Page 62 of Pity Play

“It’s true,” I tell him. “I really wanted a grape Chapstick, but my mom said no because she’d just bought me a cherry one the week before.”

“Did you get caught?” I shake my head, so he asks, “Why was it so exciting then?”

“Icouldhave gotten caught. I was terrified I would.” I take another bite of my ice cream.

“Did anyone ever find out?”

Nodding my head slowly, I tell him, “Yeah. I turned myself in.”

“What?” Now he really is laughing.

“I turned myself in when my mom was paying for her prescription.”

His eyes are twinkling with downright merriment. “What happened?”

“My mom tried to make me give the Chapstick back.”

“So, you didn’t really shoplift it,” he concludes.

“Oh, I took it all right. I opened it up right in front of my mom and the clerk and put it on my lips so they couldn’t make me give it back.” I explain, “My mom paid for it, but she grounded me,andshe took my Chapstick away.”

“You’re a renegade,” Luke teases.

“I like my Chapstick,” I assure him smugly before going backto my ice cream. This time I combine the pistachio and cherry. The result is sublime.

“I don’t remember much of your childhood,” Luke says, “But I do have one very clear memory.”

“My unfortunate looks?” I guess.

He shakes his head, so I ask, “The eight years of braces?”

“No. I remember when Noah and I were in the eighth grade, and you knocked on his bedroom door one night. When he told you to go away, you flung the door open and staggered in on a pair of high heels. You were wearing bright red lipstick, and …”

A flash of that night pops into my mind and compels me to interrupt him. “Please don’t finish that sentence.”

“Ah, you remember then?” He looks enormously happy with himself for bringing this up.

“I remember,” I tell him. My face burns hot with embarrassment for my younger self.

“Whatwerethose things?” he wants to know.

“I thought we were done talking about this.” I sound angrier than I am. I just want to move on.

“We can be done once you answer my question.”

I inhale deeply before exhaling with even more force. “My mom used to wear panty hose that came in a plastic egg. I used to … you know …” I gesture toward my chest to finish the thought.

“You put plastic eggs down your shirt to make it look like you had boobs!” I swear to God, he practically yells that.

“Yes, Luke, that’s what I did. I was nine.”

He starts laughing so hard I’m tempted to get up and leave. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I drawl.

He valiantly tries to compose himself but is not successful because he apparently feels the need to add, “And those shoes! We thought you were going to kill yourself!”

I don’t know what comes over me, but I decide to confess, “I did that for you, Luke. I was trying to show you that I wasn’t the little girl you thought I was.”

His expression turns to sympathy. “I know that, Lorelai. You weren’t very subtle.”

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