It became cold, very cold. We bundled up in jackets and hats, hid our hands inside our sleeves. The stars came out. An icy sparkling night. You sneezed repeatedly, and finally we got out our sleeping bags. I crawled in fully clothed, and so did you. We lay one on each side of the fire, and how still it was. How utterly quiet. I felt I could hear the stars shining in the sky.
It got colder still. I curled up in my bag, pulled my hat down over my ears. “This is the coldest night we’ve ever had,” I said. “I’m sure of it.”
“I th—th—think so,” you said.
I thought you were making your teeth chatter on purpose, and I laughed. But, only a bit later, just as I was falling asleep, I heard you say, “Richie … are you awake? I’m freezing, I’m so cold—”
I still didn’t realize you were sick. I mumbled something and dozed off again. The next thing I knew, you were shaking me. “Richie. Richie … Can’t get warm …” You had your sleeping bag with you, but you crawled in with me like a child, shivering and chattering. “I’m so cold,” you said forlornly. I hauled your sleeping bag over us for extra warmth. You kept shaking. I put my arms around you, held you tight, and finally we both fell asleep.
When I woke up, you were out already, building the fire, appearing perfectly normal. I sat up. “Steve? Are you all right?”
“A little woozy, but okay,” you said.
But something was wrong. (No, not your health anymore. Whatever it was that hit you had come and gone.) You didn’t look at me. You hardly spoke. It seemed all you wanted was to get back home. Couldn’t wait to cut our trip short. Of course, you’d been sick the night before—but, all the same, I felt there was something more.… Those hours of being so close to me, Stevie, did they disgust you, finally? Is that it? You’d had enough of me, and too much, as it turned out.
On the trip back (which we took slow, for your sake), we had nothing to say to one another. We, who always have too much to talk about! What silence. Oh, how it hurt. All the way home, I talked to myself. Look, Richie, it’s utter nonsense to go on like this. How many times do you have to come to the same conclusion? It’s hopeless, hopeless.…
And that’s how it happened that, just as we got home, as we were about to part, I said, in the most abrupt way, “Steve, I have to tell you something.”
You turned. “Yes?”
“Steve—” I choked, forgot everything, then out it came. “I love you!”
The look you gave me! Was that horror I saw on your face? Is it so disgusting to you that I love you? Am I so repugnant? Such an animal? I’m struggling not to hate you, Stevie, for the silence and the look that greeted my words.
Oh! How unfair—I’m crying … crying over you … I must have made you up, invented my wonderful Stephan. If you were everything I thought, wouldn’t you have said something? Wouldn’t you have known the pain I was in, despite the idiotic way I acted? Wouldn’t you have said a few words, at least, to help me out? Patted my hand, or given my arm a squeeze? Anything! Any little token to show you were human, and that you have a heart that can feel for other people!
As it was, you gave me this murderous look, stood tongue-tied for what seemed like hours (I suppose it wasn’t more than a minute) and then bolted across the hedge to your house, dropping your sleeping bag along the way.
Oh, what an ending to our weekend—No, to everything. To our friendship, first—and after that, to my love for you. Because I assure you, Stephan, I will do my utmost from this moment on to cure myself.
It’s done, Stevie. And I dread tomorrow morning. I dread it with all my heart, because, much as it hurt when I loved you secretly, it hurts even more to know that I’ve finally cut you off. That there’s no more hope.
Good-bye, Stevie.
Dear Steve,
How many times have I started letters to you and said, This is the last letter? Well, this is the last. The final. The one letter I may (or then again, may not) send you. This letter is to say—Steve, how could you? How did you? It was you, wasn’t it? Or is it possible that I’ve misunderstood?
To begin with—this morning I avoided you, and easily, since you were avoiding me as well. I went off to school—maybe I should say slunk off. I moped along, trying not to think of you, but going over and over in my mind that moment when I blurted the truth to you. What I said, how you looked, how I felt, what you did, et cetera. And each time I went over it, I felt more miserable, berated myself more harshly.
