“Maybe,” I answered. “Then again, maybe not.”
He grinned. “So that’s how you’re going to play it.”
“That’s how I’m going to play it.”
Sharon coughed and made a choking sound. She pushed me aside to step closer to Paul. “Hi Paul. How was your weekend?”
“Great,” he answered and winked again. Winked? At Sharon? Really?
I thought he saved all his flirting for me.
“We need to set up a practice,” I said to him, and even I heard how stiff my voice sounded.
They both stared at me.
“Okay, when are you free?” he asked.
“How was Greg when you visited him?” Sharon interrupted.
I glanced at her. “Fine.” I focused on Paul. “I’m free whenever you are.”
“In California,” Sharon continued, stressing each word as if we were all half-deaf. When neither of us responded, she repeated, “In California, when you visited him.”
Paul looked at his watch. “How about two this afternoon?”
“When you were in California last week.” Sharon was not giving up. She was near tears as she continued trying to capture Paul’s attention.
He finally glanced at her then back at me. I hadn’t answered him, so he repeated, “Well? Is two o’clock okay?”
“Fine.” The word was abrupt and bordered on rude, but I couldn’t shake the thought of him winking at Sharon.
Paul flinched, narrowed his eyes, and studied me. My face became hot and I turned on my heel and fled.
Why didn’t I write Fool on a placard and hang it around my neck? I’d save myself from having to prove it every five minutes. I tromped across the lot to my dad’s Jeep. Paul didn’t like me — he liked stringing me along. Sharon and I both. I yanked open the door and scrambled into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and grabbed the gearshift.
I paused before pulling out into the traffic. I liked him. I more than liked him. I heaved a sigh that reached to the bottom of my lungs and leaned my head on the steering wheel.
Rats.
****
Back home, I ate a quick lunch of tomato soup and toast and headed upstairs to do some homework before returning to school for practice. I sat on my bed and laid out my books. I picked up my English anthology and attempted to read. After a minute, I tossed it aside and stared at my closet. It was a sad, make-shift affair crammed under the eaves. My outfits hung on an old wooden rod stretched between a couple of two-by-four supports.
So my light pink dress hadn’t done the trick. I wandered over and pulled out a short black dress. I looked good in black, and I looked good in short. Never one to give up a fight, I pulled off one dress and put on the other. I slid into a pair of sheer black pantyhose and stepped into my open-toed pumps. I gazed into my full-length mirror and layered on a bit of lipstick and freshened my mascara. I turned and twisted and regarded my profile.
I was a wicked, wicked girl.
A few minutes later, I climbed into the Jeep and grasped the steering wheel like a determined exercise nut about to pump iron. All the way to school, my mind played with ideas on how to secure a date with Paul. For a resourceful person, I was coming up sorely empty.
I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed my music folder from the passenger seat, climbed out, and adjusted my dress. The strong breeze made fussing with my hair useless. I pinched my cheeks — a trick I’d learned from days of watching old black and white movies. I tightened my butt, straightened my back, stretched up to my full height, and waltzed into the Fine Arts Building.
Once inside, I stood on my toes and peered into the practice room through the small square window near the top of the door. Paul was playing the piano. His eyes were closed and his fingers raced over the keys with tornado speed. I rested my head against the door and let his music fill my soul.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Claybourne asked me from behind.
I jerked upright and dropped my music folder. It clumped its way down the door, hitting the floor with a surprising thump.
The music inside stopped. Mrs. Claybourne put her finger to her lips. “Whoops, sorry. Carry on.” She passed me and continued down the hall.
The practice room door opened with a whoosh. “Oh, it’s you,” Paul said. I listened for any excitement or welcome in his tone but found none. “Let’s get to it.”
I walked inside and shut the door behind me. “Sorry to interrupt your playing.”
“No problem. It’s time for us to practice anyway.” He shook his head and gave me a sheepish smile. “Sorry if I seem out of it. Sometimes I wander a bit too far into my music. Occupational hazard.”
