“Your hair's a rat’s nest,” the woman said, her imitation silk kimono gaping to reveal a bony chest and the inner edges of small, torpedo-shaped breasts. She held an ashtray in one hand and a gold-tipped cigarette in the other. The child ran a hand through her halo of dark hair.

“With a comb, Valentine! Some water wouldn't hurt, either.”

Valentine obeyed, creeping through the kitchen and up the open staircase to the bathroom. The smell had been hanging around all afternoon. It was strong enough to make her wrinkle her nose but not so strong that it made her gag. The smell was a funny thing. Valentine was the only one who ever noticed it. Or at least the only one who admitted to it. It reeked, sometimes so bad it burned her nose, but it gave her warning, let her know what was coming next. The smell was a good thing.

Valentine pushed open the bathroom door and stood for a moment, watching the afternoon sun sparkle on the shower door and spotted mirror. Moving to the vanity, she pawed through the jumble of lipstick tubes and primping implements, finally locating a comb nestled in the curled tail of a hair dryer. Remembering Sunny's second instruction, Valentine pushed the rubber stopper into the drain and turned on both handles full blast. The sink was shaped like a powder-blue scallop shell. Valentine liked to play mermaids with her Barbies in the sink, though if Sunny caught her, she chewed her out for making a mess.

Usually, when Valentine came home from school, the first thing she did when she walked through the door was flare her nostrils, straining to catch a hint of rottenness on the air. If it was strong, she went to the basement playroom or back outside again to play underneath the trees. If it was only a light smell, or maybe nothing at all, she walked into the house.

It was a good system, but not foolproof. The worst was when the air smelled clear, and she went in, and maybe Sunny would smile, maybe would make her a snack. But then Sunny might chip a nail while pulling out the peanut butter or catch a glimpse of her reflection in the toaster, or see a new hole in the knee of Valentine’s pants, and then the smell would come, strong and wicked and overpowering, while Sunny screamed and screamed.

The sink was just an inch from overflowing when Valentine killed the tap. She bent forward till her nose touched the water, paused to blow an experimental bubble, then submerged her whole face. Water slopped over the edge of the sink and soaked into her shorts. She practiced saying her ABC's under water, getting to H before inhaling a mouthful and sputtering to an upright position. When she recovered, she used the point of the comb to separate her bangs into two pieces and pushed them behind her ears. They almost reached. She tugged the band out of her hair. Held it up to one eye. It had a plastic girl frog on it. Valentine knew it was a girl because she had a pink bow on her head. How did it stay there with no hair?

“Hey, Brat.”

Charlenie.

“Can you put my frog back in?” Valentine asked.

“That's so dumb. Who would put a frog in their hair?” But Charlenie sloped through the doorway and grabbed the frog from Valentine’s hand.

“Looks like you pissed in your pants. Mom's gonna kill you. It's a Rick night.”

“You know we're not supposed to call her that.” Valentine scratched her nose. “And I don't want to see stupid Rick.”

“At least Rick brings pizza,” Charlenie said as she stretched the frog and pretended to aim it at Valentine’s face.

“He smells funny,” Valentine said.

“You think everyone smells funny.” She tugged Valentine's hair back into a ponytail. “Rick said he'd bring us Goonies.”

“I hate that movie.

“Whatever, Brat. You can just sit on the steps and listen to the other entertainment then,” Charlenie said.

Valentine's forehead puckered.

“You know,” said Charlenie, wiggling her bony behind. “Oh Rick! Rick! Ricky! Yes! Oh!” she groaned dramatically, her eyelids fluttering.

“Shut up, Charlenie.”

“Alright,” she said loftily. “Later, Brat.” Charlenie sauntered down the carpeted hallway and slammed the bedroom door.

Valentine trailed behind her and stood outside the door. Tinny Michael Jackson seeped out of the room and Valentine knew Charlenie wouldn't want to play with her anyway. Valentine turned and climbed the narrow staircase to the attic. She poked through overflowing garbage bags of clothes, boxes of papers, and old toys until she found her Barbie carrying case.

