I know it’s a babyish thought, but I’m thinking of switching my name permanently to Antonia de Ver White, when I get to college. I mentioned this once privately to Dr. Sonenshine, since she’s a writer on the side, too, and she said some Native Americans get new names when they become men and women, so if I wanted to change, why not?
The phone rings again. I walk slowly out of the bathroom to watch the machine take the call. “Pick up, it’s Mom.” I pick up.
“Hey”
“I’ll be okay. You’re the one who has Mr. Sallese thinking you used to be in Ice Capades.”
“He’s a nice guy. The kids seem to like him, too.”
“Whatever. By the way, we’re out of aspirin.”
“I’ll get some on the way home. Guess what? Lemmon thumbs-upped Tom Sawyer, and I’m the primary director. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this chance?”
“Yeah; that’s so cool, Mom.” I can hear her smile at the end of the line.
“He said it was my neck on the line or my head on the block or whatever that expression is, so I think he hopes it’ll be a big disaster and I’ll get canned. And who knows, maybe he’s right. I already feel out of my element.”
And then for some reason, maybe because so much of the day has already turned into mush, because of The Lilac or Dr. Sonenshine’s comments or the back-spasm thing or the fast-food accent or the math test or Portia’s mean message red-blinking on the answering machine, I blurt out exactly the last thing I want to deal with right now.
“The stakes are pretty high with the Kahanis selling their whole business.”
I want to hang up on the silence that fills the other end of the line. I want to take back my snippy words immediately But I’m quiet. I stand with the phone jammed against my ear and wait.
“Gary told you?” Mom’s voice is calm, flat as milk.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because. I have a lead on a new job. Because I wanted to wait till I had a new job.”
“And, so okay, so you have something? …” I shift from one leg to another, trying to figure out Mom’s way of thinking. A new job. A new, secret job.
“Yeah, I might.”
“Well, what is it? Tell me.”
“Later, maybe. When I get home. Maybe.” Her voice is defensive and a little abrupt.
“Don’t feel like you have to do me any favors,” I say half jokingly
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, I guess. See you later.”
“Yeah.” She clicks off. I stare at the phone in my hand for a few seconds. “You don’t even own a pair of ice skates,” I say to the dial tone.
The conversation confused me, like I was just in some weird play and didn’t know my lines. It annoyed me, too. One of the problems about being in a family of two is that if something goes wrong between me and Mom, there’s no one else to fall back on, no dad or brother or sister to find and ask, “What’s wrong with Mom? Why is she acting so sad or mysterious or irritating?” And even if they can’t tell you, at least you can hang out with an ally who will say comforting things to you like, “Oh, you know Mom, that’s just how she gets sometimes.”
I look over at the photo of Rick Finzimer. “That’s just how she gets sometimes,” I say.
CHAPTER 4
THE LENOXVILLE LOCAL RUNS northwest from Philadelphia, making station stops starting in Foxwood and ending all the way out in cow country, Lenoxville, with nine stops in between. I live in Foxwood, where foxes and woods both are long gone. Foxwood’s right in the city outskirts of ugly, crooked roads, neon-lit fast-food restaurants, and colonies of row houses guarded by gap-railed wooden porches.
Portia lives in Saint Germaine, which is about twenty-five minutes away from me and walking distance to the Saint Germaine Hunt Club, where they still have foxes, in addition to people who are rich enough to hunt them down. Saint Germaine is full of golf clubs, country clubs, and cricket clubs, and the Paulsons have memberships to all of them. Portia and I rotate eating lunches on her parents’ different club charge accounts. Mom and Gary like to use Saint Germaine as an example of how perfectly nice kids can grow up to be spoiled and Republican, but I don’t think Portia’s turning out too bad. If I had kids, I’d want to bring them up somewhere exotic, like Australia or Paris, so that they’d have cute accents, but Saint Germaine is definitely an option, too. It certainly wins over Foxwood.
I buy a round-trip off-peak ticket with change that I scraped from under the couch and out of Mom’s and my coat pockets, and I jump on the train to Saint Germaine. Then I walk the half mile from the station to Portia’s house. The sun’s disappearing into a cold, cloud-chalked sky, and over my sweatshirt I’m only wearing Gary’s thin hand-me-down barn jacket. Mustard Moss, the catalog had called this color, which in real life is closer in hue to Old Canned Peas.
