Alice on Her Way

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  “Hey!” he said. “How are ya?”

  “Hurting,” I said, surprised. “I got my braces tightened this afternoon.”

  “Oh. Bummer. Bad, huh?”

  “The orthodontist graduated from Sadist School.”

  Patrick laughed. “How much longer does the torture go on?”

  “A year more if I’m lucky. A year and a half if I’m not.”

  “Well, on a brighter note, I wondered if you’d like to go to the Jack of Hearts with me,” he said.

  I was totally speechless. My first thought was He still likes me! My second was It’s February second! The dance is on the eleventh! What is he, Clueless in Silver Spring?

  “You’re a little late, Patrick,” I said. “I’m going with Sam.”

  “Oh.” Patrick was quiet a moment, then he said, “Did he ask you or what?”

  Now, that made me mad. As though the only way I’d get to a dance was to do the asking. “Yes, he asked!” I told him.

  “Well then, I guess the answer’s no?” said Patrick.

  My jaw dropped and I sat up on one elbow. What did he think? That he could just ask me whenever and I’d drop the other guy like a hot potato and go with him? “Of course it’s no!” I said. “I want to go with Sam.”

  “Oh. Well, sure. I guess I don’t expect you to back out of it,” he said. And then, after another pause, “Maybe I’m just wondering where that leaves me.”

  Up a creek without a paddle? I wanted to say. Then I realized that maybe he was afraid I’d taken the initiative and asked Sam. Maybe he was wondering if I’d chosen Sam instead of him. “Don’t worry, Patrick,” I said. “There are at least a dozen girls who would give anything to go with you.”

  “Well, that’s good to know. You want to give me a list?” he said.

  I laughed. He laughed. A little. “Well, anyway, have a good time at the dance,” he said. And hung up.

  I couldn’t quite get over it, though. He must still like me! He’d been thinking about me anyway, and I wondered what he’d been thinking. What he remembered. I wondered if we still remembered the same things.

  On the one hand, it was exciting having two boys ask me to the dance, but on the other, I wondered why Patrick hadn’t asked me sooner. Had his first choice turned him down? And who did I really want to go with, him or Sam?

  Partly, though, I was thinking that maybe the reason Patrick hadn’t asked me earlier was that he’s one of the busiest guys I know. He works hard at everything—school, band, track…. Once he entered the accelerated program, he started taking two more courses than the rest of us, and it seems so unnecessary. What’s the rush?

  And yet I liked the way he seemed to have his life—well, the next few years anyway—all mapped out. He knew what he wanted to do and where he wanted to go. Gwen’s the same way. Already she’s thinking about where she wants to go to college and where she might get a scholarship. When I listen to her talk sometimes, I panic.

  Why don’t I know where I want to go to college? Why don’t I know exactly what I want to do or be? I can remember when I thought I wanted to be a basketball player or a chef. A veterinarian, even! I like working on the newspaper, though, so maybe I should study journalism. And I like people—I like trying to understand why they do what they do—so maybe I should be a psychologist. Those are the two things that stick with me the most.

  “If you go for a psychology degree, you can get either a bachelor of arts or a bachelor of science,” Gwen told me.

  “What’s the difference?” I asked.

  “If you choose the BA degree, you’ll study people-oriented stuff, like sociology. If you choose the BS, you’ll take a lot more math and science.”

  “Bachelor of arts!” I croaked. Gwen has a scientific mind, but I don’t. I wouldn’t even be making it through Algebra II if she weren’t helping me. The teacher goes too fast, and I’m too scared to get half of what he says. Sometimes I feel I don’t even understand enough to ask an intelligent question.

  “I wish I were more like you,” I said, staring down at her brown hand with the long, elegant nails. That’s another way we’re different—Gwen puts a lot of time into her nails. I put a coat of clear polish on mine once a week and call it done. “You know just what you want to do with your life.”

  “Not!” said Gwen.

  “I thought you wanted to major in music and become a singer.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’d only want to do that if I could become another Kathleen Battle or Jessye Norman.”

  “Who?”

