by Ruth Reichl
“What time is it?” I asked.
He looked at his watch. “Almost six.”
“It can’t be that late,” I moaned. “My parents will be here any minute. They get up early. They could be pulling in the driveway right now! We’ve got to get everybody out.”
What were they doing here anyway? What was I doing with Tommy? Had I done anything I’d regret? I struggled to clear my mind and remember. My head hurt. And suddenly I had a clear image of speeding down the road, the freeway a blur as I looked down at the speedometer. We were just past Port Chester, half an hour from home, and I was doing ninety.
My parents’ old Plymouth was nine years old, a turquoise-and-white convertible that hadn’t converted in years. It was so rickety I was afraid parts would start flying off if I went any faster. Still, I pushed harder on the accelerator. Just as we hit a hundred the car started vibrating, a low thrum that shook my body. It felt good.
“Faster!” said a voice from the backseat. I looked in the mirror. We had consumed dozens of Singapore Slings and Julie’s face was a watery blur. “The car won’t go any faster,” I said, flooring the pedal to demonstrate. The vibrations increased. “Whee!” said Julie, flopping back on top of her boyfriend, Bill.
I wondered if we were going to survive the ride. “She died at sixteen,” I said drunkenly to Bobby, who was sitting beside me. “So much lost promise.”
“If you go I go too,” he said indignantly. “You should have let me drive. I’m not as drunk as you are.”
“Then have another drink,” I said, passing him the bottle of mouthwash I kept in my purse. It contained a vicious mixture, a bit from every bottle in my parents’ liquor cabinet.
“Yech,” he said, taking a swig. “Don’t your parents notice that their booze keeps disappearing?”
“I fill the bottles back up with water,” I said. “But it probably wouldn’t matter if I didn’t. They don’t notice anything.”
“You’re so lucky,” he sighed wistfully.
Stamford, Darien, Norwalk. I turned off the freeway and slowly took my foot off the pedal. The car slowed to a sedate sixty. “Once again Fate refused to put them out of their misery,” said Bobby as we sped past the shuttered stores along Main Street. “Since we’re going to live, let’s eat. Drive over to Swanky Franks and we’ll get grinders.”
“No,” I said, “let’s go to my house. My parents won’t be home until tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” he said, sounding relieved. My house was cheaper. Besides there was always a chance that Gloria, whom he adored, would show up with her boyfriend, Troy, looking for something to do. I knew Bobby had gone to Port Chester in search of her, just as I had driven across the state line hoping to find Tommy Calfano in one of the sleazy bars that we could count on to overlook our obviously fake identification. Just thinking about Tommy made my heart lurch sickeningly in my chest.
“Are we there yet?” asked Bill, sitting up. The back windows were steamy. Julie patted at her thin blonde hair and buttoned her blouse. I averted my eyes, embarrassed. “Your lipstick’s smudged, honey,” giggled Bobby in the high voice he used when he imitated a woman. I looked at his slight body and it occurred to me, with a shock, that he was probably what my mother called “a fairy.” I wondered if he knew it and if he did, what he thought about it.
“I’m hungry,” Bill announced.
“Ruth’s going to cook,” said Bobby, “arencha, honey?”
“Sure!” I said, narrowly missing the big willow tree in front of the house. I turned the engine off. The still quiet was a relief and I wished for a moment that my parents were inside, that I could say good night, climb the stairs, and just go to sleep.
“Make some of the fried cardboard stuff,” said Bobby, untangling his long legs and climbing out of the car. Julie was still patting and buttoning and as soon as I had unlocked the door she went into my parents’ bedroom to put her makeup back on.
I walked through the book-lined library, flipping on lights. I went into the living room, stumbling over the foot rest to the big black Eames chair, and turned on the lamp my mother had made out of her father’s samovar. Then I headed for the kitchen. After the fluorescent lights had blinked on I ran the water, leaned over, and splashed some up into my face, trying to get sober. As I lit the stove I had a quick vision of my parents arriving in the morning to find an empty, smoldering lot. Cooking drunk was as dangerous as driving; a more serious remedy was in order.