“Danny. Good to see you’re out of traction.” Portia smirks, but the meanness of her machine message leaks out of her voice when she sees me looking so apologetic. “How’re you feeling?”
“Okay. Can I come in?” I bounce up and down on my toes to show her how cold it is. There’s a low whirring noise drifting from upstairs and I give Portia a puzzled look as I step inside the front hall.
“Dad.” She shakes her head. “He just bought one of those NordicTracks for the exercise room? Since his doctor told him, remember, about his heart?”
“Those are cool, I’ve seen those on TV.” I follow Portia out to the kitchen, where Mrs. Jackson, the housekeeper, is chopping carrots.
“Hi, Mrs. Jackson,” I say.
“Hi,” she answers, and for the millionth time I wonder if Mrs. Jackson knows my name. Portia says of course she does, but I’m not so sure.
Portia immediately starts setting an extra place at the butcher-block table. We’ve been friends long enough for her to know that when I come over at suppertime, chances are I’ll want to eat. A lot. She’s also seen how Mom and I shop for food.
“You’re the only two people I know who do all their grocery shopping at the 7-Eleven,” she said once. “Seriously, when’s the last time you were even inside a real grocery store?” As if Portia’s ever had to do the family grocery shopping. The Paulson family is so insanely rich that they even have a lady come to decorate their house at Christmastime. “Holiday coordinator,” Mrs. Paulson explained to me once. “Not an interior designer.” Like this distinction messes people up all the time.
“So, let’s hear it? One good reason why you cut school today?” Portia stands with her hands on her hips. Portia always forces you to be a hundred percent up front, but on the flip side, she doesn’t hold grudges.
“I had to skip out, Portia.” I try to smother the whine in my voice. “I needed an extra day to study for math.” Which I hadn’t even given a thought to cracking into yet.
“Your mom lets you get away with way too much.”
“I know.” I hope I look guilty enough.
“Well strike up the band, here’s Miss Dand!” Mr. Paulson strides through the kitchen, looking like Kermit the Frog in his green fleece warm-ups. He gives me a kiss that leaves a wet splotch on my forehead.
“Ew, Dad.” Portia rolls her eyes. “I’m sure Danny loves you kissing her all sweaty and disgusting?”
“She’s not allergic,” Mr. Paulson answers. “Right, Dand?”
“Uh-uh.” I look down and fiddle with the edge of the place mat. Every time I’m around other people’s dads I find myself acting stupid, like my regular self defected to a lump in my throat and only the words of somebody way more boring can get dislodged. Mr. Paulson makes me feel especially quiet, since I think he’s funny and friendly and I like the way he always smacks a kiss on my head like I’m in his real family.
“Anyway, Dad, Danny and I were right in the middle of a crucial conversation?”
“Oh, and what’s the trauma du jour at Bradshaw?” Mr. Paulson laughs. He moves to the wet bar and pulls out a martini glass and a silver shaker and strainer.
“Some poor feckless soul chip a nail? Someone get denied her gold card privileges?”
“Daa-aad, come on. And maybe you better forget about that martini?” Portia wags her finger at him. “I hear Mom.”
Once Mrs. Paulson swings into the kitchen, there’s no more time for me to talk to Portia about fencing. Mrs. Paulson just takes over a room. She used to be a Laker Girl or Dallas Cowgirl or some kind of professional cheerer, and she still has a lot of spins and kicks left in her, not to mention a peppy voice that’s always on megaphone volume.
“Dan-dee-lightful! I swear you’ve grown another inch since last time I saw you. Chaz, is that a martini? You know better, what did Dr. Little say?” Mrs. Paulson spins over to her husband and spears an olive from his glass with one perfect blade of nail, then spins over to Mrs. Jackson. “Oh, Sharon, dinner looks great! And Danny’s staying? Great! It’s all low cal, low fat, low cholesterol. Even the salad dressing. Chaz isn’t my young bull anymore.” She winks at me. Considering Portia’s the daughter of Mr. Paulson’s third marriage, I wonder if Mrs. Paulson even knew Mr. Paulson when he was a young bull. He has to be more than fifteen years older than she is.
