Intensely Alice

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  I had just started up to my room when Dad said, “Any word from Patrick?”

  I turned halfway around. “Patrick? He’s going to call me this week.”

  “Does he know yet where you’ll be staying?”

  My throat felt dry and my forehead hot. “I think I can stay with a friend of his in the girls’ dorm,” I answered.

  “Good plan,” said Dad.

  I went into my room and sat down on the bed, my heart thumping painfully. It was the first time I could remember telling Dad an outright lie. But maybe it wasn’t a lie exactly. I didn’t say I was staying in the girls’ dorm, did I? I didn’t say that Patrick had said that I would. Heck, I didn’t even know if the University of Chicago had a girls’ dorm. All I said was I thought I could stay with a friend of his. I thought it might be in a girls’ dorm.

  I mean, that’s often the way it’s done, isn’t it? Didn’t Pamela say that maybe Patrick’s roommate could sleep somewhere else? People moving around, giving up beds? Wouldn’t a person naturally think it might happen? And if I got there and found out that Patrick hadn’t planned that at all, or there wasn’t a girls’ dorm, or he didn’t have a friend I could stay with, well, I didn’t know that yet, did I?

  Liz was right. Things were simpler back in sixth grade. A lot simpler.

  4

  Change of Plans

  I got a phone call the next day at the Melody Inn, and it wasn’t from Patrick.

  “Alice!” came Carol’s voice. “Am I ever glad to talk to you!”

  My mind wouldn’t compute why my cousin needed to talk to me. She was getting married in two and a half weeks! She should have a million things on her mind, the least of which was her seventeen-year-old relative out in Maryland.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, wondering if Aunt Sally had suddenly vetoed the wedding plans.

  “You sound just like Mom whenever I’d call her long-distance,” Carol said, laughing. “Nothing’s wrong, unless you say no. One of my bridesmaids is five weeks pregnant, and she’s been having morning sickness that lasts all day. She doesn’t think she would make it through the ceremony and wants me to get someone else. You’re about her size, and we already have the dress. Alice, could you possibly … ?”

  “Are you kidding?” I shrieked. “I’d love to be a bridesmaid.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Carol told me. “We tried to work it so that everyone in the wedding party was local and no one would have to travel from out of town to be fitted for anything. But Joan just doesn’t think she can handle it. This is her first baby, so we’re all happy for her, minus the morning sickness.”

  “When would you need me to come?” I asked. “The wedding’s on a Saturday, right? I think we were planning to fly in on Friday.”

  “Could you change your reservation to Wednesday, Alice? It will give us a chance to get any alterations on the dress if we need them. And besides, you’d get to go to my bachelorette party.”

  “I love it!” I said. “What should I bring? What color is the dress?”

  “I’ll surprise you,” Carol said, “but I think you’ll like it. Bring a strapless bra—nude, if you have one. I’m not fussy about shoes, but they should be light and airy—strappy beige heels would be perfect as long as they’re comfortable. And don’t worry about your hair. We’ll have someone do it for you.”

  As soon as I hung up, I rushed into Dad’s office, where he was working on the payroll. “Dad, I’ve got to go to Chicago two days early!” I said. “Someone’s pregnant!”

  Dad stared at me, pen poised above the papers.

  “I’ve got to take her place!” I panted. “One of the bridesmaids is having morning sickness. Carol just called.”

  Dad’s face finally relaxed. “Well, thank goodness it’s not Carol. Call Sylvia and see if she can change your reservation. She and I can’t leave before Friday, but you can go early.”

  I threw my arms around him, then picked up the phone and called Sylvia.

  Patrick called that evening.

  “Still on for Chicago?” he asked. “My parents were in town for the weekend and we were at the game when I took your call. The crowd was pretty raucous.”

  “Who won?” I asked.

  “White Sox. Extra inning.”

  “Must have been fun! Listen, I’m coming two days early because I’m taking the place of one of Carol’s bridesmaids. She’s pregnant and having morning sickness, so I’m coming the Wednesday before to try on the gown. I also get to go to Carol’s bachelorette party.”