  “Concert singers. Classical, spirituals, opera… And my chances of that are about one in a million.” She shook her head. “If, after all the training, I just ended up directing a local choir, I don’t think I could be happy. So now I’m thinking of going into medicine, with music on the side.”

  I let out my breath and stared at the doodles I’d been making on my work sheet. I’d drawn a large oval at the bottom of the page, a smaller one beside it.

  “What are those supposed to be?” asked Gwen.

  “Brains,” I said. “Yours and mine.”

  6

  Mothers

  On the bus the next day Pamela told us she was taking a driver’s ed course on Saturdays. We were all trying to fit that thirty-hour course in somewhere. “Do you realize that once we get our licenses, we can drive to school?” she said. “No more getting up early and standing out in the freezing cold.”

  Elizabeth loosened the scarf around her neck. “Providing one of us gets a car.”

  “Details, details,” said Pamela. “Listen. Mom has been nagging me to come over, and I don’t want to go alone. Will you come with me?”

  “Why? You spent New Year’s Eve with her, didn’t you?” asked Liz.

  “Yes, but it was a disaster. Now she says she’s turned her spare room into my room, and I don’t want to live with her!”

  I didn’t want to go, and I don’t think Liz did either. But we both hated to see Pamela holding a grudge for the rest of her life.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Uh… this afternoon, maybe? She says she found a dress for me at Nordstrom to wear to the dance. It’s blackmail, of course, because if I want it, I have to come get it.”

  “What color?”

  “Black and red. It sounds good, the way she described it, and she gets an employee’s discount. What are you going to wear?”

  “Mom and I found a rose crepe dress at Hecht’s,” Elizabeth said. “Mom’s taking up the hem, though, making it shorter. What about you, Alice?”

  To tell the truth, I had opened my closet door, rummaged through the hangers, then closed it again. It was just too much to think about. I like having nice clothes, I just hate the trying on and deciding.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Probably the bridesmaid’s dress I wore at Crystal’s wedding. It’s cocktail length.”

  Both Pamela and Elizabeth turned and looked at me. “Alice, that was two years ago,” said Liz.

  “So?” I said.

  “So you’ve grown!” said Pamela. “You’ve got breasts! Have you tried that dress on lately?”

  I had a sinking feeling. I remembered that even the backless dress I had worn to Lester’s New Year’s Eve party had been too tight across the stomach.

  “The dress I wore for Dad’s wedding, then?” I pleaded.

  “With spaghetti straps? Isn’t that a little too… too… cold for February?” said Elizabeth.

  “Too summery,” said Pamela. “Definitely too summery.”

  I stared straight ahead. “I’ll think of something,” I said.

  “How do we get to your mother’s?” Elizabeth asked Pamela.

  “We’ll take the city bus straight up Georgia Avenue to the Glenmont Apartments,” Pamela told us. “I’ll call and tell her we’re coming.”

  It was half raining, half sleeting when we left school that afternoon. We crowded under the Plexiglas shelter at the city bus stop, our hair wet, fingers cold. Whe
n the bus came, we trooped to the back and sat together, huddled for warmth, and watched the office buildings give way to apartment complexes as we went north.

  “I’m not looking forward to this,” Pamela said after a while. “I’m so mixed up about her, I don’t know how I feel.”

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “I want things back like they used to be, and I know that can’t happen. On one hand, I’m worried about her, and on the other, I don’t even want to talk to her. That’s where you guys come in. If I clam up, you do the talking,” Pamela said.

  “It’s you she most wants to see, Pam,” I said.

  “She’s the only mom you’ve got,” said Elizabeth.

  “Lucky me,” said Pamela.

  There were several buildings in the Glenmont Apartments complex, and Mrs. Jones was in the second building set back from the street. We got off the bus and slogged our way up the sidewalk, then stomped our feet on the hall carpet when we got inside.

  “It’s up one flight and to the left,” said Pamela.

  We knocked, and within seconds, Mrs. Jones answered. I’ll bet Pamela didn’t tell her that Liz and I were coming along. I wasn’t sure if she was glad or disappointed.

  “Well, Alice! Elizabeth! What a nice surprise!” she said. “Oh, you girls are soaked. Come in and let me get some towels.”

  We went inside and slipped off our shoes.

