by Ann Hood
The problem I was working on was: “A logger exchanges a set L of lumber for a set M of money. The cardinality of set M is 100 and each element is worth $1.” And I was doing the first part, which was to make 100 dots representing the elements of the set M. It took a very long time to make 100 dots.
“Trudy,” Dad said.
“I can’t. I’m counting.”
“Trudy,” Dad said again.
“Dad! I’m counting!”
But then I realized that Dad was actually talking to me. Or trying to. I wrote the number 76 super light near my dots and looked up.
There was Dad in his coat and hat, fanning four of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.
“Today’s the day,” I said.
Dad grinned, as happy as me.
* * *
* * *
Having those tickets made almost everything seem all right. It was like they gave me special powers, and I could do anything I set my heart on doing. I got to be Juliet when the sixth grade did the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet for the May Assembly. Kenny Prescott was Romeo, so I got to stare into his eyes with those impossibly long lashes and listen to him say things like, “O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!” to me. And I got over two dozen signatures on my petition to the vice principal to let us wear pants to school.
And then Michelle actually sat with me at lunch, even though it was only for the three days that Kim was home sick with tonsillitis. Still, we talked and laughed like we used to, and she let me try on her Yardley lipstick. She even said that if she didn’t go to Acapulco she would come to the concert.
Kids came up to me in the halls and said, “How did you get those tickets?” And they called me Trudy, not Ger-trude.
“Oh,” I said, all nonchalant, “my dad got them for me.”
I started planning what to wear to the concert, even though it was still months from now. I had to look cool just in case Paul noticed me somehow. My first-choice outfit was bell-bottoms and a peasant blouse, if I could convince my mother to buy me a pair of bell-bottoms, which in her opinion looked ridiculous. My second choice was a minidress with big squares in four different colors like one I’d seen in Seventeen magazine. This would only be possible if I could convince my mother to let me wear a minidress, which was unlikely. Still, I cut out the picture and stuck it on the fridge right where Mom would see it every time she had to open the refrigerator door, which was a million times a day.
The weather started to turn warm and everything looked so green—the grass and all the leaves—and sometimes I felt like I was floating instead of walking, like my feet didn’t even touch the ground. On one of these perfect spring afternoons, Peter ran up to me as I was walking home from school. His glasses must have broken because there was a piece of white tape on one side, holding them together.
“My dad’s trying to get tickets to the Beatles concert, too,” Peter said when he caught up to me. “Maybe we can all go together?”
The last thing in the world I wanted was to have Peter and his father come with us. That would be enough to change Michelle’s mind again.
“Gee, I don’t think so,” I said. “We’re all going to Durgin-Park and stuff first so . . .”
Peter looked crushed, so I said, “If you get tickets I can check with my folks, but I’m pretty sure our plans are airtight.”
“What songs do you think they’ll sing?” Peter asked me after a short awkward silence passed.
“Definitely ‘Yesterday,’” I said. I had been wondering this very same thing and scribbled some possible song lists in my purple notebook.
“Definitely,” Peter said.
“They might play some old ones,” I said. This was my wish, that the Beatles would sing “She Loves You” and “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and “Love Me Do,” all the songs that have made me their number one fan.
“Maybe,” Peter said.
More awkward silence, then Peter said in a soft voice, “Do you think they’d ever record a song by a new songwriter?”
“Sure. They do it all the time. ‘Anna,’ and ‘Chains,’ and ‘Twist and Shout’ and—”
“No, I mean a song by someone who’s not famous yet. Someone they’ve never even heard of.”
I shrugged. “I guess. If the song’s any good they might.”
“But the song would have to be like the best love song ever written probably,” Peter said.
Luckily, my street was the next one.
“Probably,” I said, half-smiling, and turned at the corner.
“Bye, Trudy!” Peter called after me.
Once I was alone, I felt all floaty again. I could smell flowers and hear birds and the sun was just the right amount of warm.
Inside, Mom was at the stove, putting salt and pepper and onion soup mix on a pot roast.
“Oh Trudy,” she said when I walked in, and she sounded like she was not happy to see me.
I reached for a cookie from the cookie jar, fully expecting her to tell me I could have an apple or a banana but not a cookie before dinner. But she didn’t say that. She just stood there with her frilly yellow apron over a lilac sweater set, looking all sad and worried. I poured a glass of milk and grabbed a second cookie before she changed her mind and forced fruit on me.
“Trudy,” she said. “Dad and Peterson closed that big deal they’ve been working on.”
“Okay,” I said.
“And they are going to Japan to seal the deal with the Japanese company.”
“Great,” I said.
“In August,” Mom said.
Just like that, my throat went dry.
“When in August?” I managed to ask.
“Dad is so disappointed—”
“You mean, we’re not going to the Beatles concert?” I said.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mom said.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run out of that kitchen and keep running until I couldn’t run anymore. But all I could do was stand there like I was stuck to that spot, feeling the exact opposite of floaty.