I went into the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and rummaged around. I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for. Alka-Seltzer? I opened a jar of smelling salts and took a quick whiff; it cleared my head, a little.
As the cabinet door swung shut I caught an eerie image of myself. Who was that? I took in the big pouf of hair, the smudged black eyeliner, the bright lipstick. I walked over to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and examined myself. I was wearing pea-green pants so tight they looked painted on and a colorful printed blouse that went halfway down my thighs, hiding most of the serious defects. “Tramp,” I whispered to the image. I poured myself a glass of water, gulped it down, and went back to the kitchen.
“Got any beer?” asked Bill. I shook my head. My fake license said that I was eighteen so I could drink in New York; in Connecticut you had to be twenty-one to buy beer.
“There’s some Seagram’s if you want it,” I said, throwing him the keys to the liquor cabinet in the living room, “and I’ve got 7-Up.” Most of the boys drank Seven-and-Seven. He caught the keys one-handed and came over to pat my ass. “Good girl,” he murmured patronizingly. I swatted impatiently at his hand, hating him.
I never understood what Julie saw in Bill. All the boys were crazy about her and she could have her pick. I liked the Italian guys; they were sweet and sexy and a little bit dangerous, but she preferred the dull WASP types who would grow up to be just like their fathers. Bill was already a bore.
“Don’t give Julie any more booze,” said Bobby, coming into the kitchen. “She’s crying again.”
Bill shrugged. Julie always cried when she drank and most nights we had to get her composed and sober in time for her midnight curfew. But tonight she was sleeping over; her parents, of course, were unaware that my parents were absent.
“You shouldn’t let her drink!” I said. “This always happens!” Bill mixed his drink and said nothing.
“Cook,” said Bobby. “Food will help.”
“How about spaghetti?” I asked. “I’ve got a great recipe for clam sauce.”
Bobby groaned. “Anything but spaghetti. We eat it at my house every night. Why don’t you just make that fried cardboard stuff? Julie likes it.”
“You’re the one who likes matzo brei,” I replied. It was true. The Italian kids had never seen matzos before, and they were all crazy about my mother’s recipe. It was the only thing Mom had actually taught me to cook. The secret was lots of butter; I threw three sticks into a pan and went to find the matzos.
I broke the crackers into a colander, put it in the sink, and turned on the water. I took a bowl from the cupboard and a carton of eggs from the refrigerator and then, picking up an egg in each hand, began cracking them, two at a time, against the edge of the bowl.
“Don’t bother showing off for me,” said Bobby, leaning against the counter. The last shells cracked and we heard a car pull into the driveway, radio blaring. As the engine died we were quiet, listening for voices. I counted, then threw four more eggs into the bowl and melted another stick of butter.
Gloria walked in first, looking neat and clean. She was thin and pretty, a cheerleader whose shiny black hair was always set in perfect curls. She wore a pleated plaid skirt with a light blue sweater, so that Troy’s ring, which she wore on a thick chain, stood out prominently on her thin chest. Troy was right behind her, his hand draped proprietorially around her shoulder. “Mine,” he seemed to say, although everybody in school knew that she had yet to succumb to his advances.
And then I saw Tommy
. My heart turned over, as if I were on a roller-coaster, and I felt my face go red. I turned to the stove and poured the egg and matzo mixture into the sizzling butter. I added some salt and began scrambling furiously.
“Food for us?” said Linda from behind Tommy. “You shouldn’t have. We simply couldn’t.” Were they together? Linda was the funniest girl in school, proof that you didn’t have to be pretty to be popular. She was skinny and short and everybody loved her. She returned our affection by regularly making us laugh so hard we peed in our pants. “Well that’s certainly going to make my fortune, isn’t it?” she said when I pointed it out. She looked around the kitchen and asked, “Where’s Julie?”
“Crying for a change,” said Bill, coming in with the bottle of Seagram’s. “She’s in Ruth’s room. Can’t you go tell her some jokes or something?”
“Tell her there’s food,” I said, scraping the matzo brei onto a platter and sprinkling it with salt. I put out plates and watched the heap of food disappear as my friends helped themselves and scattered into different rooms. Tommy was the last to go. Alone with him I grew so embarrassed that I took a plate, said, “I’ll just take this to Julie,” and fled.
