Some kids, of course, said they never worried at all.
“What? Me worry?” one guy said, trying to imitate the face on those old collector’s copies of Mad magazine.
But a surprising number gave me straight answers, and when I had collected all I could, I wrote down the different responses. Then I put a check mark beside each response every time a student named it as a worry. I arranged the list so that the worry with the most check marks was number one, the worry with the least was number eleven. Here’s what I got:
1. Death and dying, me or someone I love
2. Being accepted by my friends
3. Grades and getting into college
4. Pain, surgery, hospitals, needles, etc.
5. The way I look
6. Finding the right person to marry
7. Being raped or kidnapped
8. Car wrecks
9. Change
10. Getting pregnant or a sexually transmitted disease
11. War or a terrorist attack
I showed the list to Sam the next day. “What do you think?” I said.
“Numbers one, two, six, and eight, yeah,” he answered. “Numbers four, five, seven, and ten, never.”
“What’s the worst thing you can imagine?” I asked.
“Something happening to Mom. It’s the ‘only-child syndrome,’ I guess,” he said. “What about you?”
“It’s already happened,” I told him. “I already lost mine.”
Elizabeth’s very careful when she gets dressed about what goes with what. “Do these colors clash?” she asks us. “Can I wear a print with this belt?” “Should I tuck this in or wear it out?” “Buttoned or unbuttoned?”
So when we were figuring out what to pack for New York, Liz brought over an armload of clothes, dumped them on my bed, and we began. “Which goes best with these pants?” she asked, holding up two sweaters. “This one or that one?”
I’d been mulling over the stuff in my own suitcase. I’d kept it open on my desk, putting things in or taking stuff out for several days in hopes that by the time we left on Friday, the clouds would part and a voice from heaven would tell me what to leave behind.
“Do you figure it will be cold enough for sweaters?” I asked. So far April had been especially mild, with everything blooming early.
“It’s always colder in New York than you think,” said Elizabeth.
I wouldn’t know. I was studying the two sweaters she was holding when the cell phone in my backpack went off. Not Sam, I hoped. I really wanted to do most of my packing now and had set aside the whole evening for it. I was afraid he might want to come over.
“The boyfriend?” Liz asked. “Don’t answer.”
But I couldn’t do that. I reached down on the floor for my backpack and checked the number. It was Pamela.
“Where are you?” she asked, almost spitting out the words. “Are you home?”
“Yes,” I said, puzzled. “And Liz is here.”
“I’m coming over,” Pamela said, and the phone went dead.
I looked at Liz. “It was Pamela. What did I do? She sounds furious about something.”
“I could hear her clear over here,” said Liz. “I guess we’ll soon find out.”
Mentally going over everything I’d said to Pamela in the past couple of days, I tried to remember anything that might have set her off. Anything she might have taken as a snub. Anything she’d told me in private that I might have somehow passed along to someone else.
Pamela must have run all the way over because she got there sooner than we expected. It seemed like only a minute had passed before I heard the doorbell ring and, only seconds after that, the incessant knocking.
Sylvia’s footsteps sounded on the floor below, hurrying to answer. Then Pamela’s footsteps running up the stairs. She didn’t even say hello to Sylvia.
When Pamela burst into my bedroom, I could tell she had been crying, but she looked as though she could tear the place apart with her teeth. I was almost afraid to get too close.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Mom!” she cried, her voice shaking with rage. “She’s going to New York!”
“What?” I said.
Liz didn’t get it. “She’s moving to New York?”
“She’s going with us!” Pamela shrieked. “She called the school and volunteered to go as one of the chaperones. I just found out!”
16
We’re Off!
We could only stare in disbelief.
“How did she even know about the trip?” I asked.
“I guess she came over to the school and picked up a newspaper. She signed up a month ago and just told me! And she told the office that I could room with her, so they’ve put someone else in with you!” Pamela was practically shouting.
