Enthusiasm

by Polly Shulman

  “Amy, this is Julie’s friend Seth,” said my father.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lefkowitz,” said Seth.

  “Hello, Seth. I’m glad you can stay,” said the Irresistible. “There’s plenty of food—I roasted a leg of lamb.” She turned to me. “And I made that mint sauce you like, sweetie, with fresh mint from the Lius’ greenhouse.”

  The thought of the Lius’ greenhouse, on top of everything else, made my stomach lurch.

  While I struggled to eat dinner, Seth regaled Dad and Amy with details of our Sailing responsibilities and my improvement in Ms. Nettleton’s eyes since I’d taken them on. I watched my father and stepmother inflating with approval, like Aunt Ruth’s air mattress. (I wondered how soon, also like the air mattress, it would all leak out again.)

  “Seth,” I said when dinner was over, “don’t you have to get going? Doesn’t the Limited Junior License come with a curfew?”

  “Yes, you’re right: 9 P.M.,” said Seth reluctantly. “Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Lefkowitz—it was delicious. Julie? Walk me to the car?”

  Dinner with my folks had clearly boosted his confidence. He looked as though he might try to kiss me once my father and Amy were out of sight. “No shoes,” I said, wiggling my toes in his direction. I stayed firmly seated and let Amy show him out.

  “Thanks again, Mrs. Lefkowitz. See you tomorrow, Julie.”

  “What a nice young man! Good-looking too,” said Amy after the door shut. “You sly girl, is that why you joined the literary magazine! Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Chapter 18

  My first appearance in Print ~ Ashleigh interferes ~ A Midnight Visitor ~ A Quatrain.

  Ashleigh loyally bought four copies of Sailing: one for herself, one for each of her parents, and one, she said, for Ned. Although it would have been the depths of ingratitude to ask her not to, I wished she hadn’t. The editorial board had chosen a poem of mine that I now felt was perhaps a trifle too personal—too open to interpretation—too revealing. They had published it under my initials, not my full name, but I was afraid that anyone who knew me would easily figure out what they stood for. Indeed, Ashleigh already had. I’ll spare you the details, but if you want to get the flavor, imagine what a girl of some sensitivity might have written in her first flush of excitement at meeting the person who was to become the Magnet of Her Thoughts.

  Plus, the rhymes were pretty lame.

  “I don’t think it’s lame at all! I think it’s beautiful!” insisted Ashleigh, handing over the nineteen dollars. “A fitting tribute to—all right, all right, don’t hit me. I won’t say it. But I still don’t see why you won’t admit it. Your poem’s about a million times better than Seth’s three essays, anyway—yours is sincere. Speaking of which, sorry I couldn’t chaperone you yesterday. How did it go?”

  “Oh, my God, Ash, it was awful! He somehow managed to charm Dad into inviting him to dinner, and now he thinks he’s my boyfriend.”

  “How can he?”

  “He clearly thinks it’s like getting your driver’s license, or A’s in math, or getting the Nettle to like you. You just follow the steps right, and that’s it, you’re done.”

  “What if you told him you already have a boyfriend?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—I thought about it—but I don’t have a boyfriend. I can’t quite bring myself to just lie straight out.”

  “It’s not actually so much of a lie. At the rate you’re going, you will soon.”

  “At the rate I’m going, if I do, it’ll be Seth. But it’s weird, isn’t it? I really don’t get it. What is it about me? If I were a guy, I wouldn’t look at me twice. I’m so tall and gawky.”

  “Don’t say those things about my best friend! You’re beautiful! You look like a model, only not weird. You don’t have that overgrown-grasshopper thing. And you’re more approachable. You have this quality of agreeableness that guys find . . . well, agreeable. You go along with things. What you need is for the right one to give you something good to go along with.”

  I saw the Right One quite a bit once the Insomnia rehearsals began again—which they did that week, with a vengeance. There were, after all, very few weeks left until February 2, opening night. But he gave me nothing but measured politeness, with the occasional smoldering look.

