by Ann Herrick
"Okay," Glynnie said. "Last one in's a rotten egg!" She hopped down to the edge of the lake, ran into the water and plunged in before I even got my ankles wet. When she surfaced, she floated on her back and shot water out of her mouth like a whale blowing it out of its spout. She grinned at me. "Hi, rotten egg!"
"What are you, cold-blooded?" I griped. The lake was fed by a mountain stream and, even in August, the water was freezing cold.
"Come on," Glynnie urged. "A little cold water never hurt anybody."
"Yeah …." I thought of all the cold showers I'd had in the past few months. But those had started out hot and only gradually turned cold. What-the-hell. I dove in.
When the shock didn't kill me, I swam underwater until I grabbed Glynnie in a life-saver hold and started swimming out toward the middle of the lake.
"Hey!" Glynnie struggled to free herself. "What are you doing?"
"Taking you to where I can demand an apology." I figured without her glasses she would be at my mercy.
"An apology? For what!"
I stopped and treaded water, keeping Glynnie in my grasp. "For calling me a rotten egg."
"What!" Glynnie tried to sound indignant, but she barely managed not to laugh. "Me, apologize? Never."
"I think you will, lady," I said, hoping to sound like someone out of Goodfellas. "Or you'll never find your way to shore again."
There was a long silence as I dogpaddled us in a circle.
Finally Glynnie said, "All right. I'm sorry. You're not a rotten egg."
"Apology accepted." I started guiding her back to shore. It wasn't long before we could touch bottom.
When we were about waist-deep in the water, Glynnie said, "You're not a rotten egg. You're a scrambled egg!"
"For that, you can find your way back to the blanket by yourself," I said.
"You think I can't?" Glynnie turned and sniffed, just before she bumped into an innocent "guppy" flutter-kicking his way through a swim lesson.
I laughed, grabbed her hand, and led her back to the blanket. She toweled off, put on her glasses, flopped down and stretched out facing the lake. I dropped down next to her.
"I want to thank you, Eric."
"For what? Guiding you back to shore?"
"No." She punched my arm. "You owed me that. I mean for letting me unload on you last night."
"Ah," I said, trying for the just-right nonchalant tone, "what are friends for?" I hoped I didn't goof by elevating our relationship to friends, even if it was just a nice, safe, detached kind of friendship.
"After I vented to you, I finally talked to Mother about Father's news about the baby. When he told me, a wave of grief washed right over me. But as Mother says, you can cut the pain in half by sharing it." She paused, and looked straight into my eyes. "Right?"
In response, I blinked.
"Oh, no. I'm turning into Mother. Please! Forgive me." Glynnie rolled her eyes. "I didn't mean to lecture you."
"You are absolved of all charges."
"Absolved?" Glynnie raised an eyebrow. "Such a vocabulary."
"Junior English, Words Are Essential, Lesson Twenty-two."
"And I thought you never paid attention in English class."
"I was just concentrating." I reached over and patted Glynnie's head. "Not sleeping."
In a flash, Glynnie retaliated by tickling me. I laughed, but she stopped in mid-tickle and suddenly looked all serious.
"What is it? The Tickling Patrol?"
"Not exactly." Glynnie subtly pointed to her right.
I looked over and saw Jenny Lund and Hedy Theodore staring at us. I could almost feel dotted lines emanating from their eyes. When they saw me look, they quickly turned away.
"You know, Eric," Glynnie said softly. "I realize it's none of my business, but I really would appreciate it if you'd explain exactly what happened with you and Hedy Theodore."
Chapter Eleven
"What's to explain? We went out. We broke up."
"You were together for six months. A record, for you."
"What? Did you run a background check on me?"
"Eric. It's a small school. Personal histories are no secret," Glynnie said matter-of-factly. "Hedy's a nice girl, and very beautiful. There must've been a reason you broke off with her."
"It's no big deal. People break up. So what?"
"So … I heard that Hedy was really hurt by how suddenly you broke it off. I think she's still wondering what she did wrong."
"You're like those salmon at the hatchery that slam themselves into the walls of the holding tank."