“Stupid idiot,” I chided myself as I walked away from him.
Linda was bending over Julie’s weeping form, but she looked up as I came in and shrugged. Julie’s face was hot, red, puffy. She would never tell us why she was crying and we all felt slightly guilty, wondering what we’d done. I thought maybe it was my fault; when Julie told me that she had given in to Bill, actually gotten naked, I was too horrified to hide my reaction. “How could you?” I cried. Her face had crumpled. Bill had his own reasons for feeling guilty. Maybe Linda did too. Months later, when Julie’s father skipped town and her mother slipped into a world of her own, we understood her crying had nothing to do with us.
“Why didn’t you tell me things were so terrible at home?” I demanded. “I’m your best friend!”
She just shrugged. “We all have parent problems,” she said. “Besides, what could you have done?”
We did our best. Linda wandered around the room, looking for material. “Oh, what’s this?” she said, picking up a bra from the top of my dresser. “A swimming pool for ants?” Julie giggled inadvertently as I crossed my arms and covered my chest. Linda looked momentarily stricken. “Don’t be embarrassed,” she said, “it’s not your fault you’re the only senior with big tits.”
“I’m just fat,” I said miserably. “The tits are part of the package.”
“You’re not fat!” said Julie, momentarily forgetting her own problems. “You’re just a little plump.” And then, together, we all chorused the line I heard every day of my life, “You’d be so pretty if you’d just lose a little weight.”
“Whoever heard of a thin cook?” said Bobby, coming to join us. I suspected that Troy and Gloria were snuggling on the sofa and Bill and Tommy were talking about cars.
“Let’s do something!” said Bobby.
We were coming down from all the alcohol. For once nobody was sick. Two years earlier we would have played tag or spin the bottle and two years later we would be smoking dope. But here it was, eleven o’clock on a Friday night and none of us knew what to do. I put on some records but nobody had enough energy for the Shirelles. And so I said the first thing that came into my head: “Let’s bake a cake!”
“Ah, Home Economics,” said Bobby and I immediately felt ridiculous. It was such a Bobbsey Twins sort of idea. My friends were way too cool to cook. Tommy would think I was a jerk.
“Chocolate!” said Linda. “Let’s bake a great big chocolate cake and then eat it all!”
“With that fluffy white frosting,” said Julie. “You know, the kind that looks like snow?”
Tommy and Bill were still talking about cars, but they seemed to think a cake was a good idea. “Imagine Miss Hill walking in now,” said Bobby. Our least favorite teacher had once actually called my mother to warn her that Julie was a bad influence on me, that I was hanging around with what she called “greasers.” But of course my mother wasn’t home, and so it was not she who replied, in her deepest voice, “Thank you so much, Mrs. Hill, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your interest in my child.”
Tommy was so near I could smell the mixture of cigarettes, soap, English Leather, and motorcycle oil that clung to him. I squeezed my eyes shut, hard, and prayed, “Make him like me.” I needed a drink. “Who wants a Seven-and-Seven?” I asked.
“I’ll make a pitcher,” said Linda, going for the ice cubes.
I began to sift flour for the cake and Bobby put on an apron. I felt someone come up behind me and the smell of English Leather became more intense. “You smell like sugar and butter,” said Tommy. I could hardly believe it. Me? Suddenly I felt bold and beautiful. I dabbed a little vanilla behind my ears.
“Like my perfume?” I asked. His breath came closer and he nuzzled my neck. “Mmmm,” he whispered, “delicious.”
“Tommy’s doing the cakewalk,” said Bobby.
“You just keep creaming that butter,” said Linda, and everybody burst out laughing.
By midnight I was drunk again. Tommy kept watching me and every once in a while he came close and accidentally brushed against my breasts. They felt as if they were on fire. “This is how I imagined chemistry class would be,” I blurted out.
“Oh yes,” said Linda. “Mr. Allston’s night chemistry for wayward teenagers. It’s a special class; who wants to lick the bowl?”
