Incredibly Alice

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  “I don’t know,” said Gwen. “I sort of like driving my own car, buying my own clothes, and I certainly want to arrange my own playdates.”

  There was something to laugh about at last, and we said we’d see each other the next day at Molly’s.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Faith. The last time I’d seen her, she was thin as a broom and was having some of her teeth replaced after her abusive boyfriend slammed her face down on the hood of a car.

  Now she had gained about ten pounds and looked so much better—more curvy, more friendly, more … happy. Her hair was especially shiny, and even her skin looked better. Amazing what being healthy will do for your looks, I thought. I noticed she was wearing a lacy chemise, cut low enough to show her cleavage, now that she had breasts again.

  “You. Just. Look. Fabulous!” I told her. “Really, really!”

  “You know what?” she said as we hugged. “I feel pretty fabulous.”

  I thought of the guy she was going out with after she booted Ron. A nice guy. “Are you and Chris … ?”

  “No. He went to Virginia Tech, and I’m getting my associate degree from Montgomery College in June. We still e-mail each other from time to time, but I’m going with a navy guy now. He’ll be out of the service soon, and then we’ll see what happens.”

  “Well, you’re beautiful,” said Pamela. “And you deserve the best.”

  So did Molly, come to think of it, and from all appearances, she was healthy too. She and Faith had seen the play the last night, but there was such a crowd at the stage door that they hadn’t stuck around.

  “The loose dog scene was a scream!” Molly said. “You guys played it so well, we weren’t sure whether it was in the script or not. I’ll bet Ellis was sweating bullets backstage.”

  “We were sweating bullets onstage,” I said. “It was unrehearsed, believe me!” And of course she and Faith and Pamela and I had to reminisce about the plays and musicals that had gone on before: Fiddler on the Roof, Father of the Bride, Guys and Dolls.

  “And guess what?” Pamela told them when we stopped for breath. “I got accepted at a theater arts school in New York.”

  We cheered all over again, stamped our feet, and Faith pounded on the patio table. “Pamela! Yay!” she cried.

  I felt a twinge of jealousy again—would we ever stop celebrating Pamela?—but refused to dwell on it. I concentrated instead on what Patrick had said—about how you can be curious and intellectual and all the rest right where you are at the moment. You didn’t have to go to someplace big.

  I raised my glass of Sprite. “To us!” I said.

  “To us!” the others chorused.

  To all the bad things that could have happened that didn’t, all the mistakes we almost made, but didn’t. I marveled that Molly was sitting here cancer-free, that Faith had dropped Ron out of her life, that Pamela had miscarried, that … the list went on and on. What about the mistakes that were yet to come? I wondered. And I immediately thought of my date the next day with Ryan.

  “What’s this I hear about Jill getting married on Saturday? Is that for real?” Molly asked.

  “It’s for real.”

  “And is she pregnant? That’s the story I got.”

  “It’s no secret. They’re expecting in September,” Pamela told her.

  “Is … is this a good thing … or what?” Faith asked uncertainly.

  “Who knows?” Pamela said. “They planned it, and they’ve been going together longer than anyone else in high school. She’s marrying a nice guy, anyway.”

  Who knows what’s going to happen with any of us? I thought, looking around the group. If I had to make a guess about what any of us would be doing five years from now, I could be so far off. Who knew that Les would be going out with Kay? Who knew that Patrick would be spending a year in Spain? Who knew that Faith would be looking so great, completely leaving all that pain behind, or that I would have starred in the school play?

  Wednesday morning, I started my next article for The Edge:

  WHAT WE LEAVE BEHIND

  You’ve felt it. So have I. I can’t quite explain when it happens, but with college getting closer, I’m more conscious when it happens. Much as we’ve wanted to grow up, move on, move out, we’re saying good-bye to something we thought we’d never miss: being kids.

  I felt it a year ago when I was driving by a county fair and stopped to watch the kids on a merry-go-round, the calliope playing “The Sidewalks of New York” as the painted ponies rose and fell on their shiny poles.

  I used to love that ride. I loved the summer my dad decided I was big enough to go on all by myself, but every time my horse got around to the gate, there he’d be, smiling, and I’d feel brave enough to let go with one hand and wave back. And though big people do ride the merry-go-round sometimes, even teens, it will never be the same as it was then—my dad waiting for me at the gate, smiling.

  I remember promising myself, when I was nine, that I would never, ever stop doing the two things I enjoyed most: reading the comics and hanging upside down by my knees on the jungle gym. I’ve already stopped hanging by my knees.

  The beanbag chair in the corner of my room—the chair that’s been a refuge for me through all the hurts and disappointments of grade school, and even some in high school—is getting too small for me.

  The furry little monkey with the missing eye that has been a fixture on my bed for as long as I can remember will not be going to college with me.

  The shoes I once loved, my favorite books, reading the newspaper over Sunday brunch with my parents—that’ll all be left behind when September comes; and along with the excitement of living on my own, there’s an emptiness deep inside me, and I wonder what will take its place.

