I think about a book I read, Wide Sargasso Sea, which tells the story of Jane Eyre from the point of view of Mr. Rochester’s crazy wife. Weird, the way what happens seems so completely different through someone else’s eyes. It makes me wonder how Josh would tell the story of what happened between us. But I don’t really want to know.
Nine
“Well, how was it?” Tiff asks the second I walk into our dorm room Sunday evening.
“Fine,” I say. “You know, the turkey thing—”
“I mean Gabe,” she says. “ You didn’t e-mail me about your date like you promised you would. So how was it?”
I’m over reminding her it was an interview for the IDS, not a date. Tiffany’s made up her mind I had a date with Gabe Parker, and there’s no point in trying to change it. I set my duffel on my desk chair and start unpacking my stuff.
“Emma!”
“We had coffee together,” I say. “I told him about winning. He was very nice.” No way am I going to tell her the truth about how I felt when I was with him, how the whole time I was home he kept creeping into my mind.
“And cute?” Tiffany leers at me. “Very cute? Didn’t I tell you?”
“Cute?” I say. “Yeah. I guess. So, how was your break?”
“Good,” she says. “Except I ate too much.”
“What, you went up to a size 2?”
“Don’t try to sidetrack me, Emma,” she says. “Did you like him?”
“Gabe?” I shrug. “Sure. I liked him. I said he was nice.”
“Arrgh.” Tiff throws herself backward onto her bunk, but I know she’s only temporarily deterred. She’ll grill Matt next time she sees him, then go at me again.
Which is exactly what happens. “Matt said Gabe told him he thought you were really cool,” she says, the next day.
She’s a terrible liar. Gabe Parker might have said I was nice, or funny—just to be polite. Maybe he actually did think I was nice or funny. But cool? Absolutely no way. So why do Tiff’s words give me this scary little twist in my heart?
“He did,” she says. “Really.”
I ignore her.
Thank God finals are looming. In the next few weeks, everyone, Tiffany included, is studying nonstop and I’m beginning to think we may make it to Christmas break without any further discussion of my social life—or lack thereof. Then after my very last class, I come back to the dorm and there’s Gramps in my room, chatting with Tiffany.
“First road trip!” he says. “Brought the Chieftain down so you could check it out. She rides pretty darn smooth and, man oh man, wait till you see the interior.”
“Look,” Tiffany says. “You can see it out the window.”
I peer out. There it is, a large tan-and-brown-striped vehicle dwarfing the cars in the parking lot. “Wow,” I say weakly. “You made the right choice with the Chieftain, Gramps. Definitely.”
He beams.
“We’ve been dying for you to get back,” Tiffany says. “Dutch says we can drive it over to the Phi Delt house to show Matt, and then he’ll take us all out to dinner.”
Characters in books are always blanching when something shocks them, and I’m pretty sure blanching is exactly what I do now at the prospect of a cruise over to the Phi Delt house in the Winnebago, followed by dinner—which I strongly suspect will include Gabe Parker, if Tiffany has anything to do with it. I’m certainly speechless, scrambling to come up with some excuse for why this plan is impossible. But if Tiffany and Gramps are a challenge one at a time, together they’re a force of nature. It’s fruitless to argue with them. Still, I feel like a zombie following them down the hall and out to the parking lot.
Gramps is wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, with a silver and turquoise bolo tie; his cowboy boots, of course, and his awful Harley jacket—black leather, with fringe on the sleeves and an eagle in flight painted in full color on the back. He has a springy step, just like Dad’s. Tiff and I have to hurry to keep up with him.
He hops up the steps of the Winnebago and opens the door. He grins, gesturing us in like a maître d’.
“Oh! It’s just like a playhouse,” Tiffany says, glancing into the living area. She plops down in the white leather passenger seat and swivels it around a few times.
If either she or Gramps notices I’m a reluctant participant in this adventure, neither of them mentions it. Gramps starts up the engine and they chatter away in the front seat like old friends. I strap myself, prone, on one of the leather couches—and suddenly remember touring the Lisa Marie, Elvis’ personal airplane, on a family trip to Graceland years ago. He was terrified of flying, the tour guide told us, and there were heavy, gold-plated seat belts that buckled across his bed. We thought it was hilarious at the time, but now I think of Elvis strapped into that bed high in the sky in the dead of night, and I know exactly how he felt.
Of course, Tiffany—Miss Manners—called to let Matt know we’re coming. He and Gabe are out in the yard throwing a football, waiting for us, when we pull up. I could kill her right now. I swear to God, I’d give back every penny of the lottery money never to see Gabe Parker again, let alone try to act like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be buzzing over to the Phi Delt house in a recreational vehicle with my grandfather.
Just in case I thought what I felt about him the first time was a fluke: not. I practically groan out loud when I see him. Jesus. He’s wearing baggy khakis and a black sweater with a white T-shirt showing at the collar, James Dean style. He waves, and I wave back in spite of myself. Then I panic as he and Matt jog toward the Winnebago. What am I going to say to him?
Tiff grabs my arm and yanks me out the door and down the metal stairs, letting go only to throw her arms around Matt as if she hasn’t seen him for a year.
“Hey, Emma!” Gabe says.
“Hey!” I say back.
Then we freeze: wax models in the Museum of Awkward Social Moments.
Gramps stands in the doorway of the Chieftain, king of the road.
“This is my boyfriend, Matt,” Tiff tells him.
Gramps steps down, and the two of them shake hands.