He nudged me in the side then sat on the bench. “Your music, maestro.” He held out his hand, and I gave him my folder.
I stood behind him aware of his scent, a mixture of spice and musk. Delicious. I watched his shoulders move as his hands once again flew over the keys. I inched a bit closer under the pretense of trying to see the words. I began to sing and his flawless playing supported my voice like a satisfying conversation. When I sang the last note, he twisted around and looked up into my face.
“Nice,” he said, and his blue eyes took me in. “You’re good.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, and I searched for something to say. I wanted to go out with him so badly I could taste it.
Ask me, ask me, ask me.
“Until next week then,” Paul said when we finished. He stacked my music and stuck it into my folder.
“Sure. If I remember to bring my music.” The words tumbled from my mouth in a sorry attempt to drag out the moment. I teetered toward pathetic.
“Why wouldn’t you?” He scrutinized me.
“I don’t know. Might get forgetful is all.” I raised my eyebrows and launched into one hundred percent flirtation mode.
He grinned and rubbed his hand on his chin. “I see,” he said, and I knew he did. His eyes sparked with mischief. “Then there must be some kind of punishment if you’re going to be so irresponsible.”
My eyes widened in mock horror. “Whatever do you mean?”
“If you forget your music next time, you will be forced to accompany me to a skating party.”
I fluttered my lashes. “But sir, what if I can’t skate?”
“Why I’ll teach you, of course.” He stood up and handed me my folder. I tried to take it from his grasp, but he wouldn’t release it. We had a mini tug-of-war, and when he relinquished it, I fell back a step.
He reached out quickly and grabbed my arms, steadying me. “Sorry. You okay?”
He took a step closer and my heart zipped into high speed. His face was a breath away. Sudden quiet layered over us and we were the only two people in the world. His eyes searched mine and I saw a slight tightening of the muscles on his brow. Then they relaxed and he narrowed his eyes as if discovering something vital. I was frozen in place, every muscle taut.
“Brenda,” he whispered.
We continued to stare until someone in the next cubicle pounded out a scale. We both jumped back, and I clasped my folder to my chest.
“Next week, then,” Paul said. His voice was fuzzy and he put his hand to his mouth and coughed.
“Next week,” I agreed.
I pulled open the door and bolted outside. What was that? I wanted to date him, but I hadn’t been prepared to be sucked right into his soul.
I shook my head as if clearing mist from my mind. I floated to the Jeep and when I got there, I tossed the music into the back seat. As far as I was concerned, my music folder was going to be lost, buried in some ancient Aztec ruin — where I couldn’t possibly find it in time for my next practice session.
****
The next week, I was empty-handed when I approached the door for our practice time. I didn’t bother to knock. I entered quietly and stood against the back wall. Paul was playing some classical concerto or fugue or something.
He finished his piece and swiveled around on the bench. “Music, maest
ro,” he said, holding out his hand as usual.
“Oh no!” I cried in my best Pollyanna voice. “I’ve lost it!”
A smile broke over Paul’s face like a brilliant sunrise. To be able to see that expression again, I would have buried my music a million times over.
“You forgot it?” he said, and his smile stretched to his eyes and beyond.
“Oh, what shall we do?” I was a regular damsel in distress.
“You better grease the wheels on your skates, girl, because you’re obligated now.”
The way he called me girl rolled over me with tenderness. I laughed. “I know. I’ll be greased and ready.”
“Friday evening then. I’ll pick you up at six. Where do you live?”
I gave him the directions and he took a pen and wrote them on the palm of his hand like a temporary tattoo.
“I don’t know where you live either.”
“I live right across the river in Oregon,” he said. He looked at his palm. “I calculate that it’ll take me about eighteen and half minutes to cross the river to get to your house.”
“I didn’t know you lived in Oregon. How come you go to school in Washington?”