Why wasn’t I content to let things go on as they were? What possessed me? Why did I have to change everything? Ruin what we had—our friendship! And now, having made it impossible for us to ever again be at ease with each other in the old way, I felt utterly bleak, forlorn, friendless, and even weak. It seemed an effort just to put one foot before the other.
A car passed. “Richie!” Jasper and Lucille. I grinned and waved and stepped along, unwilling to let anyone know how I was feeling.
“Want a ride?” Jasper called.
More grins and waves, and then they were gone, bombing out of sight under the railroad overpass. And I moved along, numb inside, went all the way to the end of Branden Street, then turned and ran back to the overpass.
I’d seen it, Stevie, seen what you’d done, but seen it without seeing. The words didn’t register. The change didn’t penetrate that fog in my mind.
But at the end of Branden Street, I suddenly realized and ran back, telling myself all the way, Richie, you’re hallucinating. Don’t get your hopes up!
So then I stood under the overpass and looked up where, so many times before, I’d seen the scrawl, AVIE LOVES RIC FOREVER. It seems it’s always been there, spray-painted on the bridge. And it was still there, the same purple Day-Glo, but a little changed. Three letters added. Only three. So that now it reads, STAVIE LOVES RICH FOREVER.
Stavie? You, Stevie? Rich? Me?
Stevie. Stephan. Steve! Is it some awful joke intended to make me suffer even more? I can’t believe it. It’s not your character. You’re not mean and small. But, then—is it the truth? Does it mean that you—Is it even you, who—Later. Dear Steve, dear Stevie, Stavie—dear, dear, darling Stavie! You’ve just left, we’ve talked for hours, and yet it’s not enough for me. Now I know everything. Now I understand. Yes, it was you. I could hardly believe it when you told me how you hung head down over the bridge and added those letters. You, Stevie! And scared every moment. But determined to do it. To tell me in a way that would be unmistakable.
You’ve told me everything once, then twice, and yet I long to hear it all again. How it happened to you the night you were sick. Yes, exactly what happened to me in your sister’s kitchen. You knew. There, in the sleeping bag, you knew. You knew that you loved me, and you felt it was hopeless. I had never shown (you said) the least sign of considering you anything but a friend, and one that I took utterly for granted.
Stevie, I still don’t believe all this. Do real stories end this way? But it’s not an ending, is it? For us, Stevie, it’s only the beginning—everything starts now for us. Our whole lives begin. Good night, Stevie, good night, but never again good-bye.
Your Richie.
Do You Really Think It’s Fair?
Well, here I am.
What? I’m Sara Gorelick! Didn’t you ask me to come to your office? Mrs. Teassle said—Oh. No, I guess we haven’t met before. But I know who you are. So, what’s up?
You’ve heard about me? I didn’t know I was famous. The famous Sara Gorelick! … What?
No, I don’t want to be a movie star! A model? No.
Well … a judge.
Uh-huh. You heard me right. A judge. I don’t think that’s so funny. What’s the hilarious joke? Yes, you are too laughing at me! I know when somebody is laughing and—Look, you asked me to come down here. You asked me. That means I don’t have to stay, doesn’t it? I can leave, right? Because if you asked me to come to your office just to laugh at me—!
Sensitive? I’m not sensitive. No, that’s not the way I would describe
myself. I’m—I’m—I’m tough. Okay? Now would you please tell me why I’m here? Which one of my teachers complained about me? Bet it was Sweetie Sorenson. It was, wasn’t it? Just because I told him that assignment was dumb.
Yes, I did say that. Interview somebody who’s over thirty. What does that mean? What’s so gorgeous great about being over thirty?
It wasn’t Mr. Sorenson who—? Oh, it was, but—what?
A consensus of my teachers? Yes, I know what that means.
Where? Where does it say that about me? Has become unruly and—Why can’t I see the rest of that? Privileged material? That’s just another way of saying you don’t want me to see it. Why do grown-ups lie to kids? Yes, they do. All the time. Sure, I can prove it.
They lied in the hospital. They said Jayne would come out of it. Would live. They said it. Two doctors—
An honest mistake?