Glynnie cocked her head to one side. "Determined to swim upstream to spawn?"
"No. Just determined. Relentless."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Glynnie said cheerfully. "But I still want an answer to my question."
I stared out at the blue water gently rippling toward the shore, and tried to think. I'd been kind of a jerk when it came to girls. I wanted someone who looked good on my arm and who didn't talk too much. I wasn't mean, exactly. By the time I got bored with a girl, she was usually ready to break it off, too. If she wasn't, I took the let-her-down-easy route.
But I'd been totally abrupt with Hedy. I knew it, but I tried not to think about it. Finally, I took a deep breath and tried to explain. "Hedy and I'd been together long enough that, well, she was ready to get really serious."
"And you weren't?"
"Not exactly." I hesitated. "This is going to make me sound like such a louse." I paused again, then went on. "For a few weeks before … Dad's accident … I'd been thinking about breaking off with Hedy. I mean, she's nice and all that, but I was getting bored. She was too quiet, and I was getting sick of the sound of my own voice."
Glynnie didn't say anything. So I went on.
"I was ready to break up, but then Dad …. After the funeral I was pretty wiped out. So I did the chicken-shit thing and broke off with her over the phone, just like that." I snapped my fingers. "I knew she was hurt. But I couldn't deal with it."
Glynnie stared at me with her big, analytical eyes.
"So, now you can tell me what total creep I am."
"I do think Hedy deserves an explanation," Glynnie said softly. "I don't think you're a creep. I know what it's like to want to shut down your feelings, but you'll never heal the pain if you don't let yourself feel it." Glynnie aimed her strong gaze straight at me. "Don't get me wrong. I know you're not going to get over losing your father. But you can work through it. It takes time. The only remedy for your grief is to go ahead and let yourself grieve."
"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I did my crying at the funeral."
Glynnie reached out and placed her hand over my hand. Her fingers were warm and smooth and strong as they grasped mine. "Keeping it in just makes it hurt more."
I gulped hard. Glynnie was wrong. Letting out my grief didn't help. It didn't make me feel better. All grief did was force a deep sharp pain through my heart. I pulled my hand away from hers and buried my face in my arms.
Glynnie let me lie there, the sun warming my back, the breeze caressing my skin, my throat tightening.
The next thing I knew, I felt Glynnie gently shaking my shoulder.
"Eric, we'd better go, so you won't be late for practice."
"Oh …? Okay …," I said groggily. I sat up and pulled on my shirt, then stood and helped Glynnie fold the blanket. "Geez, afternoon practice. I'm so beat, I'm not sure I can get through it."
"You'll feel better once you take the field."
"I don't know. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's Coach Horton. Whatever. I just haven't gotten excited about football this year." I paused as an idea crept into my head. "Maybe I should just quit the team."
"What?" Glynnie was clearly surprised as she took the folded blanket, and we headed for the car.
I'd never imagined my life without football before, but now the idea sounded reasonable. "Why should I work so hard? Why should I knock myself out all the time?"
Glynnie j
ust stared at me.
"I mean, yeah, I'd probably get a football scholarship for college. But, hey, maybe my grades are good enough. Maybe I could get an academic scholarship. I could get loans, a part-time job…." I did not add that I'd be giving up any fantasies about the NFL, too.
"I suppose …," Glynnie said.
I was kind of surprised she wasn't trying to talk me out of quitting. "Football," I said a lot more casually than I felt. "Who needs it?"
"I thought you did," Glynnie said. "I thought you loved playing football."
I didn't say anything. Even thinking about not playing football was a whole new concept for me.
Glynnie unlocked the car and tossed the blanket into the back seat. "If you think the bad outweighs the good …."
I got in the car and fastened my seatbelt. I felt trapped in a place where it was impossible to make a rational decision. I didn't even know where the idea of not playing football came from. I just knew I didn't feel sure about anything anymore.
Chapter Twelve
Practice was a blur. Not good. Not bad. Just a blur. One thing was clear, though. Football was not the same for me. That old feeling of being invincible didn't last. Once the pads were off, I felt vulnerable.