Julie had stopped crying. The kitchen was a mess. Flour was whirling in the air. Tommy helped me pour the batter into the greased pans and after we put the cake into the oven he pulled me out to the living room, put on some slow music, and we danced. The bell kept ringing and other kids kept coming in the door, but I was oblivious to everything but the feel of his body against mine. He started kissing me, slowly, and I inhaled his scent, thinking how nice he was.
“The cake!” I cried suddenly, but he didn’t stop. “Don’t worry,” he said, “someone else will take it out of the oven.” I imagined black smoke pouring out of the kitchen, the house burning down. I didn’t care. It was my first kiss. Tommy maneuvered me over to the sofa and we lay down together, gently. I snuggled up against him. For a brief moment I wondered what it would be like to be married to a mechanic. And then I fell asleep.
Nothing terrible had happened. The throbbing in my head abated a bit. Then I looked at the living room and panicked. My mother would go crazy if she came in now.
Tommy watched my face and rubbed my cheek gently. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Make some coffee. I’ll get everybody up.”
“Forget the coffee,” I said, “we’ve got to get these glasses and ashtrays out of here. It smells like a brewery. Let’s open the windows and air the place out.”
“Well, that will wake people up,” he said reasonably. As he began throwing the windows open I went from room to room, discovering one disaster after another.
Julie and Bill were in my parents’ bed. I averted my eyes as I implored them to wake up. Bill was snoring, but Julie took one look at the sun in the sky and jumped out of bed. She had nothing on. “I’ll get him up,” she said, “don’t worry. We’ll get this room cleaned up.”
Gloria and Troy were in my bed; I didn’t want to know what they were wearing. Or what they weren’t. Linda and Bobby were in separate twin beds in the guest room. “Oh my God,” said Linda, “I passed out. I told my parents I was going to Gloria’s and she told her parents she was coming to my house. I’ll be grounded until I’m a hundred!”
She began pulling up sheets and picking up ashtrays. She shook Bobby. “Get those guys in the living room out of here,” she ordered.
The oven was still on in the kitchen but at least someone had thought to take the cake out. It sat on the counter, still in the pan, looking wrinkled, brown and uninviting. The room was a shambles, cracked eggshells on the floor and cigarettes snuffed out in the middle of plates. I was frantic, darting from
one mess to the other.
Tommy came into the room carrying a garbage bag. “Calm down,” he said soothingly, “I got everybody up. They all look decent.” He peered at me and added, “Maybe you’d like to go, you know, sort of splash some water on your face? Just in case your parents come in?”
I went to the kitchen sink. “No,” he said, pushing me toward the bathroom. “You need a mirror.” He was right. I went upstairs to put on a clean shirt and each step reverberated through my body, hitting my head like an upside-down hammer.
But when I got downstairs Tommy had organized everything. “It’s all figured out,” he said. “First we clean up all the booze and cigarettes and throw them in the cars. We make the beds. Then we pile all the dirty dishes onto the dining-room table as if we’ve just had breakfast.”
“Brilliant,” said Linda. “Why on earth would we all come over here at six in the morning for breakfast?”
“What if we had an early morning science project?” said Tommy. “You know, calculating the effect of the rising sun on birds or something?”
Linda turned to me. “Are your parents going to believe that?” she asked. “Mine would never fall for such a stupid story.”
Mine, I knew, would. My mother would be pleased that I had made so many friends in my new school, even if they weren’t the right sort. She’d think it was a sign that I was well adjusted.
“Maybe we won’t have to use the story,” said Tommy. “Maybe we’ll get everything cleaned up and everyone out of here before they come home. It’s just a contingency plan.”
“Ooh,” said Linda, “big word!”
Tommy didn’t even answer. He looked down at me from his six foot three inches and asked, “You got any oranges?” I nodded. “Make some orange juice,” he said. “Coffee and orange juice smells so innocent.”
Nothing is sexier than a competent man: I was in love. Then Tommy put his arms around me and whispered, “While you’re at it, do you think you could, you know, sort of ice that cake?”
And that is how my parents found me at 6:30 in the morning. Up to my elbows in coffee grounds and orange rinds, making seven-minute frosting. My friends were innocently sitting around the dining-room table and if some of them were breathing as if they had just run a race, my parents didn’t notice.