“Because Lower Columbia College credits are cheap, and I can live at home for free. I’ll have to switch it up later.”
“And by then you’ll have your first two years finished and can transfer to a four-year college.”
“You got it. All right then, Skater Girl, we have a date,” he said. “Now where is your music?”
“It’s at home.”
He stared at me. “You really didn’t bring it?”
“I really didn’t bring it.”
He stood and took a step across the small space. Our faces were inches apart. “You were making sure, huh?” he asked and reached to tweak my bangs. His fingers brushed against my forehead and heat zapped through me. His pulled his hand back and it hung in mid-air for a moment before dropping to his side. He cleared his throat and turned his back to me, making an ordeal of straightening his books on top of the piano.
Waves of yearning pulsated through me and I couldn’t move.
I also couldn’t stand there like a ninny.
I shook myself and reached for the doorknob. I left the room, shaken down to the toes of my sensible loafers. I walked outside and squinted into the sharp breeze. The sun was low, and I crunched across the fallen leaves on the sidewalk. Winter was on its way and I should have brought a jacket, but I still felt the warmth from Paul’s touch.
I smiled all the way to Dad’s Jeep.
****
Friday afternoon, I pulled every shirt from my dresser for examination. I’d discovered Paul was taking me to a church skating party so his whole family would be there. Since his dad was the pastor, I guess it wasn’t too surprising, although I’d never met a boyfriend’s parents on a first date before.
Boyfriend?
We weren’t official, but every cell in my body had stamped myself as his girlfriend. I picked out a long-sleeved light yellow shirt with a collar so conservative it swallowed my neck. Perfect. I slipped it on and surveyed myself in the mirror. I grabbed some rouge and dusted my cheeks. My spiky bangs didn’t require more than a few quick pats to get them back in order. I pulled on a pair of black jeans and stepped into my shoes. My reflection looked tidy yet appealing.
“Hello, ma’am.” I stuck my hand out toward the mirror and nodded my head slightly, practicing my greeting for Paul’s mother. “Sir,” I said and pretended to nod to his father.
I rolled my eyes. Oh, this was ridiculous. I stuck my tongue out at myself, grabbed my coat, and ran downstairs.
At six o’clock on the dot, a light green sedan pulled into the driveway. “Mom! He’s here. Gotta go,” I called.
Mom came rushing into the living room with a wooden spoon in hand. “Don’t we get to meet him?”
“It’s skating, not the prom,” I said. I smiled at her frown and hurried out the door.
Paul was already out of the car and coming up the walk. “Hi, you ready?”
“I’m always ready,” I said and grinned at his surprised look.
“Then let’s go.” He hurried to open my door and when I was safely inside, he walked around to the driver’s side and got in.
“I haven’t skated for about five years,” I confessed. “I hope I don’t make a fool of myself.”
“Not worried.” Paul pushed my shoulder playfully.
His car was an older model with bench seats. I eyed the middle spot. Did I dare scoot over and sit next to him? I looked at him from under my lashes, and it was as if he’d become a magnet — every part of me wanted to fly to him like metal shavings. I ached to snuggle close and feel his warmth. He must have read my mind because he patted the seat next to him.
“Come on, over,” he invited, and his eyes reflected a tender eagerness.
I scooted over and nearly sat on his hand. We both laughed, and I snuggled into him just as I had wanted to all along.
The drive to the rink was too short. We entered the building and the smell of old musty wood and stale popcorn permeated the air. We heard the whirr of skaters and the DJ announcing the next song. I blinked as the silver disco ball twirled, sending sparkling rays of light over us like snow.
“What size do you wear?” Paul asked, pointing to my feet.
“Eight.”
Paul paid for our skates, and we twisted through the rows of nicked-up wooden benches until we approached a short woman with even shorter black hair. She sat bent over a stack of papers with a wad of stickers in one hand and a red pen in the other.
“Mom’s a kindergarten teacher,” Paul whispered in my ear.