  Patrick laughed. “Cool. Hope it’s wild. When will you be free?”

  “The wedding’s on Saturday, the eleventh, so I probably could meet you somewhere Sunday at noon. Would that work?”

  “Sure.”

  “We fly out again late Monday afternoon, so I’ll only be at the university one night.” When Patrick didn’t say anything, I added casually, “Hope you’ve found a place for me to crash.”

  “I’m working on it,” Patrick said. “I’ve only been here a couple of weeks myself, but we’ll find something.”

  How do you come right out and say, Patrick, I’d hoped I could stay with you? How do you say it and not say it? I mean, if you aren’t really sure? How do you show you want to without saying you’re ready, especially if you don’t know if you’re ready or not?

  So I said, “Whatever,” and then hated that I’d said it. Like anything would be okay. Like I didn’t care one way or another. And then, with my heart pounding, I added, “Not too far from you, though, I hope. I … I mean, I don’t know the neighborhood at all.” Argggghhh! That sounded so stupid.

  “Hey, don’t worry,” Patrick said. “It’s not every day my girlfriend comes for a visit.”

  The tingly feeling came back and made me warm.

  “Let’s plan to meet somewhere downtown,” he said. “We can take a bus back to the university. Maybe you’ll meet a couple of my friends.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said. “But I really want you all to myself, at least some of the time.”

  “That can be arranged,” Patrick said, and it sounded as though he might be smiling. “Be sure to think of things you’d like to do while you’re here.”

  “Mostly I want to see where you have classes, where you hang out, where you sleep… .”

  “Okay. What if we meet at Water Tower Place on Michigan Avenue—anyone can tell you where that is—and we’ll take things from there. Noon at the Water Tower.”

  “Sounds like a good title for a movie. You know, Sleepless in Seattle, Noon at the Water Tower…”

  He laughed, and I love to make Patrick laugh.

  “Can’t wait,” he said.

  Neither could I.

  On Friday, after cashing my paycheck at the bank over my lunch hour, I passed a small lingerie shop with a new display in the window: red pants, blue bras, and white bikinis, guaranteed to set off fireworks on the Fourth of July. And suddenly I thought about what I should wear when I spent the night with Patrick.

  My Jockey fems just wouldn’t do. Neither would my cotton briefs with the little hearts all over them. I wanted to wear something more special than Vanity Fair but not as obvious as Victoria’s Secret. This lingerie shop had its own brands of stuff that you didn’t see in shopping malls all over the Washington area. I went inside.

  “Just browsing,” I said to the thirty-something saleswoman who was folding lacy bras at the counter and putting them in a tray.

  “Take your time,” she said, smiling, and immediately turned away to give me privacy.

  I made a quick check of the price tag on a sapphire blue bra and discovered right away I couldn’t afford a matching set. I’d settle for one really special pair of pants, and I walked over to the far wall, where row after row of silky underwear was arranged by color.

  Pink was definitely out. Too innocent-looking. White, too virginal. I imagined standing in front of Patrick in a pair of red, white, and blue underpants with stars across the bottom, and nixed
that in a hurry. A pair of red tap pants with little slits up the sides intrigued me, but it made me think of a toreador, which wasn’t quite what I had in mind.

  I wanted to look casual but alluring. Surprising but not shocking. Sexy but not slutty.

  The saleswoman glanced my way. “All the prints there on the left are on sale, if you’re interested in those,” she said, and busied herself arranging a gown on a mannequin.

  I looked at the prints. One had red ants all over it. Another had the word juicy on each cheek. There were pants with love in six languages, sailboats, top hats, teddy bears… . I imagined Patrick slowly undressing me to find a pair of pants with yellow smiley faces all over them.

  I turned back to the wall again and finally chose a bikini of stretchy black lace with a nude-colored lining, so it would look as though skin were showing through. I settled on size small. I could have bought six pair of my usual cotton pants for what this cost, but I took the bikini over to the counter and got out my wallet.

  The saleswoman said, “Lovely,” and carefully folded it in tissue paper and put it in a little lavender bag with a ribbon handle.