CHAPTER SIX
Can’t Buy Me Love
Things that make me angry:
Cream of tuna, which is Bumble Bee tuna in cream sauce with canned peas and carrots, served on toast triangles. It is exactly like cat food.
Speaking of cats, we can’t have one. Or a dog. Because Dad is allergic. Except my mom and I suspect he isn’t really allergic and uses that as an excuse to not get a cat or dog.
Not being able to Hula-Hoop without dropping it for as long as Theresa Mazzoni.
Most days, Theresa Mazzoni.
How President Johnson won’t end the Vietnam War. (He makes me feel very conflicted because I adore his wife, Lady Bird Johnson. She started the Make America Beautiful campaign and got rid of litter on the highways and planted flowers on the median strips. Why is someone like her married to Lyndon Johnson?)
The Wall Street Journal. The New York Times. And every other newspaper that my father hides behind at dinner every night.
Pop quizzes.
Frank Sinatra songs. In particular the album Sinatra’s Sinatra, which Mom plays all the time. I swear, if I have to hear “Call Me Irresponsible” one more time I will run screaming from the house. Also: “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning,” and “Nancy.”
Mom singing “Nancy,” loud, while she vacuums. Keep Betty Grable, Lamour, and Turner, She makes my heart a charcoal burner, It’s heaven when I embrace, My Nancy with the laughin’ face! “Stop, stop, please,” I beg her. But she just keeps vacuuming and keeps singing that dumb song. Betty Grable, Dorothy Lamour, and Lana Turner are movie stars from a million years ago, that’s how old-fashioned that song is. Sometimes I follow behind her
and sing “Eight Days a Week” at the top of my lungs. But between the noise of the vacuum and her own singing, she doesn’t even care.
When someone calls me Gertrude. As soon as I’m eighteen I’m going to court to legally change my name to Trudy. Or maybe to Ariel. Or Ariadne. Anything but Gertrude.
Future Cheerleaders.
Lately, Michelle.
Japan.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Baby, You Can Drive My Car
The next morning I woke up with a plan. An obvious plan. Mom would just have to take me to the Beatles concert. There was one obstacle to this plan however: Mom did not like to drive. At all. Whenever we go on a family vacation, like the time we went to Niagara Falls or last Columbus Day weekend, when we went leaf peeping in Vermont, Dad does all the driving because Mom doesn’t like highways, winding roads, traffic, parallel parking, or driving when it’s dark. Mostly, she just drives to the grocery store or the bank, little local trips like that. And even then, if her sister—my aunt Florence—offers to take her, Mom always says yes.
So although I had an obvious plan, convincing Mom that she needed to take me to the concert was going to be hard. Especially because Boston was notorious for having the worst, most aggressive drivers in the entire country. Dad had read that in the New York Times.
Still, I arrived at the breakfast table ready to launch my campaign. Dad was already gone and Mom was already sitting at the little table in the kitchen where we ate breakfast and lunch, looking at her seed catalogs. We called that area The Nook because it was set back from the rest of the kitchen in a small alcove with a big window that looked out at our backyard. My swing set was still back there, even though I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used it. The birdbath Dad gave Mom for her birthday was there, too, and the small garden where Mom grew tomatoes and green peppers and mint. I liked sitting in The Nook. It was bright and sunny and we ate off colorful melamine dishes instead of the fancier ones we used in the dining room. Melamine is just a big word for plastic, but Mom says it sounds better.
“Good morning,” I chirped, and Mom looked up with a big smile.
“I knew you’d feel better in the morning,” she said. She poured me some orange juice, dropped two pieces of French toast on an orange melamine plate, and slid the Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup over to me.
Since I had only picked at my dinner last night, I was starving, and dug right in.
“The Beatles will have another concert next year,” Mom said, “and we will definitely go to it.”
“What if this is their last concert ever?” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Trudy. Why would this be their last concert?”
“Michelle says they might break up.”
“The Beatles?” Mom said, chuckling. “Honey, I can assure you that the Beatles are never going to break up. They’re the most popular group in the world.”
“But what if they did? And we missed our only chance to see them in person?”
“That’s not going to happen, Trudy. Don’t be so dramatic.”
I concentrated on my French toast while Mom poured herself another cup of coffee.
When she sat down again I came right out with it. “Mom, I think you should take Michelle and me to the concert.”
“Me?” she said. “How in the world would I do that?”
“You could drive us,” I said.
“To Boston?” Mom said, and she actually put one hand to her chest, like she was having a heart attack just thinking about driving to Boston. “Oh no.”
“I was thinking we could do practice runs. You and me. Like on Saturdays. You could drive a little bit more each week, and by the time August comes you’ll be prepared.”
“Trudy, Boston has the worst, most—”
“—aggressive drivers. I know.”
I put on my martyr face, the one I wore when I went to the dentist or when Mom asked me to go shopping with her instead of to Michelle’s house on a Saturday afternoon.
“Don’t look like that,” Mom said.