“Ew, Mom, that’s so disgusting?” Portia sighs, sitting in her seat and snapping open her napkin. “Young bull? Grotesque. Who are you? Saying that with your own daughter right at the table? I’m just glad Carter’s still at track practice.” Carter is Portia’s younger brother, who’s a twit and luckily is almost always at sports practices. Mrs. Paulson just winks at me again.
“And Dad, are you possibly thinking about a shower before dinner?” Portia wrinkles her nose.
“Not even entertaining the concept.” Mr. Paulson smirks. Portia sighs with disgust. I sit and reach for the not very low cal-looking buttered mashed potatoes.
Mom once told me that she hates the ceremony of dinners, that when she lived with the Massaras, Frannie would spend hours toiling over her cookbooks trying to get her meatloaf perfect, and that the table would have to be set with cloth napkins and Ken would say about forty minutes of grace—all for five minutes’ worth of eating. After dinner, it was Mom’s job to clean up the kitchen, which ate up another half hour since there was no dishwasher. She told me this story the day we bought our own dishwasher, at fifty percent off from Kahani’s. We never have to use that dishwasher more than a dozen times a year, but I guess it makes her feel safe.
When I listen to the noises of the Paulsons’ dinner, though, there is something about the clink and scrape of forks and knives, the friendly words—will you pass me this or that? mmm, this tastes good, I like this better broiled, fried, with creamed spinach, without butter, yes, it’s healthier that way—that makes me want to bring Mom over to Portia’s house, sit her down at the table with us, and say, “See, Mom, sometimes it’s not so bad to set out utensils, even ones that you might not need, and to use cloth napkins, and to have an extra dish for peas instead of smacking the pot right on the table.” I bet Mom wouldn’t mind a sit-down dinner every once in a while, especially since the Massaras wouldn’t be there praying over their food, and since we have a dishwasher.
Mrs. Jackson finishes bringing out the rest of the dishes and then she disappears to somewhere else in the house. She and her husband, who takes care of the Paulsons’ lawn and the garden, live in a little house on the Paulson property.
Portia’s family doesn’t seem to mind, but it would make me feel weird if people lived on my land in a little house while I hogged up the big gorgeous one, like serfs and lords from medieval times. I just always hope that Mrs. Jackson takes comfort in the fact that Mrs. Paulson has filled her home with just about the ugliest furniture I ever saw; she even has zebra wallpaper in her dressing room. Although I know I could live with zebra wallpaper if my living room were as big as the school gym.
Mr. and Mrs. Paulson are the kind of parents who make their kids tell them every single thing that happened to them from the minute they woke up to the second they sit down to dinner. And even though Portia complains about how many questions they ask her, once she gets going, listing off each hour of her existence on the planet, no detail is too small. Lots of her stories go, “And so then I said? no wait first Jess said?—oh, hang on, let me get this right.”
All through dinner, I try not to squirm from restless-ness, but secretly I’m thinking that when I have kids, I’ll never let them make me suffer like this. At least Carter’s not around. He talks in rambly circles, too, plus he stutters and his days are even less interesting than Portia’s.
“Now, Danny, I seem to recall that you’re taking Ty Amblin to the Spring Fling next month. Is that right?” Mr. Paulson asks once Portia’s finished telling all about the fencing assembly and what a disaster it was, mostly because she had to be Kathleen Comber’s partner since I wasn’t there.
“I haven’t asked him yet,” I say. “He might say no.”
“Oh, good grief.” Mr. Paulson flicks his fingers dismissively. “He’d be an imbecile to pass up the opportunity. The real question is, is Ty Amblin good enough for you? Is he a worthy date for you?”
I give a shrug that’s meant to show how I wouldn’t really care if Ty’s a good enough or a worthy enough date for me or not.
“I mean it, Danny girl,” Mr. Paulson continues. “When young men aren’t busy acting like jerks, they’re usually being imbeciles; I know because I was one myself, long ago. I’ve never met this Ty Amblin, but I hope he’s a solid, quality young man.”
“Dad, what’s your deal? It’s not like Danny needs your okay, okay?”