  “Please come again,” she said after I’d paid.

  Maybe I will, I thought. We’ll see how things go with Patrick.

  For the Fourth of July, a bunch of us had planned to take the Metro down to the concert on the Mall and stay for fireworks after, but it absolutely poured. The rain let up a little around three, and we thought of taking rain gear and chancing it. But then the rain started again and the wind was even stronger. We knew that the ground would be like a sponge and gave up the idea altogether. Mrs. Stedmeister, being her usual generous self, told Mark that we could all come over for hot dogs and to watch the fireworks, if there were any, on TV.

  We sat around listening to Jill complain about the designer jeans she had to return; to Keeno moan about needing more money to buy the old car that he and Mark wanted to fix up and sell; to Karen telling about the boredom of visiting her grandmother; to Penny saying she was getting fat, which she wasn’t—maybe a pound or two. And as I watched the rain pour down the windows, I thought how this Fourth of July really sucked. On TV the people at the concert were huddled under umbrellas, and you could tell that some of the musicians in the band shell were getting wet. But halfway through, the rain stopped, and the emcee announced that the fireworks would go on at the Monument at nine. It was right then that Mark’s mom brought in her homemade strawberry shortcake.

  “Let me help,” I said, jumping up and lifting some of the dishes off her tray. Mr. Stedmeister, beaming, followed her in with an extra bowl of whipped cream.

  “Heeey!” said Justin. “Looks great!”

  They were little monuments themselves, the shortcakes—halves of biscuits stacked on top of each other, drizzled with berries and juice and whipped cream.

  “Wow! Thank you!”

  “What a treat!”

  “This is fabulous!”

  The exclamations came from all corners of the room. If the Stedmeisters had been wallpaper in the past, staying on the sidelines when Mark had the gang over, they were suddenly the focus of our attention, and Mark grinned as he watched us dig into our dessert.

  “She makes this every year, one of her specialties,” he said, and his mom flushed as she put another spoonful of strawberry juice on Pamela’s shortcake.

  “Stay and eat with us,” Liz said, scooting over to make room on the sofa.

  “No, no, we’re fine right here,” Mr. Stedmeister said from his chair in the dining room, his bowl of strawberries in his lap.

  When the fireworks began, however, and Mark said that his dad liked fireworks more than Christmas, we cleared the couch and insisted that Mr. and Mrs. Stedmeister have the best seats in the place.

  “Come on, Mom,” Mark coaxed, and shy Mrs. Stedmeister finally came into the room with her husband and sat down in front of the TV while we stacked the plates and took them out to the kitchen.

  The celebration at the Mall is always special, with its view of the Washington Monument in the background, the Capitol, and the National Symphony Orchestra onstage. Each year the fireworks include something new, and this year, when two rockets went up side by side in two twin explosions of tiny jewels, Mark looked toward his parents and said, “That one was for you guys.” And then, to us, he explained, “They were married on the Fourth of July.”

  We clapped and cheered.

  “Twenty-seven years!” Mark added, smiling at his parents.

  “Congratulations!” we said.

  Mr. Stedmeister grinned back at Mark. “And we had to wait eleven years for this kid to come along.”

  “Just wanted to make sure you guys were ready,” Mark joked back, and we laughed.

  Later, when Gwen and I were drying the dessert plates and putting them in the cupboard, I told Mrs. Stedmeister that Mark was lucky to have her for a mom.

  “Well, thank you, but we’re the lucky ones, because he’s certainly brightened our lives,” she said, then added, “He’s talking about going to Clemson, you know… .”

  “Yeah?” I looked over at her, and she gave a little laugh.

  “If he’s accepted, I know I should be grateful that he’s here on the East Coast, but … Well, we’ll go right on having the crowd here on college breaks. That’s one thing we can look forward to.”

  “We’d love that,” I told her.

  “Can you think of any thing else you might need in Chicago?” Sylvia asked me as we eyed my suitcase, open on top of my bed. “What about a shoulder wrap, Alice? You never know about the air-conditioning in some of these hotels. You could use one of mine… .”