She looked up and I saw both her welcoming smile and her assessment gears churn as she checked me out. “You’re Brenda,” she said, and her voice was warm.
“That’s me,” I answered, my carefully practiced greeting out the window.
She set her papers aside and stood. Good grief, I was a giant next to her. Another woman joined us, and she was as short if not shorter than the mom. “I’m Paul’s older sister, Bernadine,” she said. Her blue eyes sparkled with fun, and I couldn’t help but like her on the spot.
“I’m tall,” I blurted, and then felt my face go hot.
They all laughed and nudged each other. “We don’t mind,” Bernadine said.
Paul put his arm around my waist. “No, we don’t,” he said in my ear. “We don’t mind at all.”
And just like that, Paul and I became a couple.
Which I didn’t mind one little bit.
****
Weeks passed and life opened with more interest, color, and joy. I found myself humming and singing even when I wasn’t in choir or at voice lessons. The world vibrated with life and magic. Everyone I passed on my way to class seemed to smile and nod.
Everyone, that is, except one.
A week after my return, all the choir members were hanging out on the risers after rehearsal. Sharon had never sat next to me again after Paul and I became a “thing,” which was A-Okay with me. She would come in, and make a big production of counting over at least four chairs before sitting. That particular day was no exception.
Choir was a chatty group, and we all enjoyed lounging around and passing a few minutes before we rushed off to our next classes.
“People, I have an announcement,” Sharon bellowed in her bull-horn voice. We turned her way. “I’m having a choir party this Friday and you’re invited. I’m taking a poll about what you want to eat.”
She looked around, although I noticed she was careful to avoid my eyes. She proceeded to inquire about food preferences, pointing to everyone around the circle and getting their suggestions. When she came to me, she leveled an acid stare my way and skipped over me to the person on my right.
Tension blitzed the room. Violet, who was the girl on my right, looked quickly from me to Sharon, as if unsure what to do.
“Well, Violet, do you want to go hungry?” Sharon as
ked.
Violet gave me a helpless look and said, “Chips and dip.”
An eerie quiet settled over us. I pasted an I-couldn’t-care-less expression on my face, but I didn’t know what to do with the rest of my body. Was I supposed to throw a fit? Act hurt? Snipe back?
I didn’t have much time to wonder. Paul snorted and stood. Sharon glanced up, and a flicker of pain jolted through her eyes.
“Count me out,” he said and walked from the room. I scampered up and followed him outside.
“Brenda, wait!” It was Sharon.
I stopped in the hallway outside the choir room and turned to face her. Her cheeks were flushed and her breath came quick.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“You’re a witch. A two-timing witch.”
The pure venom in her voice hit me square in the face. My mouth dropped open, and I was so shocked no words came.
“No, you’re worse than a witch. You’re slime.”
I took a step back.
“I wrote to Greg and told him all about how cozy you are with Paul. Not that you deserve a warning, but prepare yourself. He’ll be onto you now.”
She was beyond agitated. The red on her cheeks had deepened and her face was damp. Her biting voice echoed down the hall, and I realized the entire choir was listening to her every word.
“Can you hear me?” Her voice came out like a screech. “You’re slime, I tell you. Greg deserves better.”
“Greg can have better.” My mouth decided to work. “Greg and I are over.”
Sharon flinched and every muscle on her face went taut. She stared at me as if she couldn’t understand what I’d just said.
“For weeks now. We’ve been over for weeks.” My voice dropped each word like a dead weight, and I watched her blubber in surprise.
“But, you never said…”
I took two short steps toward her until we were nose to nose. “Why would I? We’re not friends. You’ve made that perfectly clear.”
“But, you should have told me.”
“Sharon, if you want Greg, you can have him.” I pivoted on my heel and left her open-mouthed behind me. My heart flapped hard against my chest and a strange sense of justice came over me.
I shoved through the glass doors and saw Paul up ahead. I ran to catch up with him.
Someday You'll Laugh Page 4