“And she didn’t even ask you first?” I questioned.
“No!” Pamela cried. “I hate her! I just hate her! And I won’t room with her. I won’t!”
“Well, you can still sleep in our room!” Elizabeth said defiantly. “We’ll sleep three in a bed or make a place for you on the floor if we have to.”
“Yes!” I said, feeling angry at Mrs. Jones too. We’d had this all planned! “It doesn’t matter what she told the school, you don’t have to room with her. We asked first! Just don’t!”
“I won’t!” said Pamela. “I’m not even going to talk to her. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t even know her. When she called and told me, I hung up on her.” Pamela sat down to calm herself.
We were quiet for a minute or two. I knew exactly how Pamela felt—Dad signing me up for those church classes without asking me first. Except I didn’t hate him.
“It’s not like she’ll be all alone if you don’t room with her,” said Liz, relenting a little. “She’ll have other parents to talk to.”
“Who cares?” said Pamela. “Did she care that I was alone after she left us—Dad and me?”
We sat there trying to make sense of it.
“Do you think she’s checking up on you? Afraid of what you might do?” I asked, aware that Mrs. Jones didn’t know the half of it.
“If she’s so worried about what I might do in New York, why didn’t she worry about what I might have been doing the two years I didn’t have a mother at all? No, she sees it as a chance to ruin a good thing, that’s what!”
Strangely, I felt a pang of sympathy for Mrs. Jones. “Maybe she’s just trying to get close to you,” I said.
“The only way I’ll feel closer to her is if we stay ten miles apart,” said Pamela. Her breathing began to slow and her shoulders slumped.
“What did your dad say about it?” Liz asked her.
“He says that just shows how impulsive she is. She does things on the spur of the moment.”
“How is your dad, Pamela?” I asked. “Is he still dating that nurse?”
“No, not for a while.” Pamela shook her head. “You know what I think? Crazy as it sounds, in some way I think he still loves her. And the only way they can seem to get close is to scream and yell at each other. I mean, is it possible that it’s like… like a substitute for sex or something? All that emotion and fighting over the phone?”
“This is deep, deep stuff,” said Liz. “They should see a marriage counselor.”
“I mean it!” said Pamela. “It’s like they get off on fighting with each other. Like they get some kind of high from all that screaming.”
It was possible, I thought. We sat there shaking our heads. Finally Liz held up the two sweaters again. “This one… or that one?” she asked Pamela.
Pamela looked them over. “Ditch them both and bring something with a plunging neckline, Liz. We are going to party, and Mom’s going to be sorry she ever came,” she said.
There was a short assembly the day before our trip, for everyone going to New York. Mr. Corona, one of the history teachers, was handing out printouts of rules and regulations.
“Turn to page two,” he was saying, “and chec
k to see if we’ve signed you up for your choice of activity Saturday night. Everyone turn to page two….”
Pamela had cramps, so she skipped the meeting, but the rest of us were there.
“Hi, roommate,” Molly said when she sat down beside me next to the aisle.
“What?” I said.
“I just found out I’m rooming with you in New York,” she said, her big blue eyes smiling. “You and Gwen and Liz.”
“Terrific!” I said. “We wondered who the fourth girl would be!” Then I told her about Pam and her mom.
“We’ll squeeze Pamela in with us, don’t worry,” said Molly. “It won’t be the first time I’ve slept on the floor.”
Ron and Faith came in and sat down in the row behind us. They had obviously been arguing. Molly rolled her eyes at me. Every so often we got snatches of their conversation behind us.
“…thought I’d made that clear,” Ron was saying.
“…too late to get my deposit back, and Mom says I have to go.” Faith sounded on the verge of tears.
More whispers.
Ron: “…either we both go or we both stay.”
Faith: “…can’t help it, Ron!”
Ron: “You want to be with Harry. Admit it!”
The art teacher in the audience, who was also chaperoning, turned around to see who was talking, and for a while neither Faith nor Ron said anything. Then the whispers started again.