“No, it’s all right,” I break in. “I mean,” I say, turning to Mr. Paulson, “Ty’s a nice, um, quality guy. He is. I guess.”
“Good.” Mr. Paulson leans back in his chair and looks at Portia. “One day you’ll be a protective parent, too, my dear. To your kids and anybody else’s. That’s just how the game works.”
“I’m going to be a cool mom, like Danny’s,” Portia says. “One who would let me get a tattoo.” Mr. Paulson just smiles. They’ve been through the tattoo argument a dozen times, and I’m happy that Mr. Paulson doesn’t take the bait.
After dinner we head up to Portia’s room, which is like stepping inside a scooped-out cantaloupe. Even the lights are soft and peach tinted, and the mirrors over the dressing table smooth out your face so that you can sort of imagine yourself in a fashion magazine. I know some kids at school think Portia’s slightly vain, but with mirrors like these, it would be hard not to think you look pretty great all the time.
“So we need a Ty Amblin strategy, pronto, or you’re going to be hanging out in serious loser mode, eating graham crackers at the chaperons’ table. First, some visual aids.” Diving under her bed, Portia hoists up the Rye yearbook that she stole out of Carter’s room and flips to page sixty-eight, which has last year’s eighth-grade class pictures. “Could he be any cuter? Survey says, no chance.”
“You know I have the RTs for that picture,” Even though Ty’s giving the Smile, a closed slip of grin that catches one corner of his mouth higher than the other, looking at his elf ears makes my arm hairs stand on end. RTs are short for Retard Tingles, which is what you get when someone else is being or doing something so dorky that you feel tingly with embarrassment for them. Portia and I shortened to abbreviations when Mrs. Jackson yelled at us that you shouldn’t use the word retard, because it wasn’t politically correct. It was one of the only times I ever heard Mrs. Jackson yell.
“RTs? Because of his crooked part?”
“No, because of that elf shadow made from his ears.” But now his part looks stupid, too. I slam the book shut and shiver. Anything related to Ty Amblin always gives me a way more intense reaction than I expect. “I haven’t made up my mind to invite him, you know. He looked, like, so twitty when I saw him with his mom at Strawbridge’s. In that goofy pink—”
“I know, you’ve already said, that pink golf sweater. But I mean, Ty really plays golf? It’s not like he’s wearing it for, like, modeling purposes? His
family owns a place in West Palm, and he gets special golf lessons from the pros and stuff.”
“Honestly, though. Do you really see me hanging out with a guy who wears a pink golf sweater?” But all this talking about Ty catches a little thrill in different parts of me, in my fingertips and behind my neck and low in my spine.
I’ve had a thing for Ty since fourth grade, when he came to the annual Rye/Bradshaw Switchover Day and I was assigned as his Bradshaw Buddy. He had soft yellow hair and soft manners and soft little fingernails rounded into china-doll half-moons, so much nicer than my inky, raggedy ones. Then a couple years later, his parents rented a house in Nantucket near Portia’s parents’ house, and we all spent the summer playing tennis and traveling in packs with other local kids to the only movie theater in town. Later, in seventh grade, Ty and I danced every dance at the annual end-of-the-year Rye/Bradshaw Middle School Mixer.
It doesn’t seem like a lot, but when you go to a school that’s all girls or all guys, even the smallest encounters count way more than if you saw that person at school every day.
“There’s like a ten percent chance he’s coming to our basketball game tomorrow. Jess told me. You could ask him then?”
“I’d rather call than do it in person. You can’t hang up if you’re getting rejected face-to-face.”
“Stop, you’re so insecure. If you don’t hurry up and invite him, someone else will, or he’ll be going to the civic center for that boring Bulls game.”
“Bulls games are so not boring,” I snap. Sometimes Portia gets too girlish, and I hate being called insecure. “I’d majorly go see the Bulk over this dumb dance if I had the chance.”
“Yuck, how can you even—”
“Hey, I just remembered something,” I interrupt. Arguing with Portia about basketball isn’t worth the time it takes. I lift myself off Portia’s melon-ruffled bed and sit at her dressing table, uncapping one of her dozens of lip liners. I carefully start outlining my mouth. “You said earlier you had important news.”
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