Among Friends (11 page)

So we invited Jennie skiing and she was happy. Emily, however, was weird. I hated it. It isn’t like Emily to be weird. Em is so ordinary, it’s what I like best about her. Some of the time it was me and Jennie talking, with Emily just being weird in between topics. Something that interests all three of us is Paul Classified, but even then Emily was weird.

“What do you think Paul Classified’s background really is, anyhow?” I said.

“Maybe one of his parents is in prison,” said Jennie. “That’s why he won’t tell us anything about himself.”

“He doesn’t look like the sort of person with a parent in prison,” I objected.

“I know, but have you ever seen his parents?”

“No,” I admitted. “I don’t think anybody has.”

And does Emily contribute her ideas about Paul Classified? No. Emily says, “Look up Talcott Hill. Every sliver of ice is a prism tossing off sunlight.”

“Paul’s an alien,” was my next suggestion. “He doesn’t have parents. He’s a collection of atomic particles.”

Jennie giggled. “Actually I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a spy. Has a second passport under a false name and Swiss bank accounts to turn to in time of trouble.”

“The false name,” I said, “is the one we have. Paul Smith? Now I ask you. Can anybody really be named Paul Smith?”

“Paul R. Smith,” corrected Jennie. “Let’s not forget the classified initial.”

Emily actually said, out loud, and everything, “The sky is so blue it’s not part of the world. Isolated as Paul. Come spring, maybe the sky will soften and get involved again.”

Jennie and I stared at her, and then at the sky. Jennie said, “I like that, Em. The sky as uninvolved politics.”

Well, maybe Jennie liked it, but I didn’t. I went back to Paul Classified. Taking off my ski gear and leaning it up against the back porch, I said, “I think the ‘R’ stands for some horrible name, like Rollo or Reginald.” The three of us went into my house thinking of humiliating “R” names. There were a lot. Roscoe. Rudolph. “Enough to make anybody decide his middle name is classified information,” said Jennie, giggling.

My mother greeted us with hugs and kisses and hot chocolate. “How was skiing? Did you have a good time? Why didn’t you ask me to go along? You’re so mean, you three. You never include me.” She was just babbling. She was so pleased that the three of us had lasted four hours without coming apart at the seams. Cross-country is hard work. It helps when you’re gasping for breath, you can’t argue much. And it was nice that we had an ice storm—Jennie fell as much in the ice as we did.

“Next time, Ma. This time I instructed you to stay in the kitchen making cookies and apple pie for us. Did you obey me?”

We all laughed. Mom is a computer analyst in the city and hasn’t baked a cookie since I started first grade. “No,” she said, “but I rented some good movies. I told the man I wanted a movie to cry by. I am in the mood for tears and Kleenex.”

“On New Year’s Day?” said Jennie. “That sounds very significant to me, Mrs. Lang.”

“I’m going to get all my sobbing for the year over with the first day,” she explained.

So we trooped into the family room and convinced my father that he really wanted to see his football game in the bedroom on the little TV. After sticking the tearjerker in the VCR, The Awesome Threesome lay on the rug to eat bakery cookies and drink instant hot chocolate while my mother tucked herself under an afghan and prepared to sob for an hour and a half.

But I was the one who sobbed.

Later. Much later.

When everybody was gone, and the movie was over, and my parents went out: then I sobbed for an hour and a half. I was terrible, so terrible, I was bad, every ounce of me, I actually
hated
another person.

On New Year’s Day.

Don’t tell
includes Hillary.

I can’t talk to Hillary! Or my mother! Or Hill’s parents. Who are practically my second set anyhow.

Don’t tell
. I didn’t realize how much Classified was asking. He’s asking me to become classified, too.

What a test. Doing everything with Hillary, including talking about Paul Classified—and not breathing a word. I don’t think I’ve ever kept a secret before. I don’t think I’ve ever
had
a secret before. Not from Hill.

Mrs. Lang made us be nice to Jennie and I think Hill and I were both secretly glad. It’s easier to be nice when you’re under orders. And I even had a pretty good time. But they kept bringing Paul up! And I kept having to bite my tongue to keep from telling what I know! Instead I would say something dumb about the sky or the glare off the snow.

I was so glad when we went inside for hot chocolate; Mrs. Lang would do all the talking now and I was off the hook.

But Mrs. Lang wanted us all to write New Year’s resolutions. “I don’t think a person should go overboard,” she said, tossing pencils at us. “Three is probably enough. Let’s write three New Year’s resolutions apiece.” We agreed, and Mrs. Lang handed everybody an index card. “So your resolutions won’t be too long,” she explained.

“What are you going to resolve, Mom?” said Hillary.

“Same thing I resolve every year. One, be more patient
with my teenage daughter. Two, be superwoman and go back to baking cookies so my teenage daughter won’t complain that we are single-handedly supporting all the bakeries in town. Three, read the Great Books I’ve been meaning to read since I was in college.”

We gave her a round of applause. I adore Mrs. Lang.

I wondered what Mrs. Smith was like, before her nervous breakdown. I wondered if she could go back to being the old Mrs. Smith. I wondered if Paul had sat home alone for the whole vacation.

And all of a sudden I knew who could help.

“I, personally,” said Hillary, “have an all-new, improved, and higher-quality list of resolutions. The new me is going to be a particularly spectacular new me,” she explained.

“Yeah?” I said, running away from my own thoughts. I felt heavy with my secrets. “Lemme see your list.” I grabbed Hill’s index card and read it out loud. “Hillary Lang, her list. One, lose seven pounds.”