It had been Charlenie's before hers, so one of the hinges was broken off but it burst with clothes and dolls. She wanted to dump everything out and have a fashion show, but the attic was stuffy so she just grabbed Rocker Barbie and Ken. She only had one Ken, if you didn't count the one with the missing head. Charlenie would sometimes stick a Barbie head on the Ken doll and it made Valentine feel strange to look at it.

She tiptoed down the attic stairs with both dolls under one arm. She paused at the top of the stairs and sniffed. The smell was there, oily, but not thick. Not yet. Sunny was on the phone. By the sound of her voice, Valentine knew she was talking to Trish or Angela. No. Not Angela. Sunny was in a fight with her at the moment. Valentine descended to the landing. She listened to the timbre of Sunny’s voice, she breathed deeply and measured the amount of smell in the air. It seemed okay. No imminent danger, so Valentine padded on cat's feet to the main floor and then shot out the back door.

Once outside, Valentine made straight for the dark copse of pines. Her favorite spot. There was an ever-deepening carpet of rust-colored needles that Valentine liked to lie in, though sometimes they pricked her exposed skin. She plopped down under the largest tree and looked around until she found a nice, bendy stick. She stuck one end into the soft earth and, curving it into an elongated U, jabbed the other side into the ground. She balanced fallen sprays of needles against one end and then picked up the Ken doll.

“I made this house for you,” said the Ken in a deep voice.

She picked up Rocker Barbie in the other hand.

“I told you I wanted a mansion,” Barbie said in a high, sweet voice.

“You just spend money and watch soap operas. I work all day,” Ken said.

“If I don't get a mansion I'm taking the kids and leaving.”

“You're a jerk.”

“No, you are.”

Valentine banged the dolls' torsos together and made punching noises.

“I'm calling the cops!” shouted the high voice.

“Go ahead, lady! I'm out of here.”

Valentine chucked the Ken doll all the way to the opposite end of the copse where he disappeared into the needles.

Suddenly, Valentine paused and sniffed the air, let Rocker Barbie drop to the ground.

The backdoor opened. Sunny emerged, her blonde hair catching the light.

“Valentine!”

Valentine froze under the tree.

“Valentine!”

She watched a branch wave gently in the wind, held her breath.

“Dammit, Valentine! Answer me!”
She squirmed from under the trees and ran to the door, leaving the dolls behind.

“Jesus! Why didn't you answer me?”

Valentine could almost taste the smell on the back of her tongue. Like oil at the bottom of a sardine can left out on the counter.

The smell got stronger. Sunny raised her arm.

“I was playing Barbies.”

Sunny's hand came back to rest at her side. Then fished in her kimono pocket for her cigarettes. She narrowed her eyes at Valentine. “I told you to clean up! Rick's gonna be here any minute. I don't want him thinking I've got a bunch of grubby brats.”

“Charlenie re-did my frog.”

“Shoulda had her do your bangs, too. You look like Pee Wee Herman. And you've got pine needles all over you. I'm gonna have those trees cut down when I get the money.”

Sunny smacked the clinging needles off with the flat of her hand. Valentine squirmed.

“Don't be a baby. That doesn't hurt.”

Sunny fished the last cigarette out of her pack and lit it. The oily smell subsided a little as burning tobacco filled Valentine's nose. Valentine liked that smell. It covered up the other a little, but not so much that she couldn't tell it was there. Whenever Valentine asked Charlenie if she knew about the smell, Charlenie said whatever, Brat, you're so weird, but she wouldn't meet Valentine's eye.

“I don't want no lip from you when Rick's here tonight,” Sunny said. She fluffed out her hair with a long-fingered hand. “And no acting weird, either,” she added. “Rick's a good guy. He's got a steady job and a nice house. You could have your own bedroom.”

“I like it here.”

“Yeah, well I don't.” She took a drag, sucking her thin cheeks even thinner. “Go change.”