  Saying hello to something new means saying good-bye to something old and loved. Much as we seniors are looking forward to college or work, to moving out and moving on, we have a little grieving to do, and it takes us by surprise. We’re leaving a part of ourselves behind. And it’s okay to feel sad along with happy, loss along with gain, regret along with excitement. It’s part of the process. Expected, in fact.

  —Alice McKinley, features editor

  23

  EATING OYSTERS

  When Ryan called around noon on Wednesday, he had the rest of the day mapped out, and I was glad I didn’t have to make any decisions. I just wanted to drift, to float. I wanted someone to give me a nudge, and my body would move in whatever direction I was pointed.

  “I’ll pick you up about three and we’ll play some miniature golf. Then we’ll head for the marina on Main Avenue for dinner and maybe pick up some improv theater. How does that sound?”

  “Very ambitious,” I said. “What kind of theater?”

  “You don’t know improvisational theater?” he said. “Alice, you haven’t lived till you’ve seen what a cast can do!”

  “I guess I’m about to be born, then,” I said. “Sounds fun. I’ll be ready.”

  Actually, I did know what improvisational theater was, I just hadn’t seen any professional performances. But Ryan seemed so gung ho about instructing me that I’d let him take the credit.

  April in Maryland can be cold and rainy, and we’d probably get that yet. But the sun smiled down on our spring vacation and gave us a couple of beautiful days. I dressed in a good pair of jeans and a black tee, a yellow sweater, and went out to Ryan’s car when I saw him drive up.

  “How’s your golf game?” he asked as I slid in the passenger seat.

  “Even worse than my bowling,” I told him.

  “We’ll have to do something about that,” he said, and smiled as we started out. Then, “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “Not being very good at either one?”

  “No. Not particularly. Why?”

  He turned down the music a little. “I don’t know. It would bother me. I’d want to be fairly good at something or I wouldn’t want to do it.”

  I gave him
a quizzical look. “How could you ever try anything new if you had to be good at it first?”

  “I mean, whatever I try, I keep at it till I’m … well … at least competent.”

  “You don’t do anything just for fun? Just to be with a bunch of friends, having a good time?”

  Ryan seemed to mull that over. “Not really, I guess. If I’m going to spend time at something, I want to be good at it.”

  Who was I dating here? I wondered. Another Patrick? Patrick—who was good at everything, it seemed?

  “Well, I can’t see that my life would change much if I got to be a good bowler or a good golf player, since I don’t have time for either one,” I told him. “But maybe we make time for the things that we like best.”

  “You’re probably right,” he said as he headed onto the beltway.

  As it happened, I wasn’t bad at miniature golf. Ryan beat me by four points, and when we played a second game, I beat him by two. It surprised us both.

  “See? You’re better than you thought,” he said. “If you keep at it, you’d probably want to try real golf.”

  “It’s not on the agenda,” I said, laughing, as we turned in the clubs and walked back to the car.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t appeal all that much.”

  “What sports do you like?”

  “To watch or to play? I love watching basketball and football, but I’m sort of a loner when it comes to playing a sport. I like to run by myself in the early mornings. I like to swim when I get a chance. I like playing badminton with my girlfriends. I guess I’m not very competitive when it comes to sports.”

  We drove into D.C. and over to the marina along the Potomac. At one end, near the bridge, the road was lined with little shops selling fish, and farther on there were restaurants catering to the boating crowd.

  We were early enough to get a table by the window, and it was fun watching the boats come in and out, unfurling their sails or making their way into their slots along the dock. Nice sitting there with Ryan, who looked especially handsome in an olive T-shirt that strained at his biceps.

  “You ever sail?” he asked me.

  “I’ve been on a sailboat—well, a boat with sails, anyway—but I didn’t have to do anything,” I said.

  “You ought to try it. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before—just moving across the surface with the wind, the only sounds being the water rippling, the sails flapping now and then, the gulls calling. No one should reach his twenty-first birthday without learning to sail.”

  “There are a lot of people who don’t live near water,” I reminded him.

  “Well, the ones who do, then,” Ryan said. He scanned the menu. “What are you going to have? I recommend oysters on the half shell. Ever try them?”

  “Nope.”

  “You should. How do you know you wouldn’t like them if you’ve never tried them?”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like them. But other things interest me more,” I said. And when the waiter came, I said, “I’d like the shrimp basket, please, and a glass of iced tea.”

  “Oysters on the half shell for the appetizer,” said Ryan, pointing to the menu. “Then I’ll take the crab Newburg with fries.”

  We didn’t say much waiting for our dinner, just watched the people moving about on the dock outside the window. Some were hosing down their boats, and others were carrying ice chests aboard, ready for an evening’s outing. They were all expensive-looking boats, with decks and cabins and helm seats—at least that’s what Ryan called them. There was a dog on one of the decks, wagging its tail and excitedly running from one side of the boat to the other, eager for its master to get on board.

  “Well, this is pleasant,” Ryan said. “And we can take our time over dinner because I wasn’t able to get tickets for the Capitol Steps. They don’t have a performance tonight.”

  I was sort of glad, because Ryan had paid for miniature golf, and this dinner was going to be expensive. I didn’t want the evening to cost him any more.