Faith: “…but you told me you were going!”
Ron: “Well, I’m telling you now I’m not. I couldn’t get the money. What I think is that you want to go without me.”
“Ron!”
More whispers. Whimpers. Mutterings. Protests….
“…so you’ve got to choose.” Ron was getting up.
“Ron!” Faith said again.
“Choose,” he said again, and went out.
All I could hear after that was Faith’s quiet crying and the drone of Mr. Corona’s voice down in front.
We fully expected Faith to back out of the trip and were surprised to see her get out of her mom’s car early Friday morning and board one of the buses to New York.
Mrs. Jones had been assigned to the other bus, we found out upon asking, so we promptly followed Faith to bus number two, where she sat, tear-streaked, by a window.
Ron stood outside in the parking lot, hands in his pockets, staring without expression up at her window. Faith’s mom was standing outside her car, arms folded, making sure, I guess, that Faith didn’t get off the bus.
“She hates him!” Faith said to me, weeping. “Both my parents do. They’d be happy if I never saw Ron again.”
They’re not the only ones, I thought.
Faith dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “He’s going to be so lonely here by himself all weekend,” she said, and her nose sounded clogged. “I told him I’d call three times a day, and he said not to bother. He’s got this idea that I like Harry.”
“Who doesn’t?” said Molly. “But he’s gay.”
That was news to me. Harry, a senior this year, was one of the nicer guys in stage crew.
“I told Ron that, but he says Harry’s gay till he gets me alone, and then I’ll find out how hetero he really is.”
“Look, Faith. You’re going to New York with us, and you’re going to have a good time,” Molly told her. “Look around you! You’re surrounded by friends!” Faith gave her a weak smile, and Molly squeezed her shoulder.
It was barely light out, but the bus was filling up fast. And here came Pamela’s mother, looking for her. Seeing us sitting near the back, she smiled bravely and waved, then slowly maneuvered down the aisle toward us. She was holding a bag of something. Her smile looked unnatural, as though she had to hold it on to her face with her back teeth.
A group of noisy guys were trying to squeeze a carry-on bag on the luggage shelf, separating us from Mrs. Jones.
“Here, Pamela!” she called, trying to reach around them. “I made you girls some caramel corn for the trip.”
There was Mrs. Jones, holding the bag. There we were, sitting like deaf-mutes. It was too embarrassing. I finally reached around the boys and took the bag. “Thanks,” I said.
“See you in New York!” she chirped, her voice wavering a little as she studied her daughter. Then she turned and went back up the aisle.
Liz looked at Pamela staring out the window. Then she looked at Faith, silently weeping at another. “Some party!” she said to me, and we gave each other a sad smile.
I think we were all relieved when the buses finally started up and rolled away from the school. But suddenly I jerked to attention and looked around. “Where’s Sam?” I said. I stood up and tried to see who all was on our bus. “Has anyone seen Sam Mayer?” I called out.
Justin, sitting toward the middle with Jill, turned around and said, “He came running out of the building just before we started up, and one of the teachers waved him toward the other bus.”
“Well, that stinks!” said Liz.
I was disappointed at first but decided Sam and I could ride together on the bus back. We wouldn’t be leaving New York until five Sunday afternoon and wouldn’t get back to the school till around ten. It would be a lot more fun going on a long bus ride with a boyfriend after dark, I figured. A lot more fun.
Pamela began to perk up now that her mom was on the other bus. Brian and some of the guys we knew were sitting behind us. Brian had a brochure about a raunchy strip show in New York, and he and the guys were looking at it and laughing. Pamela kept asking to see it up close. Finally Brian dangled it over the seat in front of her face, and we got a quick glimpse. Pamela laughed and tried to grab the brochure away from him. Brian pulled it back.
Some of the girls down near the front started to sing, and then someone gave the driver a CD of the music the band had played at the Jack of Hearts dance. As the music came over the sound system I thought about the way Sam had held me close to his chest that night, and I began to miss him.
