Free The Tribes of Palos Verdes by Joy Nicholson

her face with the tissue, a deep flush comes over her. She leans closer, over the mirrored coffee table, panting a bit with exertion. She starts to stand up.
    Then she sees her reflection in the mirror. The puff of buttery jowl that has just begun to form, the cruel rings of her neck like a freshly cut cake. She notices my shadow. “Hey, sneak,” she says, not looking at me.
    â€œThe beautiful part is over.”
    *   *   *
    Most of my father is gone when I come home from school. His suits, books, ties, cologne, and toothbrush have vanished. His body has been cut, not carefully, from all the family photographs. Sometimes a hand or the crook of an elbow remains, a strange void of empty space surrounding it.
    My mother can’t bring herself to cut the expensive oil painting of our family above the mantel. Instead she tapes up a piece of black velvet, leaving a black space between my brother and me, covering our father completely.
    At first, I peek every day behind the velvet to see his smile. Jim never does.
    *   *   *
    â€œMen only want what they can lift.” My mother is weighing herself. “Your father used to be able to lift me.”
    I look at my mother’s nude body in the fluorescent light, embarrassed at the size of her nipples. Her nipples are burnt orange–colored and larger than teacups. Her nightgown is hanging on the hooks of the shower door, food stains around its lacy neckline.
    â€œHe’s the one that made me do this,” she says, grabbing flesh in her hands. “When I married him I was one hundred twenty-five pounds exactly.”
    Then she tells me to come to the kitchen. She takes a Hefty bag out of the pantry and fills it with five packages of frozen meat from the freezer. She hands it to me to hold.
    â€œThis is only half as much I’ve gained since I married him,” she says.
    I put it down on the floor and try to sneak out, but she tells me to come back, or I’m grounded from surfing. “Pick it up, girl,” she tells me.
    I hold the meat, switching the weight from leg to leg.
    â€œSixty pounds, almost,” she says.
    When it starts to defrost, she puts it back into the freezer.
    When I look out the window, I see the whales going by.
    *   *   *
    My mother says Jim is the new man of the house. She increases his allowance by twenty dollars a week, plus he gets tea with sugar and freshly baked cookies with cocoa sprinkles. My mother says the man of the house has extra responsibilities, so he gets special privileges.
    â€œOh, you’re so special,” I tell Jim, “but if you sit around here, you’ll miss all the good waves.”
    He goes to the window, watching a wave scoop up Skeezer and Mikey. His breathing is even, he stares transfixed. My mother waves her hands in front of his eyes.
    â€œHello—earth to Jim,” she says brightly. “The last thing I need is for you to get sad on me!”
    Then she tells us we’re going to start a new life. No health foods, no running. Nothing bad anymore.
    She offers around a box of Mallomars, telling us we’ll celebrate.
    I sit on the kitchen counter, licking the salt off the top of saltine crackers.
    â€œOh, well, let your sister be a sourpuss. I guess she’s watching her weight,” my mother tells Jim.
    â€œYou’re the one who’s watching my weight,” I say.
    Jim sits in the middle, narrowing his eyes at me.
    *   *   *
    When we go out surfing later, Jim sits on his board, barely moving. He doesn’t paddle for any waves. They’re just junk waves anyway, small choppy swells that bob upward and go nowhere.
    I joke with Skeezer and Tom Alexander, telling them I’m gonna be the next Frieda Zane—the most famous woman surfer in the world.
    â€œNot if you don’t start getting some waves,” Tom says, flicking water at me.
    Later, Skeezer asks me what Jim’s