Local Girls
Page 26
So now, to actually eat the cookie she’d taken, Jessie had to lean the racquet against her leg before using one hand to hold the cookie and the other to break off a corner piece.
“What are you going to do with your afternoons?” Jessie asked, her mouth full of cookie.
“I don’t know yet. But I can tell you what I won’t be doing, and that’s sitting around at home.”
Jessie knew all about my parents. In the beginning she thought I was nuts. After all, she’d told me, most people complain when their parents fight, not when they don’t fight. Not that Jess would have any idea what I was talking about. Her parents owned an organic landscaping company and were practically together 24-7 in the summer and even in the winter, when the business closed for the season and the Harrisons plowed through the latest crop of books with titles like Sow What You Grow and Composting: It’s Not All Crap. But then Jess thought I was nuts about a lot of things, my parental situation being just one of many. The others included my summer job corralling kids at the Oceanview, my inability to grasp the significance of wearing a UVM SAILING TEAM T-shirt to bed every night, and my genuine interest in the contrapositive form of proofs—which is why in our geometry class last year Jessie said that, in addition to proving the logical equivalence “P implies Q,” I also proved that I needed to get a life.
“What time is it?” she asked now, tossing the last piece of cookie in her mouth. She never wore a watch, which was one of the things about Jessie that drove me nuts.
“Almost one o’clock.”
“Ugh.” She picked up her racquet and laid it over her shoulder. “I’d better go get my students.”
I stood up and brushed the loose blades of grass off my legs.
“You know, if you wanted, I could ask Kelsey if they need some extra help at the snack bar in the afternoons,” Jessie offered. “It’s kind of a cruddy job, but at least you get to snag some free food.”
Jessie’s sister Kelsey was a year younger than us, but she was already following in Jessie’s footsteps as a loyal Community Center staff member. I knew Jess meant well, but she didn’t exactly do a terrific job selling me on Kelsey’s summer occupation, probably because she didn’t know how to sugarcoat anything.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll take a pass, even with the free food.”
“Okay, well, enjoy your last day of freedom,” she said. “And good luck tomorrow.”
As if on cue a pack of eight-year-olds burst through the back door of the Community Center, their tennis sneakers kicking up dirt as they ran toward us.
“Looks like you’re the one who needs the luck,” I told her, wondering how Jessie would survive when up against a pack of eight-year-olds.
“Who needs luck,” Jessie replied, showing no fear. “I have a racquet.”