Oh, it’s always a mistake when you’re grown up. If you’re a kid, it’s murder, right? If a kid had been driving that car …
You know what the judge said? He said it could have happened to anyone. That’s a lie. He said it wasn’t the driver’s fault. No charges. Because the sun was in his eyes, and Jayne ran out into the street. That’s all lies. He didn’t say anything about the man drinking. And Jayne didn’t run out. She looked both ways. Eight years old—she’s not dumb.
She looked, and that man, that driver—we shouted at him. All of us. We saw it. We saw Jayne running out after the ball. We saw the car coming and coming, and we all started shouting and screaming. Stop! Stop! Stop!
No, I’m not crying. No. I am not crying. I don’t cry.
What?
Because I don’t want to, that’s why! Why should I cry?
You want me to cry? What business is it of yours if I—What are you, weird?
Yes, sure, McClure, that’s a good example of the way I talk to everyone!
Yes, I know why I’m here. You want to brainwash me. Make me be polite and nice and good. Good little girl. Make goo-goo eyes at people. Or maybe you’d just like to put a piece of tape across my mouth! Look, I’m going now. I don’t want to stay here. There’s no law says I have to stay, is there? Swell, Mr. Fell! Good-bye!
You wanted to see me again? So what’s new, Mr. Blue? Do you remember my name this time? Sara, without an H. Oh, I’m feelin’ just fine, Mr. Cline, how about you?
Stop spinning around and sit down?
Okay, I’m down. Well, what’s it all about? Here I am, and let’s get it over with.
What?
I don’t have much to say about it, do I? I mean, you asked me, but I have to come, don’t I? Anyway, I don’t care. I’m cool, Mr. Ghoul. I get out of Music this way.
Sure, I can guess why you asked me to come back. That report—unruly Sara Garlic!
Garlic? Joke. Family joke.
How do I feel about my family? Fine.
How do I feel about school? Blaaagh!
How do I feel about you? You really want to know? Or you want me to lie? You want me to lie, don’t you? Nobody asks a question like that and wants the truth.
You do?
Uh, okay, you asked for it. How I feel about you—uh, nothing special. You know, shrug. Yawn. Blah, blah, blah, that’s your job, isn’t it? Talk, talk, talk. You want me to leave now? You want to put me in a corner? You want to send me to detention?
What? I can say anything, and it’s okay? You won’t take it personally? What if I mean it personally?
You still won’t take it personally.
Uh, great. What are you, nuts? I mean, that is really weird. Koo. Koo.
Why you asked me to come here? That’s easy. To braid my brains. To mangle my mind. To …
No, I don’t think you’re a shrink. You’re a guidance counselor. A psychologist, right? What word? Psychologist? What’s the big deal about knowing—What? The difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist? One has to be a doctor. You didn’t go to medical school, did you?
What? Well, I read a lot. Everyone in my family reads a lot—my mother, my father, my sis—
We all like to read, okay! Is that such a big D deal?
What was I going to say about my sister? Nothing!
No, I was not, I didn’t even mention her name. Forget it! I don’t want to talk about her.
What? That’s one of the tasks you and I—I don’t get this. What do you mean, a task?
Yes, I know what a task is.
Talking about my sister is a task? Is why I’m here? Then maybe I just better leave. Because I’m not going to talk about her. No, I’m not. And I’m not going to cry, either. You have got some very mixed-up, crazy ideas. I thought you got me here because I’m giving my teachers trouble and …
No, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with crying. If that’s what you want to do, be my guest. I’ll bring you a box of Kleenex. Just, I don’t want to. Can you understand that? You dig, Mr. Fig? Don’t want to cry. Do not want to cry. No cry. Sara no want water to come from her eye. Is clear?
Clear as water? Very funny, ha ha. Dr. I. C. Brains has big sense of humor. Can I go now?
What?
No, oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no, it-doesn’t-have-anything-to-do-with-Jayne! I told you. I AM NOT GOING TO TALK ABOUT HER.
Yes, I’ll talk about my family. I don’t see what difference it makes to you, though. My dad’s an electrician, my mom’s a PN. Okay? Enough?
Yes, my mom likes working, don’t you?
Uh-huh, Community Hospital on Greene Street. Right, same street we live on, but the other end, way down. No, she mostly rides her bike there. My father needs the car.