  “Has Ned said anything yet?” asked Ashleigh one evening, absently scratching Juniper behind the ears. He was no longer a kitten, but a rangy young cat. We were doing our homework in her room, which was far better heated than mine.

  “Has Ned said anything about what?”

  “You know—has he explained himself, has he declared his intentions? I thought he would have by now. I gave him a strong hint last week.”

  “Ashleigh! You didn’t! You . . . What did you say?”

  “I told him he’d better get moving if he didn’t want to miss his chance, because you had a serious suitor.”

  “Ash! I’m going to kill you! How could you do that?”

  “I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t stand it anymore, watching you wait and wait. The suspense was driving me nuts too.”

  “But Ashleigh—I keep telling you—oh, never mind, it’s pointless. I think I’m going to die of embarrassment.” I buried my head in my hands and moaned. “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He didn’t say anything. He’s as shy as you are. But Parr asked if I meant that guy from the literary magazine. I said yes. How does Parr know Seth? You never told me they’d met.”

  The humiliation!

  I wanted to kill Ashleigh, but of course it wasn’t really her fault, since she didn’t know how I felt about Parr. I tried to feel glad about that. After all, I had tried as hard as I could to keep it hidden from her. From Parr too. Could he really not know, when I felt so strongly? Surely he would see it in my eyes! Was he treating me with that distant politeness because he knew how I felt and didn’t return my feelings? Or did he have no idea what he meant to me? Maybe he did like me, but he thought I was going out with Seth.

  Horrible!

  I thought about explaining to Parr next time I saw him, but what would I say? That I didn’t like Seth—that he wasn’t my boyfriend? Any such explanation seemed presumptuous, since it assumed that Parr would care. And anyway, there was still the question of Ashleigh.

  Twice during rehearsal breaks I tried to speak, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  Meanwhile, the Insomnia production advanced at breakneck speed. Mr. Hatchek, the Forefield art teacher, set the entire sophomore (or rather, fourth form) art class to work painting backdrops. The costumes were mostly ordinary streetclothes, an exotic sight at Forefield. It took more fuss than you would think possible to get the cast outfitted in scruffy jeans. I began going over to the Gerards’ to help Yvette rehearse with Yolanda so Yolanda would be up to speed on her part when her grounding was over. Yolanda even risked showing up for rehearsal once a week, leaving her sister behind to cover for her with their parents. The plan was for each of them to take the part in one of the play’s two performances.

  Late in January, I woke with a start in the middle of the night. It had snowed heavily the week before. Hip-deep drifts covered the roots of our oak tree, even in its sheltered position between Ashleigh’s house and mine. Some large animal must have blundered into the hidden roots and branches; I could hear it crashing around in distress. Pulling the quilt around my shoulders, I opened the window to look.

  Snow was falling heavily, obscuring my view, but I could see that it was no deer down there.

  “Ashleigh, is that you?” I called softly.

  The figure looked up. “Julia?” it said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “It’s me—Grandison. I d-didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Grandison! What are you doing down there?”

  “I—I got locked out. I hoped—I th-thought if you w-were awake—”

  His teeth were chattering so hard, he could barely talk.

  “You’re frozen! You’d better come up here. Do you
think you can climb up? It’s pretty icy. Should I come down and let you in the door?”

  “No, d-don’t, I’ve g-got it.” He swung himself up from branch to branch with surprising grace. Clumps of snow fell around him and sank into the drift below.

  I gave him a hand in and shut the window quickly. His gloves, his sleeves were icy wet. My room, though drier, seemed only a shade warmer than the air outside. He stood shivering by the window, dripping snow on the floor.

  Grandison Parr in my room!

  Parr in my room, and me in my fried-egg pajamas, my night-cap like something out of “The Night Before Christmas,” my hair poking unevenly out of its braid, and my feet in fuzzy pink slippers, a gift from Amy, which I would have thrown away long ago if they weren’t the only thing that could protect me from the demonic chill of the floor. I quickly took off my ridiculous night-cap and turned on the light.

  We blinked at each other. His face was red and white.