  I wouldn’t use a shoulder wrap if goose bumps as big as baseballs popped up on my skin. “Not for me,” I said. “I’ll be dancing, Sylvia. I’m always warm.”

  “Jewelry? String of pearls?”

  “Carol said she’s giving each bridesmaid a pair of earrings to wear at the wedding, and we won’t need necklaces.”

  “Then I guess you’re all set.”

  Sylvia had asked if I could take along the set of Irish linens—tablecloth, place mats, and napkins—we were giving Carol and Larry, along with a check. It took up more room in my suitcase than we’d thought, but I had a small carry-on bag as well and got everything in.

  Mentally, I went over the clothes I had packed for my time with Patrick. The cutoff shorts, the jeans, the halter top, the sweatshirt … and, in a pocket of my suitcase, the lacy pants and … a package of condoms.

  Dad drove me to the airport, and I tried not to think of the last time I was in a plane, when we went to Tennessee to see Grandpa McKinley before he died. But this was a happy occasion. A thought kept coming back to me again and again: Would I sleep with Patrick? My breathing had become more shallow and Dad looked over. “Not nervous about this plane trip, are you?”

  “Not really,” I told him. “I’m just excited. I hope I don’t do anything too embarrassing at the wedding.”

  “Hey, there has to be at least one embarrassing incident at every wedding, or what’s there to talk about afterward?” he joked.

  I smiled. “Well, I’m going to go with the expectation of enjoying myself, even the plane ride.”

  “That’s my girl.” Dad turned off the parkway and headed for the terminal. “And where will you be staying at the university?”

  “Patrick says he has it all arranged,” I lied, and hated lying just before I went away. What if the plane crashed and the last thing I’d told my dad was a lie? But by now, I figured, Patrick must have arranged something, so it probably wasn’t a lie at all.

  Traffic was circling in front of the terminal, and Dad’s attention was diverted as we looked for United. A cop blew his whistle to hurry us along, and we finally found a passenger drop-off place.

  We hurriedly got my bags out of the trunk, and Dad pointed to the check-in desk beyond the door.

  “Three items,” he said, as though I couldn’t count. “Your purse, your carry-o
n, and the bag you’re going to check. Always count the number of things you’re responsible for and keep that in your head.”

  He sounded like Aunt Sally.

  “Good-bye, Pops,” I said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “See you Friday. Love ya.” That wasn’t a lie.

  “Have fun,” he said. “You’ve got good weather, so the flight should be easy.”

  I gave him a final wave as I rolled the larger bag through the double doors and into the terminal.

  Free at last, I thought, and could feel my pulse throbbing in my temples as I took my place in line.

  5

  Window Seat

  The plane had three seats on each side of the aisle. First-class passengers, the elderly, the handicapped, and parents with small children had all boarded first, and I slipped past the white-haired Asian man who was sitting in the aisle seat of my row and noticed, after I sat down, that he was already dozing.

  Seat number 9A was by the window. I was glad of that because I was too excited to read the magazine I’d brought. It was a short flight, about two and a half hours, nonstop. I welcomed the time just to be alone with my thoughts—the busy tangled ball of thoughts—to see if I could sort anything out before we got to O’Hare, especially the “just see what happens” thoughts. My large bag had been checked, my carry-on stowed in the compartment overhead, and I had a package of cheese crackers in my purse if I got hungry. I settled in and watched the workers outside on the tarmac.

  The slow parade of passengers in the aisle seemed endless as bags were stuffed into overhead bins, jackets removed, magazines retrieved, and seats exchanged. As the crowd thinned out, I saw that not all the seats were occupied, and I began to hope that the seat between me and the dozing man on the aisle would stay vacant so I could put my stuff there.

  A few minutes later, however, a couple more passengers got on, and a forty-something man, balding and slightly on the chunky side, thrust his suit coat in the overhead bin and excused himself as he wedged past the Asian man and sat down heavily in the middle seat.

  “Sorry,” he said as his elbow bumped mine. “Taxis! Didn’t know if I’d make it or not.”