What?
Yes, that’s my whole family. My father, my mother, and me.
You can’t see my face? That’s because I’m not looking at you.
Because I feel like sitting this way. Does a person have to sit a special way in your office? Next time I’ll wear my T-shirt with Wonder Woman on the back so you can look at her. No, I’m not getting upset! Do you want to ask me anything else, or can I go back to my class now?
No, there’s nothing I want to talk about!
I just told you. I’M NOT UPSET. I’M FINE. I’m mellow, Mr. Bellow. All right, all right, I’ll come back. Next week, yes, okay. Next week.
Sara Sass reporting in, sir!
Nice shirt you’re wearing. Do you always sit that same exact way? With your fingers together? Maybe I should sit behind the desk and you could sit right here in the hot seat. You need a little head shrinking? A bit of brain unkinking? Sara will save you. Is that a smile I see, or a frown?
Oh—neither. Do you think I’m being fresh? Rude? Obnoxious? Unruly?
Won’t answer, will you? I can say anything, right? But that doesn’t mean you stop thinking, does it? Bet you think I’m a weird fresh brat! That’s why I’m down here. Right? Freshness and general messing up. General Messing Up reporting to Sergeant Scrambler. Were you in the army, Private? Is that why it says on your door—
What?
Am I going to settle d—
I thought you wanted me to talk. Just trying to please, talking up a breeze. Last time you were practically begging me—
Do I know—Yes, I know what appropriate means.
Gotta get down to business, huh? Oh, right, right, must get on with our tasks. Where’s the mop and pail? Or do you want me to wash the windows? Or should I clean your desk, that’s a mess, wow, my mother wouldn’t stand for—
What?
You don’t think we’re going to get anything done this time if I—
Well, I don’t care, Mr. Hair. It doesn’t matter. You’re the one who keeps asking me to come here. Am I driving you up a wall? That’s what Mrs. Clendon said to me. Sara, you’re driving me up a wall! Oh. You know about that. Were you shocked? Were you surprised? Were you real mad?
Well, because you’re supposed to be working miracles on me, aren’t you? Making me behave. Be a good little Sara.
No, I don’t dislike Mrs. Clendon. She’s pr
etty nice for a teacher. Then why do I—I don’t know. Just some devil or something gets in me, I guess.
I know.
I know that.
I know I was never a troublemaker. Well, there’s always a first time, ha ha. Who cares anyway? It doesn’t matter.
Why do I keep saying what? That it doesn’t matter? Must be because it’s true. It doesn’t matter.
What doesn’t matter?
Nothing.
Nothing matters. Everything is all crazy and weird. The world is weird. You know? It really is. That’s what I think. The world is weird and unfair. It just really stinks.
Sure, I think that. Sure, I do!
No, those are not tears in my eyes! I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that! How many times do I have to tell you the same thing? I do not cry, mister. I-do-not-cry. I do not cry. I do not, I do not, I do not!
Hello.
No, I don’t mind that the office is dark. I like to be someplace dark when it’s raining outside.
What?
Quiet? I can be quiet, too. I’m not a freak, you know. I’m not just a big loudmouth.
You never said—But isn’t that what you were thinking?
No? Well—if you say so.
Sure, we can talk. What do you want to say?
Yes, I have friends.
Best friend? Callie Gerstein, I guess.
Naturally I talk to her. Was she—? Yes, she was there the day Jayne—A whole bunch of us from the street. We were playing softball and—Do I have to tell you that all over again?
Did Jayne have friends? Yes, sure. Well, I had to watch her, that’s why she was with—
Look. Is this some kind of test or something?
Well, the way you’re asking things. They did that to Jayne once. Sneaked a test on her when she was in first grade. Asked her a million questions and then wanted to skip her to third.
No. My mother wouldn’t let them. Was I—Yes, I was glad. That would have put her practically in my grade. Who wants their bratty little sister—
Sure, she was a brat! A big brat! And she always had to hang around with me. Drag! Double drag! Because my mother works. Somebody has to look after—I mean, somebody had to—Why are you asking me all these dumb questions?
Summer Girls, Love Boys Page 3