  The thing about Mrs. Jones is, she thinks she’s a teenager. She dresses more like Pamela’s sister than her mom—skintight jeans, stretchy tops, chunky or delicate jewelry, whatever’s in fashion.

  We stood in the hallway in our stocking feet while she produced towels, and we dried our hair and shook the water off our jackets.

  “So… this is your apartment!” said Liz.

  “Yes! Let me show you around,” said Mrs. Jones. “I was really lucky to get this one, because it overlooks the woods back there. I even saw a fox the other day, can you imagine?”

  The furniture was sort of retro—art deco style, but she’d mixed in a few things from Crate and Barrel, and it worked. The L-shaped living/dining room had a pass-through bar leading to the kitchen. There was a bathroom and two bedrooms down the hall.

  One was for Pamela’s mom, with a double bed, a dresser, and a chair. The other had a desk in the corner, like an office for Mrs. Jones, but the rest of the room… We stared. The twin bed for Pamela had a quilted spread, a white pillow with P-A-M-E-L-A in big green letters, a heart-shaped pillow, a fuzzy dog with big eyes and floppy ears, and a bunch of helium balloons tied to a bedpost. One read WELCOME! Another read LOVE YA! One even said MISS YOU. I could tell by Pamela’s face that she was trying not to cry.

  Mrs. Jones noticed it too because she said quickly, “For when you want to spend the night.” And then, “I’ve got your dress right here.” We were relieved that we could focus on something else as Mrs. Jones reached into the closet for the box from Nordstrom.

  The dress was really hot—a black bottom and red lacy top with a red cloth rose at the waist.

  “Detachable, of course,” said Mrs. Jones. “Try it on, and we’ll be the judges. Can I get you girls anything? Pepsi? Tea?” I’d noticed a bottle of beer on the counter when we walked in.

  “I’ll take some tea, thanks,” said Elizabeth.

  “Tea for me,” I told her.

  Pamela took the dress in the bathroom and closed the door. Elizabeth and I went back to the living area and sat demurely on the sofa, sipping the tea that Mrs. Jones brought us, the clinking of cups on saucers seeming too loud and out of place.

  Pamela came out at last, and even barefoot, we could tell that the dress was just right for her.

  “I can get it in a size smaller, but that looks about perfect to me,” said her mother. “Do you like it?”

  It was obvious Pamela liked it. She looked great. I think that what her mom was really asking was Do you like me? Do you still love me? Can we start all over again? Which is probably why Pamela just said flatly, “It’s okay.”

  Mrs. Jones winced a little. “If you think it’s too long…”

  “I’ll see,” said Pamela, and went in the bathroom again to take it off. When she came back, she sat on the sofa between us, as though she needed protection on both sides.

  “So!” said her mother, looking us over. “How’s school?”

  Pamela didn’t answer.

  “Pam’s joined the Drama Club,” I said, desperate to contribute something.

  “Oh, Pamela, that’s wonderful! You’d be so good onstage!” her mother said. “I’d come to every performance and clap like mad.”

  That was just what Pamela didn’t want. “I’m not in anything, Mom,” she said. “I’m just working backstage.”

  “But you liked the stage back in grade school!”

  “That was grade school, and a lot has changed since then,” Pamela said coldly.

  “Only seniors get parts in the senior play,” I said quickly.

  “Well, when she’s a senior, then,” said Mrs. Jones, and lifted her teacup to her lips.

  It was painful to watch. Painful to be there. Mrs. Jones was trying so hard, I could tell. But they were like magnetic poles. The closer she got to Pamela, the more Pamela backed away. Every lull in the conversation bothered them both, and Pamela’s mother immediately tried to fill it with the first thing that came to her head.

  I put that down in my mental notebook: One way to tell if you’re really comfortable with a person is if you can be quiet together sometimes and not feel awkward. If you don’t feel obliged to say something brilliant or funny or surprising or cool. You can just be together. You can just be.

  Finally Pamela said we had to go and got up. She said we were going to study for a big test. She stood right there and lied to her mom, and we all knew it was a lie, even Mrs. Jones.

