Not That I Care by Rachel Vail Page B

could just imagine each person I knew strolling in right then—Zoe. Tommy. My brother.
    Mrs. Dodge turned the Barbie box over and over in her hands.
    “Ten ninety-eight,” I finally said, though I knew rushing her was totally counterproductive.
    “Is it?” She studied the box. “Ah, there it is. Plus tax, of course. Funny, usually the younger girls go for these things. Don’t see the appeal, myself.”
    I forced myself to stifle the comments and just subtly push the stack of carefully saved dollars across the counter, another inch closer to her. She rang up the sale on her cash register and slipped the box into a white paper bag. I grabbed the bag out of her hand and almost left without my change.
    Instead of crushing Barbie in my rattrap, I rode home one-handed, peeking into the bag as I rode. Mine , I thought. Finally .
    Mine didn’t come with a fancy outfit or even a decent pair of pumps, just a cheap-looking hot-pink minidress and matching hot-pink sneakers in a plastic bag taped inside the box. But the others, the Barbies in the better clothes, were twice as expensive, and it had taken so long to save up for this one I just couldn’t wait anymore. I was so excited, I could barely wait to get home and yank her out. She was tied to the box with a bunch of Baggie ties and a plastic tab anchored in her head. I used a scissors on that. It was quite a project, getting her free. Her hair was sewn to the box under a plastic piece. I was scared I might ruin her. I searched for Barbie removal instructions, but there weren’t any—just small print on the bottom back panel that said DOLLS CANNOT STAND ALONE.
    Oh, well , I thought. I don’t care if she stands alone. She’ll be hiding under my bed her whole life anyway . But only if I could get her hair off the box. How does anybody else know how to do it? Why in the world would they sew her hair between a plastic piece and the box? It seems so gruesome.
    I guess a mother would normally handle the Barbie removal. A mother would know how, but mine wasn’t due home for a few hours and anyway she’d outlawed Barbies years before. I was on my own.
    I closed my eyes and pulled. My jaw was gripped tight with all the force it took to tear that plastic thing away from the cardboard it was sewn to. When I opened my eyes, though, she was free. And only slightly mussed.
    I didn’t care that she’d be a minor Barbie to anybody else. She’s my first one, my only one. Anyway I’m too old to play with Barbies. I smoothed her hair down and whispered, “Hi. I’m Morgan.”
    I felt completely idiotic. I held her up and looked her over. “Your outfit is tacky, but I love you, and I’ll take care of you,” I whispered. I felt myself start to cry a little. What a sap.
    I sat there in my room trying to figure out how to play with my Barbie for a while. I moved all her movable parts, but without a change of clothes or any accessories, there just aren’t many activity options.
    I called CJ. I didn’t really have anything to say. “Hi,” I said, looking at my new Barbie, so beautiful.
    “Hi,” she said back.
    I wanted to tell her, but I didn’t want her to think I was a big fool. “You want to do the math homework?” I asked her instead.
    “Sure,” CJ whispered.
    I laid Barbie on my pillow and picked up my math text. Math isn’t easy for CJ. I guess a lot of girls don’t like it, but I love math. Not that I’d ever say so. But it’s like puzzles to solve. I pretended, over the phone, to be having more trouble with it than I was, staring down at the answer already on my paper. “I don’t know,” I said. “Wait, do we subtract that?” It felt good to hear CJ laugh with relief. “What a couple of losers,” I said. She laughs like huh, huh—very breathy. She used to stutter, so now she doesn’t say much and what she says, she whispers.
    “Did my hair look terrible today?” she whispered.
    “What?” I asked, stalling. She always wears it pulled back in a tight