make her like herself again—we will be closer.
    I begin her braid and it builds into the perfect repeating weave of a Goodyear tire. There are no bumps, no sticky-outies. She wants to see. I open my closet door and turn her shoulders so she can admire her reflection in the mirror.
    “I like it.”
    “I’m glad,” I say, enjoying a rush of whatever hormones make you feel good as I tie it off with a pink rubber band.
    “Yeah, I like it,” she says again.
    “Good.”
    “Can you do it again tomorrow?”
    Tomorrow and every day after. “Sure.”
    “Okay, good.” And she runs out of my room, touching the braid, looking for someone to show.
    I turn around, flush with satisfaction and optimism. I can do this. I can help this girl. I can uncover every way there is to make her happy, to make her say
mmm
. Buy her pretty barrettes, keep her up late watching movies, have the Emmas over for a three-day party.
    But then, on my dresser, I see a box of tampons, and I’m stopped short. Who will tell Milly about periods? That’s no kind of work for a father. But who else will be here all those years from now to steer her through the fun house of puberty? Who will sit Milly down, as my mother did with me, and say, “I want you to know … well, I want to ask you … do you have any questions … about
anything
?”
    “Like what?” I asked.
    “Like,” she said, straightening pens and pencils on her desk, “like … where babies come from.”
    “Mom, I’m sixteen!”
    “I’m just asking—” She polished a letter opener on her sweater. “So … nothing at all?”
    I
had
noticed something in the Reilly master bathroom the last time I babysat. “Okay …” I hesitated. “Well, yeah, there is one thing.”
    “Oh?” She looked uneasy.
    “Yeah. What’s a douche?”
    “Oh, Kelly!” She shrieked like I’d put a centipede on her leg. “That is dis-GUS-ting!”
    “It is? Even Summer’s Eve?” I pictured the pretty lady on the box walking through a bright forest in a very clean sundress.
    “Blech.” She lowered her voice. “If you must know, a douche is something you squirt in your privates if they get dirty, which yours won’t, so let’s not get too involved in a discussion about douches. God almighty!” She turned her back to me. “And to think Susan Reilly is Catholic!”
    Recalling this tête-à-tête with my mother, I’m inspired to write up a point-blank puberty cheat sheet for Milly. Bras, deodorant, zit management; pads, tampons, rubbers, and—though I was haunted by the image of a product that power-cleaned dirty vaginas—douches. But it’s not my place. I’m a temp. Anyway, you probably can’t get a kid from girlhood to womanhood with a one-page summary. It probably takes years.
    Milly has dance class after school; I’m taking her while John blasts the soundtrack of
Fiddler on the Roof
and finishes painting the trim along the back of the house.
    “Milly!” I call across the school playground, holding a bag with all her dance stuff. “You ready?” When she reaches me, her cheeks are flushed from running and the hair she thinks is so inadequate has fallen from either side of this morning’s French braid, my big fix undone already.
    “I need a hair band,” she says in her