I'm Not Your Other Half (14 page)

I stood there with Boston lettuce decorating my fingers and stared at her. “You mean it, Mom?”

I knew kids whose entire junior year was spent reading college catalogs. They'd start with the East Coast and work their way across the nation to California, reading every catalog from the Naval Academy to Berkeley. But I had never dipped into any of them. Choice wasn't part of it for me—I was going to State and that was that.

I felt the country unfolding like a map in the glove compartment—college by college, state by state. I could go anywhere! I thought. Big, little, country, urban, girls, coed, science, liberal arts.

“You can get in anywhere, Fraser,” said my father. He was circling the kitchen, unable to stand still with all the pride in him. “With your grades? Your science work? Your community efforts? Why, I talked with Mrs. O'Mara and she agrees that any college you apply to will take you joyfully.”

My brother laughed. “One thing you have to say for our parents, Fray. They've never lacked for faith in us.”

I finally set the lettuce down. “My grades aren't that terrific, really, Dad. And Mrs. O'Mara is known as a complete turtle, whose grasp of colleges is nonexistent.”

“That's true,” said Ben. “She was dense as a blanket when I was there. We used to get into college in spite of her.”

The family drifted into talk about teachers who had been there when Ben was. Twenty thousand students at State, I thought. Lecture halls with five hundred. Mile-long walks between classes. I wonder if I'd like some little liberal-arts school someplace?

“Where's Michael applying?” said Ben.

“I don't know,” I told him. I got the salad dressing out of the refrigerator and shook it with more force than I usually do. What if I don't have boy friends at college? I thought. I had better not choose an all-girls school. Nobody would meet
me
at a dance and figure I was the most romantic girl on the campus.

“How about Annie?” my mother asked.

“I don't know that either.”

How bizarre, I thought. My best friend. I truly don't know where she's thinking of going to college. I remember when one of my biggest fears was that Annie wouldn't write to me, because she never writes to anybody. If things keep going the way they have been, I won't even know her address a year from now.

“What happened to Annie anyhow?” said Ben. “I never see her any more.”

“She's pretty tight with Price Quincy,” I said. “She doesn't have much free time.” Probably Annie would try to go wherever Price went, and the chances of that were good. Price could get into any college whose only requirements were breathing and paying.

“And how is Michael these days?” said Ben. I gave him a look and he looked away. He doesn't usually interrogate me. Lynn had probably assigned him to snoop.

“We broke up,” I said.

“Oh, my,” said my brother. He struggled to form another question, but I gave him another look and he shrugged, embarrassed, and nodded his head at Lynn. “I forgive you,” I said. “Just don't let it happen again.” Our eyes met—adult brother and sister, ancient quarrels over who got the bathroom first long gone, nothing left but the affection.

We sat down and Dad served the spaghetti. Lynn put so much Parmesan cheese on hers it looked like a sand dune. Michael was a cheese freak. He even sprinkled Parmesan cheese on his salad, in his soup, over his pizza.
Don't think about Michael.

“We played bridge with the Hollanders once,” said my mother. She looked at Dad for confirmation. “About ten years ago. We were in that couples tournament. You remember that, dear?”

“Vaguely.” My father made a big deal of twirling spaghetti around his fork. I was very aware of him and Ben trying not to get involved in anything emotional that might come of a discussion about Michael and me.

“They were such good partners,” said my mother. She leaned forward and waved her fork in my direction, and Lynn leaned forward too. They were trying to
locate
something emotional so they
could
get involved. “Mrs. Hollander brought her crochet to do when she was dummy,” my mother added.

“Michael's mother is long gone,” I said. “Presumably taking her deck of cards and her crochet with her. Now stop fishing, Mom. We split up, and that's that.”

Dad and Ben were visibly relieved that they were not going to have to face tears and details. Lynn and Mom were irked, but before Mom could protest that she had not been fishing, that she never pried, Ben said, “So, Dad. Did you sign up for that travelogue series you were talking about a few weeks ago?”