Valentine scooted in the house. The oily smell still hung in the kitchen. She ran upstairs and burst into the bedroom.

“Geez, can't you knock?” Charlenie was sprawled on the bed, head hanging over the edge, reading a movie star magazine that was lying on the floor.

“It's my room too, Charlenie.”

“I'm the oldest. That means it's mine. I just let you stay here.” She flicked the pages. “What's Sunny doing?”

“Smoking outside.”

“She give you the talk about being angels for Rick?”

Valentine nodded.

“I wouldn't mind living at his place,” Charlenie said. “His neighbors have a pool. I bet we could swim there.”

Valentine kicked through a pile of clothes in the corner and came up with a wrinkled yellow dress. It had an applique of a smiling yellow sun on the chest. She pulled her t-shirt over her head and slipped out of her shorts.

“When's the last time you changed your underwear, Brat?”

Valentine shrugged and dropped the yellow dress over her head. Suddenly, she froze. Choked a little. The smell rushed into the room. It chased out the air, chased the blood into Valentine’s muscles. She knew she should run, but it was already too late.

The door blew open. Sunny was in her underthings—fancy mauve ones cut high in the leg with a matching bra. Her arms were tan but her stomach was a sickly yellow. Just a pinch of puckered belly pushed out over the lace of the underwear.

“Who got water all over the bathroom?”

Neither girl spoke or moved. Valentine could feel the smell deep in her lungs. She knew it had silenced Charlenie, too.

“I don't know why I even ask.” Sunny’s voice was low, dangerous. “Valentine, I've told you a hundred times not to play in the goddamned sink.”

“I'll clean it up,” Charlenie said, jumping off the bed. “I'll go do it now.”

“I already did it!” Sunny shouted. “Rick's gonna be here any minute, and I had to spend all that time cleaning up Valentine’s fucking mess, and now I look like a hag, and we're never gonna get to leave this dump.” A rough sob burst from Sunny. Her shoulders sagged and she sat down hard on the bed. Valentine crept close and patted her shoulder. “It’s okay, Sunny”

Charlenie patted Sunny’s other shoulder. “Yeah, you’re the prettiest mom in the whole world.”

Sunny pulled them both in close. “I love you girls.” She embraced them a moment then stood up, wiping a hand across her eyes. “Gonna have to redo my makeup,” she said. She paused in the doorway. “Clean up this fucking room before he gets here.” But her voice was soft.

The girls could hear Sunny move down the hall, away from them. Charlenie slid the window up and the smell started to clear as they threw clothes into drawers and kicked stuffed animals and stray toys under the bed.

A crunch of gravel, a door slammed. Murmurings.

“Girls! Come see what your Uncle Rick brought you!” came a sweet voice. Charlenie rolled her eyes and pulled Valentine by her hand.

Charlenie's pasted-on smile was so believable it even fooled Sunny. Rick stood there in ripped jeans and a ball cap holding a stack of pizzas topped by a VHS tape. The smells of cheese and pepperoni almost crowded out the last of the other smell. “Hi, Rick!” said Charlenie easily. “Thanks for the pizzas. I'm hungry!”

Valentine seemed to be looking down on the scene from high above. Charlenie stood clear and strong on thin legs, like a newborn foal. Rick's face was as blank and smooth as an egg. And Sunny—her face was a broken mirror. A reflection in a parking lot puddle. Depending on the angle, you saw rainbows or your own distorted face. Valentine was not in view at all. Charlenie nudged Valentine with her foot. Sliding back into her body, Valentine smiled and said “You brought Goonies. It's my favorite.” Sunny beamed at all of them.

Hallie Pritts is a writer from Pittsburgh. Former artist-in-residence in New Zealand. Sewanee Writers alum. Rode a bike across the U.S. once. Find her writing in McSweeney’s, Off Assignment, Points in Case, and others. She’s working on a thriller.

The Purpose of a Daughter Is Survival, by Hallie Pritts

In the Fartbox, by Michael Nagle

Stinky Tofu, by Alyson Fusaro