  When the oysters arrived—glistening, semitransparent blobs in gray shells—Ryan immediately began giving instructions: “First,” he said, picking up a bottle of hot sauce, “you give your oyster a quick shot of this or whatever you have handy. Then”—he glanced over to make sure I was watching—“you lift up the shell between thumb and forefinger … like so … then you tip your hand and slide the oyster and juice into your mouth without letting the shell touch your lips.”

  He showed me how to find the best place on the lip of the shell to pour from. “Once it’s in your mouth, hold it there, savoring the fresh, briny taste, then mash the oyster a couple of times and swallow it down. You don’t want to swallow it whole and you don’t want to chew it to pieces—just enough to swallow it easily.” He tipped back his head, slid the oyster in, chewed a couple of times, and swallowed.

  I wondered what Miss Manners would say about insisting that your dinner guest try your food. I really didn’t want a raw oyster. But I wanted to be a good sport, so I did as he told me, trying not to look at the oyster as I picked up one of the shells. I held it up to my lips, tilted my head back, tipped the shell, trying not to touch it with my teeth, and felt the slimy blob slide into my mouth and some of the liquid dribble down my chin.

  Holding the oyster in my mouth, afraid to chew, I reached for my napkin and wiped my chin. And then, feeling as though I might gag, I chewed once and swallowed the thing, my mouth tasting like seaweed.

  “Good, huh?” said Ryan. “But you forgot the hot sauce.”

  I reached for my iced tea and took a long drink, wishing I could swish it around in my mouth a couple of times and spit it out.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s different. I suppose it’s an acquired taste.”

  “You’ll end up loving them,” said Ryan. “Have another.”

  “No thanks,” I told him. “They’re all yours. I’m saving room for my shrimp.”

  I wanted to split the bill with Ryan, and offered, but he wouldn’t let me.

  “Tonight’s on me,” he said. “You can take the next one.”

  We ambled along the concrete walkway behind the line of restaurants, watching some of the boat owners, who actually lived on their boats, come home from work. Several men were in suits, carrying briefcases. They fumbled in their pockets for keys to the padlocks and opened the gates leading to their particular dock. A woman with a dry-cleaning bag thrown over one shoulder greeted a cat that waited for her on a deck chair.

  “Are you going to miss the water when you go to Iowa?” I asked Ryan.

  “Probably,” he said. “We have some relatives in Maine, though. Chances are I’ll go up there a lot over summers. I’ll be busy in theater at Iowa, though. That and writing. Hope so, anyway. I want to keep my hand in theater in case writing doesn’t work out and vice versa. What did you say you’re going to major in?”

  “Counseling,” I told him. “It’s part of the education curriculum.”

  “Why do you want to do that?” he asked.

  “I think I’d enjoy it, and I might be good at it, I don’t know. I think it would be satisfying work, if I am.”

  “For some people, maybe,” said Ryan. “After getting a taste of the limelight, though, wouldn’t you like to be more … well, visible?”

  “Writing’s rather invisible,” I countered.

  He chuckled. “Not if you get published. Get your picture on book jackets. Like I said, I’d like to see where I can … well … make a splash. I don’t want to get stuck playing bit parts the rest of my life, but I don’t want to end up just writing obituaries, either.”

  The breeze picked up, and I wished I hadn’t left my sweater in the car. Ryan pulled me closer and covered my bare arm with one hand. It was warm. If this had been Patrick, I would have snuggled up against him. Maybe we would each have thrust one hand in the hip pocket of the other. I couldn’t quite imagine doing that with Ryan.

  We sat on a bench in a litt
le plaza and watched the boats and the sky, talking about what Ryan would be doing over the summer—working at an uncle’s hardware store when he wasn’t up in Maine.

  At one point, when the wind blew a lock of hair in my face, he reached over and tucked it behind one ear. “I think I liked your hair better the way you wore it in the third act,” he said. “Back away from your face.”

  “I sort of like it the way it is now,” I told him. “Long and loose.”

  He asked if I wanted to go somewhere and get some coffee and dessert, but I could feel the evening petering out, so I said I was still catching up on sleep and was getting a little tired.

  “When can we get together again? Friday?” he asked as we drove along the parkway.

  “Let me get back to you on that,” I said. “The girlfriends have something planned that night, I think.”

  “Saturday?”

  “That might work. I’ll call you,” I said.

  He must have felt the way girls have felt for decades when a guy says “I’ll call you” but has no intention of doing so. I could tell by his silence that he was already getting the picture.

  If he was, then I was glad that somebody knew what was happening here, because I sure didn’t. Ryan was good-looking—Penny had called him hot—he was smart, talented, motivated, and … ?

  I don’t know. Is there a term for when your chemistry just doesn’t click? I guess I wasn’t that into him because I could tell he wasn’t that into me—into me as I am right now, anyway. The more I thought about it, the more controlling I realized he was. Not controlling in the way Ron had been with Faith, but he sure had a list of things he wanted to change about me—my bowling, my golf, my diet, my career, my hair… .

  “Well,” he said when he pulled up to my house, “I guess whether we go out again depends on you.”