Transparent, but it worked. “Yes,” said Dad. “Tomorrow's the first film lecture. China is first. Then Japan, then India.”

“The Far East?” I said, surprised. I turned to my mother. “But I thought Scandinavia was your dream. Fjords and reindeer.”

“The East is where the action is,” said Dad, and he rambled on about emerging economic strength.

His wanting to go to the East is enough for Mom, I thought. If he wants it, she will. It'll override her own wants.

I stared into my spaghetti. The tears came not just from behind my eyes but from inside my throat, thickening it, filling my chest till it ached and throbbed with pressure.

I'll never have a boy friend again, I thought. I'll never date seriously. Never have a love affair. Never get engaged or married. No matter how much I want a boy in my life, it won't happen.

There's something wrong with me.

I can't share that much.

“Fantastic meal,” said Ben contentedly. “What's for dessert?”

I swallowed at the blockage in my throat.

My mother said, “Mud pie. Fraser made it this afternoon.”

Ben crowed with delight. “I knew there was a good reason to have a sister. Mud pie!”

Mud pie is the one dish I'm always willing to make. You crush chocolate wafers for the crust. Then you take softened ice cream and beat crushed cookies, crushed pecans and slivered chocolate into that. You layer it with whipped cream and top it with more whipped cream, sprinkling the last of your crumby bits on top. It's heavenly.

I got up to start clearing and bring in the mud pie. The doorbell rang.

“Front door?” said Ben. “We never use the front door. Must be Michael. Nobody else ever bothered with the front door.”

Michael.

I never made mud pie for Michael. If this is Michael, I will kiss him a hundred times. I will promise to share everything always, from ice hockey to computer kills. I'll fix him the best mud pie that ever—

“Why, Mrs. Lipton,” said my father at the front door. “What a pleasure. Come on in for dessert and coffee with us.”

I sagged against the counter. Mrs. Lipton. Not Michael.

If you want Michael back so much, call him up, I thought. Make an effort. Start the compromises.

“Fraser dear,” said Mrs. Lipton, and we did kiss, but it was about twelve inches lower and considerably less passionate than I had in mind. “I wanted you to be the first to know,” she said. Her voice was quivering, but a smile decorated her face. She was no longer a worn-out old woman. She was like a little bird at the winter feeder, darting in and out. Pudgy, small, brown but bright. Definitely the mother of a Kit. “Kit had her first food by mouth today. And today she uttered her first syllable. It even made sense. She said
anks
when I fixed her pillows.”

“She said
thanks
?” said my mother. “Oh, Mrs. Lipton, that's absolutely
wonderful
!” Mom came over and hugged Mrs. Lipton, and then Lynn hugged her, and the four of us hugged like a cheerleading squad and laughed with delight.

“The doctors think she's definitely going to recover most of what she lost,” said Mrs. Lipton. “And Fraser, if we hadn't had the money you raised for us, we couldn't have gone to see her every day. There's no doubt she's made all this progress because we never gave up. We talked and sang and worked and struggled with her every minute of every day. So the thanks are yours, Fraser. You did it.”

Then we were all crying. My father and Ben slipped away, but we women sat and talked of hospitals and doctors, of parking spaces and the number of pennies in a mile. “Men,” said Lynn to me, shaking her head. “Never can stand talking about emotions and hurt.”

Is that true? I thought. Is Michael the same? Did he ache for Kit the way he'd ache for Katurah, but he couldn't say that to me? All he could do was drive me to the hospital?

Oh, Michael. Did I hurt you, breaking up? And all you could say was Okay because it hurt too much to say anything else? Are you out there having a wonderful time on a date with some other girl? Or are you sitting in your basement, your computer screen blank, stereo silent, scanner off, tilted back in your chair thinking about me?

“M
AY I JOIN YOU
?” said Annie.

I was so delighted to see her that I was slow to answer. Smedes said, “Sure.” Annie sat down next to me and we grinned at each other, as if there had never been a rift, as if we had last talked only hours before. “We're just figuring out where we stand on the Lipton Fund,” said Smedes. “Whether we need to launch another project. We had such phenomenal success with the Road Rally that we could do another of those if we have to. Are you just passing through, Annie, or do you want to work with us?”