  “You’re soaked—you better get out of those wet things,” I said. I took his coat, hat, and scarf to drip in the storeroom next door. I put his boots up on the drying rack, which was built for apples, and brought him a towel.

  “I’m s-s-sorry to b-b-barge in,” began Parr. He could hardly talk through his chattering teeth.

  “I know, it’s freezing in here,” I said. I felt his arm; the sleeve of his sweater was wet. “I’ll find you some dry clothes.” I rummaged in my dresser and came up with clean sweatpants, T-shirt, and sweatshirt. For almost the first time, I was glad to be so tall. “There, I think these should fit. Go in there and put them on.”

  When he came back from the storeroom, he was still shivering violently. His lips were blue. I handed him my quilt.

  “Th-thanks, Julia. I’m s-sorry to burst in on you like this—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I—I got locked out of c-campus and it’s pretty nasty out there. I didn’t know where to go. You’re an angel—thanks for the dry clothes. I’ll just wait here a little while until it lets up a bit, if you don’t mind, and then I’ll go back.”

  “Go back? How will you get in?”

  “How?—Oh. There’s a place in the wall where I can sometimes get over. I—My hands were too cold when I tried to climb it before, but I’m warmer now.”

  “Are you serious?” I said. “All the way back to Forefield in this snow—in your wet coat? You’ll freeze to death! You’ll never get over the wall if you didn’t before. They have to unlock the gates in the morning, right? You’d b-better stay here until then.”

  “Oh, no—now you’re shivering,” he said. “Here, take this back.”

  He tried to put the quilt around me, but I resisted. “You need it more than I d-do,” I said. I couldn’t tell whether I was trembling from cold or from his nearness.

  “It’s big enough for two,” he said, wrapping it around both of us.

  Parr’s icy hand grew warmer on my shoulder. He smelled beautiful—like wet hair and tree bark and strength. My cheeks burned. I thought they must be giving off enough heat to warm the room—to warm the whole house.

  “Julia, I’d better go,” said Parr after a while. “I can’t stay here all night. You need to sleep. I’ll be fine.”

  The insane gallantry! “No—you will not be fine. You’ll get frostbite. You’re staying here till morning. You can take my bed, and I’ll sleep downstairs on the couch.”

  “If anyone’s sleeping on a couch, it’s me.”

  “You can’t—my mother will freak if she sees you.”

  “Won’t she wonder why you’re sleeping on the couch, then?”

  I considered this. If Mom caught me sleeping downstairs, she’d die of guilt for keeping the thermostat so low. She’d insist on turning it up for the rest of the winter, which we couldn’t afford. But with my room so cold, I didn’t have enough blankets for two.

  “See? It won’t work. Where did you put my boots?” he said.

  “I’m not giving them back. You’re not going anywhere. We can both sleep here, in my bed.”

  “Oh, no,” Parr protested. “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be perfectly safe. I’ll keep my hands to myself,” I said.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Silently he helped me remake the bed, tucking the quilt in well. I got in; he turned out the light and got in after me, scrunching himself up as far away as possible—which wasn’t very far. Our shoulders touched.

  “Are you comfortable? Have I left you enough room?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re still shivering. Are you warm enough?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I know it’s cold in here, but I’m used to it. What about you—are you warm enough?” Not that there was anything I could do if he wasn’t; hold him in my arms, maybe. I shivered and turned toward the wall, leaving his shoulder behind.

  “Toasty. Embarrassed, but toasty. Good night, Julia. And thank you.”

  “Good night, Grandison.”

  For a long time we lay at our separate edges of the bed, back to back, the inch between us burning like lava. I felt the blankets move with his breathing. Was he asleep? He couldn’t be. What was he thinking? I wanted to turn and put my arms around him and breathe in his smell. I wanted to curl myself into a trembling ball and shrink away to nothing, far, far away from him and everything else, never to emerge again. I wanted the night to last forever, the two of us side by side, with no end and no consequences.