Faith, too, was probably thinking of the dance and of Ron. She had a tissue wadded up in her hand. Her mom was right, I think, to insist that she come on the trip, Ron or no Ron. If Faith had been my daughter, I would have driven her to the school too and stood out there to be sure she didn’t get off the bus. Maybe this would give Faith a chance to see that there was life without Ron. Maybe she would have such a good time in New York that things would never be the same again! Or… what if things were even worse for her once she got back?
17
The Big Apple
I figured New York couldn’t be much different from Chicago, but… the people! All the people! We must have entered Manhattan over the lunch hour, because people were pouring out of buildings like ants, walking all spread out on the sidewalks.
Men were unloading racks of clothes off the backs of trucks, rolling them down the street into stores. Messengers in sleek biking outfits wove in and out of traffic. Women in jeans and boots, in silk coats and heels, were rushing down the avenues. There were people of every color, and everyone was in a hurry. Cabdrivers honking, policemen whistling, vendors calling, friends laughing…
As soon as I stepped off my bus, Sam was waiting. He grabbed and kissed me in front of my friends. We stood in line together in the Holiday Inn. I couldn’t tell if the manager was glad to see us or not. I’m sure he was glad to fill up his rooms. He just didn’t want to fill them up with us, a high school history group from Silver Spring.
“I missed you,” Sam whispered in my ear.
“We’ll ride back together,” I promised.
“It’ll be a lot more fun than sitting with Tony Osler,” said Sam. “He’s not as pretty either.”
Mrs. Jones looked like a fish out of water. Pamela was standing in line with Gwen and Molly and Liz, totally ignoring her mother. Mrs. Jones waited off to one side, smiling that smile that just looked too happy to be real. I tried not to look at them. It was too painful.
Mr. Corona stood with the clerk at the registration de
sk and called out the names for each room, handing out keys. In twos and threes and fours, people picked up their bags and headed for the elevators, and the line began to dwindle.
“Justin, Mark, Tim, and Sam,” Mr. Corona called.
Sam kissed me again and went up to the desk for his key.
“Pamela Jones and Mrs. Jones,” called Mr. Corona.
I saw Pamela tense up, her back rigid.
“That’s us, Pam. Let’s go, honey,” her mom said. Pamela didn’t move.
Elizabeth nudged her. “Go on. You have to sign in, but you don’t have to stay there,” she whispered.
Pamela walked stiffly up to the desk for her key, then over to the elevator, walking about six feet away from her mom.
“She looks like she’s going to the gallows,” said Gwen.
When Gwen and Liz and Molly and I got up to our room on the seventh floor, I ran over to the window to look at the New York skyline. I pulled back the drapes and found myself staring at the air-conditioning system on the roof of the building next door. There was only a small piece of sky farther on. I wheeled back around, disappointed, but Gwen and Molly broke into laughter.
“Welcome to New York!” Molly said. “What did you expect at student rates?”
Liz and I said we’d squeeze Pamela into our bed, so Molly and Gwen took the bed nearest the door. We dumped our bags wherever we found an empty space—nobody bothered with drawers—and we grabbed what we figured we’d need for the rest of the day.
We were supposed to meet back in the lobby at one, pick up a boxed lunch, then board the buses again for a trip to the Tenement Museum to see how early immigrants lived when they came to New York City.
It would be a full three days. Tomorrow, Ellis Island; tomorrow night, a play; Sunday, the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the UN, then the long trip home. Meals would be pretty much on the run, they’d told us.
We were just getting ready to leave the room when Pamela came dashing in.
“Where’s your bag?” I asked.
She pointed to her backpack and dropped it in one corner. “I took a bunch of things out of my suitcase and stuffed them in here,” she said. “So technically, I’m rooming with Mom, but I’m sleeping here.”
Alice on Her Way Page 12