“I'm just passing through,” she said. “Price has started coaching Little League. He's off rounding up his fifth-graders and I'm supposed to be filling this water jug with cold water. I was hoping you were talking about something interesting, but you're not.”

“Certainly it's interesting” said Connie. “Hard work is always exciting, fascinating, intriguing. You came to the right place. We're short forty feet of a mile of pennies and somebody has to figure out how to get that last bit. Now that's interesting, Annie. Beats Little League any day. What are your thoughts?”

“Haven't got any,” said Annie, laughing. She shook her head, and smiled at me again, and it was the same smile, a watermelon smile, the smile of friends, but it was no more directed at me than at Smedes or Connie. She was just in a cheery mood, and we were just there.

“Let's ask Lacy for more publicity,” said Connie. “I think she'd do it. And Fraser, this time I want to go on television, too.”

“Being on television is about as exciting as sitting in this student center,” I said.

“You just don't want to share the thrills,” said Connie. “Come on, let me go too.”

“You and Robbie and Anselm and Smedes can do it all,” I said. “It's definitely your turn.”

“Oh, goodie,” said Connie.

“Oh,
yuckie
,” said Smedes. “
I'm
certainly not going on television. At least your name doesn't make people break down and laugh insanely, Fraser. Smedes? You do realize it's the name of one of the pirates in
Peter Pan
?”

“At least your name isn't boring,” said Annie. “My name is the pits. Every fourth girl I meet has the same name.”

“I've always wondered what makes people choose the names they do,” I said. “My brother went and married a perfectly nice girl named Lynn and they saddled their poor little boy with
Jake.
It's such an ugly name. Sharp and pointy.”

“I wish we all had names like yours, Connie,” said Smedes.

“My initials spell CAW,” said Connie. “I go through my life with CAW on my luggage, like some sort of crow.”

Annie giggled and countered with the initials of Price's cousin, GAG. It was so odd to have her there and know that she could be anybody at all, for all the impact she had on me on now. She was an acquaintance, but not a best friend. I waited for the pang, maybe even for tears, but they didn't come.

“Does anybody have a privateer?” said Connie.

“A what?” I said.

“A privateer.”

“What on earth is that?” said Smedes.

“That's what my mother calls tampons,” said Connie. “I need one.”

We began laughing helplessly. “That's nothing,” said Connie. “You should hear the words she uses for bowel movement and vagina.”

“I think I'll pass,” said Smedes. “My life is cluttered with enough stupid words. But yes, I have an extra privateer.”

We kept laughing, but nicely, as if we—who didn't know Connie's mother at all—loved her nevertheless, even if she did have to call tampons privateers. We moved naturally from this into various female problems and conditions, and from there to college, and from there to the act of leaving high school and family for good.

It was girl talk. “I've missed this,” I said.

“Missed what?” asked Annie.

“Girl talk.”

“Fraser,” said Annie, “for a liberated woman of our times, you certainly say some peculiar things. There's no such thing as girl talk.”

“There is, too. Boys talk about the scores of games or the cost of car accessories, but they don't actually
talk
.”

Annie gave me a look that would wither flowers.

“Like us,” I said. “Like all the hours you and I talked.”

“Oh, Fraser. What did we ever talk about except boys?”

I stared at her. I was wrong. She could still affect me a lot. Because we had shared a thousand things—hope, joy, triumph, failure, success, anger. Not a boy in sight. She's forgotten it all, I thought, or no longer cares.

Smedes said, “I agree with you, Fraser. Conversation is different with all girls.” She began putting her things back into her purse. She had one of those purses divided into numerous zippered compartments. I always forget where I put things, or I forget that I even possess them. Smedes was far better organized. She tucked a short pencil here, a long pencil there, slipped a tiny notebook into a pocket just the right size, and whisked a tampon out of a compartment at the bottom.