As I rode home with Rolf, I wondered if maybe I really should just quit the team. Until this summer, I'd really looked forward to being a senior. There'd be the high of being recruited. I'd already gotten letters from some good schools, even though I wasn't exactly a "specimen" player. Coach Pickett assured me I had a good chance at a Division One school, especially if I sent out some highlights.
If I quit football, I wouldn't have to worry about not having up-to-date highlights, because there wouldn't be any.
We had tomorrow and the next morning off from practice. That'd give me time to think about whether I really wanted to quit.
"I'm the motor mouth," Rolf said as we pulled into my driveway, "but you usually utter a word or two. What's up?"
"I …." I paused, then finally said, "I'm wiped out from practice." I climbed out of the truck. "See ya."
"Wait." Rolf hopped out, caught up with me at the front porch and clapped his big beefy hand on my shoulder. "You need a break. Let's do something tonight."
I tried to think over the sound of piano music pouring out of the living room. "I'm really bushed." I went inside.
Rolf followed me. He didn't talk. He listened to Kirstin playing the piano. Her back was to us. She didn't know we were there. She mostly practiced when I wasn't around. She finished the piece, "Annie Laurie." In a rare burst of generosity, I was actually going to compliment her playing.
But she launched into another song, and started softly singing "All Through the Night." For a second I froze, almost hearing Dad's clear tenor voice mingling with her soft soprano. The sound struck me like an arrow. "Do you have to play that?"
Kirstin whirled around and stared, wordlessly. I thought she was going to spit at me. Then she saw Rolf. She turned, closed the music book and slammed it back on the shelf without a word.
I didn't know what to say. I was kind of embarrassed for losing my cool in front of Rolf.
"Hey, Kirstin," Rolf said much too cheerfully. "Eric and I were planning on going out. Why don't you come with us?" Rolf loved to play peacemaker. He didn't have a kid sister, so he didn't know how impossible they could be.
"Out?" Kirstin raised an eyebrow. "Where?"
"It's the first night of the Scandinavian Fair. We can eat our way through the food booths, check out the crafts, and listen to music. Hey, we could even dance. I'm kinda rusty, but I think I remember the songdansar and springar.
"Well … Mom does have Mr. Lundquist helping her in the shop tonight. I … I guess I could go with you," she said, pointedly ignoring me.
"You guys have a great time," I said. "I'm gonna grab a bite, then hit the sack."
"You gotta come," Rolf said. "The whole idea was to get you to relax."
"Sleeping is an excellent way to relax."
"It's too early," Rolf said. "I'm not leavin' this house without you."
"Eric." Kirstin clutched my arm as if she suddenly had great affection for me. "Call Glynnie and ask her to come with us. She's never been to the Fair."
"Epic idea!" Rolf shoved me toward the phone. "Call Glynnie."
"Sheesh," I said. "I'm outnumbered. I'll call her."
"Great," Rolf said. "We'll wait outside for you." He grabbed Kirstin's hand and ducked out before I could change my mind.
As I looked up Glynnie's number, I kicked myself for getting talked into the whole setup. Glynnie was probably tired of seeing my face. She'd wonder why I hadn't said anything about the fair earlier. She might be insulted by a last-minute invitation. But Rolf thought he was doing me a favor. I couldn't stand to see him get that sad-puppy look. So I called.
"Hey, Glynnie. Eric." I was glad she answered, and not her mother. I was suddenly nervous, probably because this was so last second. I took a deep breath and spewed out all the details about Rolf and Kirstin and the Fair. "So, um, we could stop by in a couple minutes. If you want."
"Sure!" Glynnie said. "Sounds like fun."
I was kind of surprised by her eager tone. But then, maybe she was bored, since there wasn't all that much to do in Crystal Lake. "See ya in a couple minutes, then."
"Okay. And thanks."
Before we got halfway up the walk to her front door, Glynnie ran down the porch steps. She had a big smile on her face. I hoped the fair would live up to that smile's expectations.
On our way we saw a lot of the people from school, including a bunch of guys from the football team, even Derek Davis. After about the age of ten most guys tried to act bored about the fair, pretending they went only because there was nothing better to do, or that it was just a way to meet girls. Truth was, most of us wouldn't give up going to the fair any more than we'd give up spring break.