  “Well then, I guess I’d better let you go,” she said. “But you know you have a special place here now, Pamela. Whenever you want to come. In fact, you could have a sleepover right here! I’ve got an inflatable mattress!”

  Pamela reached for her shoes, and Mrs. Jones brought our jackets.

  “Thanks for the dress,” Pamela said, tucking the box under her arm, and we moved toward the door.

  “Anytime, Pamela,” her mom said. “Anything at all I can do. Have a wonderful time at the dance. Tell Brian hello for me.”

  Once we got outside in the clear sharp air, it felt as though we’d been holding our breath in that apartment. We gulped in the rain, letting it splash on our faces, and it felt wonderful to get away.

  “I can’t stand it,” Pamela said.

  “She’s trying, at least,” said Elizabeth.

  “It’s all so phony!” Pamela went on. “‘Come anytime!’ she said. Ha! How do I know I wouldn’t walk in and find some man there?”

  The fact was, she didn’t. Pamela had to trust. And there just didn’t seem to be much of that left anymore.

  When I got back to our house, Sylvia wasn’t home yet. I went upstairs and started going through the clothes in my closet again.

  The bridesmaid dress from Crystal’s wedding wouldn’t do, even if it had fit. It had “bridesmaid” written all over it. The backless dress wouldn’t do either, even if it fit across the stomach. Definitely a dress for warm weather. Frantically, I began throwing all kinds of outfits across my bed, trying to see if I could make anything work.

  “I’m home!” Sylvia called from downstairs, and I heard a door close.

  “So am I,” I called back. “Mayday! Mayday!”

  There was a pause, and then I heard her footsteps on the stairs.

  “Is that an SOS?” she called. Then, staring at my clothes-covered bed, “Are those coming or going?”

  “The Jack of Hearts dance is in nine days, and I don’t have a dress that works. Some of them don’t even fit,” I said.

  Sylvia came over and picked up a few hangers, looking the clothes over.

  “Know what I think?” she said. “I think we need
to go shopping.”

  “You mean, buy a dress?”

  “Absolutely. And I know a neat little shop on Wisconsin Avenue over in Bethesda. Should we go tomorrow after school?”

  “Could we?”

  “It’s a date,” she said.

  And there I was, shopping with my stepmom. I figured she’d go right over to the rack and start picking out dresses she thought would do, but she hung back and wanted to see what I liked. After we’d looked at a dress together, she’d comment on the color or the fabric, and when we’d narrowed the selection down to four, I set off for the fitting room to try them on.

  I ended up with a midnight blue dress that had sort of iridescent stripes in the skirt. When I walked, when the material moved, the folds in the skirt looked blue and the creases black. It had short slit sleeves and a scoop neck, and the flouncy skirt flared at the bottom like a tulip, swishing as I walked.

  I’d had my eye on a poppy red dress with a slit in back and an off-the-shoulder neckline. But Sylvia showed me how the polyester was stiff and didn’t drape as well on my body, whereas the midnight blue dress, in rayon, almost seemed to dance with me, swaying where it was supposed to sway. When we discovered it was one third off the price, we beamed at each other.

  “Oh, Sylvia, thank you!” I said. “Thanks for being you and not talking all the time and trying too hard.”

  “What?” said Sylvia.

  As the saleswoman went off to wrap the dress in tissue paper, I told Sylvia about our visit to Pamela’s mom and how everything the two of them said seemed to be wrong somehow.

  “Hey, I’m a new mother, what do I know?” Sylvia said. “I’m just beginning to get the hang of it too. But I’ll tell you this: You are one cool babe in that dress. Or should I have said ‘hot’?”

  “Cool will do,” I said, and gave her a hug.

  7

  The-New-Girl-Who-Came-to-Learn-About-Sex

  If Pamela hated visiting her mother, it was nothing compared to my dread of that “Our Whole Lives” class. I mean, I wouldn’t even know any of those kids. I’d never gotten involved in any teen activities at church. I went to an occasional service with Dad and Sylvia, and that was it. I was going to stand out like a pretzel in a bowl of potato chips. Everyone would know everybody else, and I’d be The-New-Girl-Who-Came-to-Learn-About-Sex.