We all giggled.

“Now that’s precise, Hill. Not five, not ten, but seven pounds. You’ve measured your fat? You know that seven pounds from now you will be in a state of perfection?”

“Just keep reading,” said Hillary with dignity. “And don’t say it, Jennie, I can see your clever little brain noticing that I am on my fifth cookie. Refrain from commenting on that, okay?”

“Okay,” said Jennie meekly. We were all on our best behavior. There was nothing awesome about the Threesome except that it had gotten back together for an afternoon of skiing.

I read Hill’s second resolution out loud. “Two, get a B in physics.” I thought:
Mr. Lowe! Jared’s father! He could do anything!

“Get a B in physics!” echoed Mrs. Lang. “Now there’s a goal. I am impressed, Hillary, darling. You are such an unexpected person to live with. Who would have thought that the second most important thing in your life is a B in physics?”

“It isn’t the second most important thing in my life,” protested Hill. “It isn’t even the twenty-second most important thing in my life. It’s just a resolution that happened to come to me.”

Mr. Lowe is one of those important lawyers who get quoted in the
Wall Street Journal
and are always flying off to Europe or Washington or Tokyo to consult on something or other. I don’t care about that. But a person who can help the president solve world legal problems—he could do something about Paul.

I looked at Hillary’s third resolution, and my heart stopped. I wanted to skip over it, but Mrs. Lang read it out loud over my shoulder. “Three, learn the truth about Paul Classified.”

Hillary thinks Paul’s secret is spies and high adventure: traitorous sales of computer chips to the Soviet Union, with pressure put on the family by kidnapping sweet innocent little Candy. Ansley thinks that Paul may have a dread disease, Billy Torello thinks that Paul’s family sells drugs.

Paul was just left holding the bag. When we went through all that horror with my father, and all his drinking problems, I had my mother, and all four of my grandparents, and a bunch of cousins and friends to take me through it. Paul has nobody.

I give Paul credit. When everyone else abandoned Mrs. Smith, he wouldn’t.

I don’t have a crush on Paul Classified any more. I just plain love him. For his sense of responsibility. What an odd reason to love.

“Paul Classified will never tell us a thing,” I said firmly. “Now listen up, everybody, because here are
my
resolutions.” I used my TV commentator’s voice, to make my list sound as important as Central American politics. “Emily Weinstein, her list. One, be nicer to my disgusting, revolting little brother. Two, get on honor roll and stay there. Three, go out with Donny Donnelly.”

“Ooooh, you like him?” said Hillary in disgust.

I have no interest in Donny whatsoever, it was just a name to put down instead of Paul R. Smith. I was getting all excited about talking to Mr. Lowe. How would I get him alone? Even Mrs. Lowe can never get hold of Mr. Lowe—he’s always out of the country.

I said to Jennie, “Lemme see your list, Star of the East.” I tugged her index card from between her fingers. Even Jennie’s handwriting has more character than anybody else’s. Bold, firm writing, with the straight tails of letters like
y
and
g
slicing down the page. And oh, that first resolution took my mind off Paul in a hurry. For Jennie’s first resolution was “Be number three in The Awesome Threesome again.” I swallowed hard. Hill and I had ganged up against her. And whose fault was that? It really wasn’t Jennie’s fault that she had more of the cake, and the best icing, and the thickest filling. Jennie just came that way. No more than it’s Paul’s fault that his real mother is horrible, his little sister is worse, his father vanished, and his poor stepmother is falling apart. How could one person have so much go wrong in his world? I guess it’s no different from Jennie, who has so much go right in her world.

I felt almost soft toward Jennie. But, of course, for Hillary nothing was different. Hill swirled the cooled-off chocolate in her mug. Hill said, “First time you’ve been willing to be number three, Jennie.” Her voice was baiting; there was no friendship in it.

Everybody laughed uneasily.

I looked back down at Jennie’s index card. “Two. Win the National Young Composers Contest.” Oh, Jennie, I thought. My voice felt queer and frozen. “Three,” I read. “Get 800 on my English SATs.”

The tearjerker movie was suddenly audible. Its dialogue filled the room, along with the crackle of the fire, and the very faintly heard football commentary from upstairs. It’s all right to have wall-to-wall success … as long as you stop at one room. But when—tell me, when?—did Jennie ever know enough to stop?

There was a fourth resolution, although Mrs. Lang had said that three were plenty. Jennie, being Jennie, could never stop when anybody else did. “Four,” I read, and Hillary’s tight face got tighter, and thinner. “Win Paul Classified over.”

It made Paul sound like a game. A game Jennie would win because she always had to come in first. Paul—who stayed a secret because he was cracking, not because he was tough.

Jennie, Jennie, I thought. You think Paul is like you: a blazing torch who just happens to avoid the center stage. But he’s not. He’s cold ashes, he’s burned away, there’s nothing left now but the sense of duty.

I folded the index card in half to cover up the resolutions. Then I folded it in half again to prevent myself from ripping it up.

“Why don’t you add a fifth resolution?” said Hillary, her voice full of rage and pain. “
Show up all my friends
would be a good resolution for you, Jennie,” said Hillary. “
Make them look stupid and dull
would be a good resolution for you, Jennie. Of course that’s your resolution every day, isn’t it, Jennie Quint? You’d better think of a fifth resolution,
Jennie Quint, and maybe a sixth because so far it’s just the same as last year, Jennie Quint!
Be better than anybody else
.”

Skiing makes me hot and sweaty, but the laughter of friends made me warm.