  A long time later I woke to find myself strangely warm in my cold room, with warm, steady breaths in my ear. After a moment I remembered who was there. Parr had turned over sometime in the night. He had his arm over my waist, his knees bent behind mine, like a pair of spoons. I felt his chest against my back, rising and falling with his sleeping breath. Blissful, I fell asleep again.

  I next woke in the gray of dawn. It had stopped snowing. Parr was standing by my bed, dressed, wearing his boots and holding his coat. “Shh—I didn’t mean to wake you again,” he whispered.

  “What time is it?”

  “Six o’clock. The gate should be open by the time I get back.”

  “You found your boots.”

  “Yeah, you hid them pretty well, but I found them. Thank you, Julia. You’re the best.” He smiled that white-and-blue smile of his, bright with the turquoise of his eyes, upheld by his vertical dimple.

  “Be careful going down the tree.”

  “I will.” He gently lifted the end of my braid and kissed it, like a gentleman kissing a lady’s hand. “Good-bye, Rapunzel.”

  I woke for the third time an hour later, dreaming I was kissing someone. Was it all a dream, then?

  Apparently not. Pinned to my bulletin board, under the sonnet Ashleigh had found on the tree, was a note:

  Generous Julia,

  Graceful and truly a

  Port in a storm:

  So calm, so warm.

  The handwriting looked familiar. With good reason: it was the same as in the sonnet.

  I was right, then. Parr was the mystery poet—Parr had written the sonnet.

  But to whom? That was still a mystery. To me? To Ashleigh? If it was to me, I thought with a little laugh, how disappointed he must have been when he got upstairs. “Warm rooms would never lure me from this place,” he had written. Well, that was for sure! No warm rooms in this house! And “Zero degrees down here: July above.” July—ha! More like February.

  Like February in my room, yes; but not in my bed—not in his arms.

  Some minutes passed while I stared ahead of me, the hair-brush frozen in my hand, contemplating my bed and his arms.

  “Julie! Julie, honey, are you up?” called my mother up the stairs, breaking my reverie. “It’s almost eight o’clock.”

  “Coming, Mom!”

  Whoever the sonnet was addressed to, it cast doubt on Parr’s explanation of what he was doing under my window. Had he really found himself locked out
of Forefield and come here for refuge? Possibly. But he had been downstairs at the foot of our tree at least once before, when he left the sonnet. Wasn’t it possible that he had come again last night for the same reason, drawn by the presence of one of us—just as Ashleigh had dragged me to visit his house and look up at his window over Christmas vacation?

  Chapter 19

  A song ~ an Unspeakable Scandal ~ my Mother takes a new Job ~ the Talk ~ a theatrical disaster.

  I just made the bus. “Jules, I have a surprise for you,” said Ashleigh as we got on.

  “What is it?”

  “Has it occurred to you that once the play’s over, it’s no more Forefield for us?”

  “Well, yes, it has,” I said. It had indeed occurred to me, and today it was almost too painful to bear.

  “So Ned and I have been thinking what to do about it, and we came up with a solution. Here!” She produced a piece of paper from her loose-leaf binder and handed it to me proudly.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “Look at it!”

  I did. It was a sheet of music, a song apparently—and the lyrics were my poem from Sailing.

  “Wow, Ashleigh—did you write this?”

  “Yes. Well, mostly. Ned helped.”

  “Wow! That’s amazing.” I tried to hum it. I’m not so great at sight-reading; Ashleigh sang it to me. I had to admit, it was a good tune. “That’s beautiful,” I said. “I’m really impressed. But Ash, how does it solve the problem?”

  “Ned wants me to collaborate with him on a song cycle. This is the first song. And Ms. Wilson agreed! I get to go to Forefield every week to work on it. And you can write the lyrics, so you can come too.”

  “A song cycle! What’s a song cycle?”

  “Oh, you know—a bunch of songs. If it weren’t Forefield, we could just start a band, but this way it’s all fancy and official and everything. They’re calling it community outreach. It’s supposed to improve Forefield’s relations with the town if they include Byz High students in some of their programs. Anyway, the point is, we get to work with Ned on writing songs, and we get to go on seeing the guys. Isn’t that crisp?”