“Like what?” I said, all innocent.
“Like that!” Mom said.
I kept looking like that.
“Fine,” Mom said finally. “I will try these practice runs, but if I get nervous or people honk at me, I’m stopping.”
I stopped my martyr face so that I could get up and hug Mom.
“You can do it,” I whispered into her Arpège-smelling neck. “You’re the best.”
* * *
* * *
The first Saturday, we didn’t get very far. Mom was driving like thirty miles an hour on Route 95 and everybody passed her, which made her nervous.
“Too many cars whizzing past,” she said, and got off the highway and drove home.
But after three weeks, we made it all the way to Providence, a distance of thirteen and a half miles. To celebrate, we went shopping for spring coats at Gladding’s department store and had Salisbury steaks at Alexander’s for lunch. At this rate, I thought, it would take Mom all the way until August to drive the sixty-three and a half miles to Boston.
“Wasn’t this fun?” Mom said as we drove back home. She still drove way too slow on Route 95, and cars still passed her. It just seemed to bother her less.
“I knew you could do it, Mom,” I said.
And she did. By June, she drove right to Suffolk Downs where the concert was going to be. She was nervous, but also proud.
“Here we are, Trudy,” she said, pointing to it.
Suffolk Downs was actually a horse racetrack, but that was the kind of place the Beatles played—Shea Stadium in New York, Crosley Field in Cincinnati, Candlestick Park in San Francisco. That way thousands of their fans could see their concerts. Like me.
I stared at that building and tried to imagine being inside, watching the Beatles take the stage, hearing them sing “I Saw Her Standing There” and seeing with my own eyes how they shake their heads after they sing I’ll never dance with another, since I saw her standing there and their mop tops fly around like they did on The Ed Sullivan Show. Peter and I still debate what songs they’ll sing, but I really believe that somehow they will sing all of my favorite ones, like they’re singing just to me.
* * *
* * *
In the Beatles Fan Club we worked on making a big sign for me to bring to the concert. Nora thought it should just say WE LOVE YOU! Jessica thought if the sign only said that then we should spell LOVE like LUV. Peter thought it should rhyme, and I thought my name should be on it. It only took forever for us to agree on what the sign would say. Finally we settled on THE ROBERT E. QUINN BEATLES FAN CLUB LOVES THE BEATLES!!! Which was way too many words, so we had to kind of squish them together. Nora wanted us to use bubble letters, but bubble letters are way too fat, and even with squishing the words they wouldn’t fit. Jessica was the best at art so we let her write it, and I insisted on blue because that was Paul’s favorite color. Nora thought we should alternate blue with red (Ringo’s favorite color), purple (George’s), and green (John’s). But I was the president after all, so I vetoed that idea.
“I wish I was going to the concert,” Jessica said.
“Me too,” Nora said. “But my mom would never let me. She likes me to stay home with her.”
Nora’s mom sounded a little weird to me, always wanting Nora home with her instead of doing normal twelve-year-old things.
I put on The Beatles’ Second Album, and Peter sighed.
“This is my favorite album,” he said.
Just then, Michelle walked by in her dumb cheerleader’s uniform, which was a short red pleated skirt, and inside the pleats was white, and a white sweater with a red Q on it, and white ankle socks and sneakers.
“Michelle!” I called to her.
She hesitated. “I’ve got practice,” she said.
; “Sure,” I said. “Just come look at our sign.”
“To take to the concert,” Peter said.
Michelle stepped inside, though just over the threshold, not all the way in. For an instant, it was like it used to be, the Beatles singing in the background and Michelle here. I thought about how many kids used to be in the fan club, the room hot and crowded because there were so many of us, and how sometimes I put on “Twist and Shout” and everybody practiced doing the twist.
Jessica and Nora held up the sign—it took two people because it was so big.
“Nice,” Michelle said, sounding very polite.
“Do you think Paul will see it from the stage when we hold it up?” I asked her.
Michelle blinked a bunch of times.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m going to Acapulco. With Kim. I thought I told you.”
Just then, the record came to the end so the room went completely silent. I wished someone would flip it over, just so there’d be noise. But no one did.
“Well, you said you might not go,” I said into the quiet. “So I thought . . .”
“Oh, well, I’m going now,” she said again.
She started to leave but paused first. “I hope Paul sees it,” she said. “I hope Paul sees you, Trudy.” And then off she went.
Jessica and Nora were still holding the sign and the needle of the record player kept skipping along the empty groove.
“I can go in her place,” Peter said hopefully.
I tried to decide what would be worse: going to the concert with just my mother, or going with my mother and the nerdiest boy in sixth grade. Definitely the latter.
Even though I kept telling myself that it didn’t matter that Michelle wasn’t coming and therefore I was going to a concert with my mother, it still mattered. Every time I felt bad about it, I reminded myself that I was going to see the Beatles—the Beatles! But deep down I knew that I really liked having a best friend, and I didn’t have one anymore.