Once we reached the entrance and I saw the windmills, the food and craft booths, and the vendors in troll costumes and colorful Scandinavian folk outfits, I was glad Rolf had talked me into coming.
"Mmm, it smells great," Glynnie said. "Makes me hungry!"
The aroma of everything from aebleskivers to Swedish meatballs didn't exactly hurt my appetite either.
"Let's hit the food booths first," Rolf said. He did not have a fear of eating.
We started at the "nibble" booths and ate our way through bite-sized samples of the famous aebleskiver, open-faced Norwegian sandwiches, potato lefse and frikadeller, the tiny Swedish meatballs on a stick.
"So much for appetizers," Rolf said after we'd sampled enough food to feed his entire family for at least a week. "It's time for a real meal. How 'bout kaldomar?
"Kaldomar?" Glynnie asked.
"Cabbage rolls," Kirstin explained. "But I want Swedish sausage .…"
"Kaldomar," Rolf repeated.
"Swedish sausage," Kirstin insisted.
"People, people," I pretended to scold, shaking my finger at them. "How 'bout you each just get what you want and, meanwhile, Glynnie and I can browse a bit longer and make up our minds."
"Doh!" Rolf grinned. "That's easy. Come on, Kirstin." He took her by the hand. "Let's get our food and grab a table."
Kirstin nodded.
"We'll see ya later." I cupped my hand under Glynnie's elbow and steered her toward my favorite food booths.
After a half dozen or so booths, Glynnie said, "It all looks delicious. I can't make up my mind. What do you think?"
"I'll show you my supreme favorite." I nudged her to the left. "Then you can decide."
"Fair enough."
We wormed our way through what had gotten to be a huge throng of fairgoers until we reached a red cottage-like booth decorated with white geometric patterns. "Okay, here we are. What do you think?"
Glynnie stared for a moment, then said, "I think I never expected to see Jamar Pickett in a booth, dressed like a Viking and serving Scandinavian food."
"Hi, guys." Jamar laughe
d. "My uncle owns a barbeque restaurant in Eugene. Every year he does a little improvising so he can have a booth at the fair. How 'bout a large order of Flesk Pankager?"
"That depends." Glynnie peered into the booth. "What is it?"
"It's diced pork baked in batter. Flesk Pankager—Pork Cakes. You're obviously a first-timer. I'll give you a taste, so you can see if you like it."
Glynnie tried a bite. "Mmm. Okay! I'll have a large order of the … the Pork Cakes."
"Make that two large orders," I said.
By the time we got our food the fair was so crowded we decided it'd be impossible to find Rolf and Kirstin. We grabbed the nearest table and savored every morsel of our Flesk Pankager. Then it was time to check out the handcrafts. The Fair celebrated the five Scandinavian cultures: Danish, Finnish, Icelandic, Norwegian and Swedish. There was a lot to see.
Glynnie insisted on seeing everything from bobbin lace and tatting to wood carvings and wheat crafts. One thing she really liked was the rosemaling, a Norwegian style of decorative painting characterized by flowers and vine tendrils, alone or with landscapes and figures of people. She looked over everything from boxes to wastebaskets to plates and furniture decorated with the rosemaling. Finally, she bought a small music box with a simple design of flowers and vines.
At one point I saw that guy from the antique store. Somebody Rock or whatever. He was eating an ableskiver, but it didn't look as if he was all that interested in food. He seemed to be searching the crowd for something … or someone. He saw me, but quickly looked away. It gave me an uneasy feeling.
"Glynnie, do you know that guy?"
"Who? Where?"
I pointed in his direction, but there were so many people. "That tall guy. Black hair."
"Can't say that … wait. Uh, I think maybe he could be the guy who asked me how to get to the Viking Motel. Why?"
"Uh … he was in the store the other day, that's all." I quickly pointed to an ice cream booth. No point in letting on about my paranoia. "Hey! There's the ice cream booth. You gotta try the Blackberry Trail Mix."