“And this is Gabe Parker.” Tiffany beams. “He’s doing the story on Emma for the Indiana Daily Student I told you about. You know, about winning the money.”
“Well, how about that!” Gramps gives him a wink. “After we take a look at the Chieftain, I’ll tell you some stories about Emma you can use. She’s a crackerjack skier. Probably won a hundred medals, skiing. I’ll bet you didn’t know that.”
“No kidding!” Gabe says.
He smiles at me. That smile.
Could it be real? Could he be impressed that I’m a ski racer? Could he actually be glad to see me? This thought throws me into such a state of agitation that I cannot say a single word in response. I can’t even look at him. He’s a nice person, I tell myself. He was nice at the Daily Grind, and he’s just being nice now—which only makes me feel worse about being struck dumb in his presence, because on top of everything else I’m afraid he’s going to think I’m a stuck-up snob. Let me die right now, I think. Before Gramps decides to tell him how I loved to run around naked in Jules’ dress-up wig when I was two.
And then, as if things aren’t already as bad as they can get, a bus stops next to where we’re parked, and Josh Morgan gets off of it.
“Hey.” Dutch turns to me. “There’s that boyfriend of yours. What’s his name? Jake?”
I definitely blanch this time. No doubt about it. “Not Jake, Josh,” I say through clenched teeth. “And he is not my boyfriend. He never was my boyfriend. He was just a—friend. And he’s not even that anymore.”
But Gramps is already heading for him, grinning.
“Mr. Hammond?” Josh says.
“You guys know each other?” Tiffany asks.
; “We went to high school together,” I say. “That’s all.”
Gramps returns, Josh in tow with that deer-in-the-headlights expression.
“Hey, Emma,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back, repeating what appears to be the only exchange I can manage with a person of the male species.
I feel Tiff’s eyes on me, beady with curiosity. I feel Gabe looking at me, too. Until Gramps-the-Oblivious invites all of us to come aboard the Chieftain for a tour. Josh takes a half-step back, then I actually see him remember there’s no arguing with Gramps once he makes up his mind. I see the resignation settle in, see him gird himself and decide there’s really no option but to follow the rest of us up the steps.
Inside, I’m crushed against Gabe in the miniscule space just behind the cab. His solid arm against my shoulder makes me feel faint. Meanwhile, Gramps blathers on about the chassis and wheel base, the rear axle ratio, and how much horsepower the engine has. He pushes a button and a faux cabinet slides back to reveal a TV screen. “Mobile theater unit,” he says. “And look here.” He pushes another button and the wall behind one of the leather couches moves about a foot outward. “Extender. Isn’t that something?”
“Cool,” Josh says.
Encouraged, Gramps moves on to show off the ingeniously built cabinets in the galley kitchen and the way the built-in table can be neatly transformed into a single bed. I pray he won’t tromp us all back to the bedroom with its “elegant brocade bedspread and matching pillow shams,” but of course he does.
He does not—thank you, Jesus!—make some joke about picking up “gals.”
“So what’s your first big trip?” Josh asks.
Up to Michigan with us at Christmas, Gramps tells him. Then Florida. West, in the spring.
“That sounds so fun.” Tiffany cuddles up to Matt. “We should get one of these when we get married. Pile all our kids in and go—anywhere we want.”
“Absolutely!” Matt says “Yeah. Sure. We should!” But he looks freaked out at the prospect, though I can’t tell if it’s the idea of buying an RV that freaks him out, or being married with a bunch of kids to drive around in it.
Meanwhile, Gabe hasn’t said a word. In fact, he seems ominously quiet. He can’t possibly be jealous of Josh. But maybe he hates his guts, and finding out I used to be friends with him is the third strike in the relationship we’d never have had anyway—the first two being how I look and who I am. More likely, Matt just “forgot” to mention that I’d be coming along with Tiffany and the person with the Winnebago—and now here he is, stuck in said Winnebago with me.
I wonder if he’s written the IDS story and when it will run, but I’m afraid to ask him because I’m living in dread of the moment I’ll open up the paper and see it there. Still, I should say something to him—if for no other reason than to be polite. But I just stand there, mute as a goldfish. Worse, I can’t quit looking at Josh—his floppy blond hair like a skateboarder’s, his long, lanky body—and thinking of him stretched out on the sofa in Mom’s studio and me curled up in the armchair, talking about ... everything.
Oh, what a surprise: both Josh and Gabe beg off coming to dinner with us. Matt does, too. Finals, they say. A boatload of studying to do. So it’s just Gramps, Tiffany, and me at the Pizzeria. The two of them have a bang-up time, laughing and telling stories, but I’m so stressed out by then that all I can do is eat: a whole stromboli, an order of breadsticks, and two pieces of the pepperoni pizza that Gramps and Tiffany are sharing.
“Your grandfather is the cutest thing,” Tiff says when he drops us back at the dorm and heads for home. “I swear, if he weren’t fifty years older than me, I might’ve just stayed in that Winnebago and run off with him! Speaking of which—”
“What?” I say.
“Gabe?” she prompts.
“You might run away with Gabe instead?”
“Ha, ha,” she says. “You know what I mean, Emma. I told you, Gabe told Matt he really liked you after you guys had coffee together. So why didn’t you even talk to him?”
“He didn’t talk to me,” I say. “If he’s so crazy about me, how do you explain that?”
“He’s shy,” Tiffany says.
I roll my eyes.
“He is. Really. Why would he have come out if he didn’t like you? Didn’t you see the way he waved at you? Not to mention how he ran over to the RV the second we pulled up.”
“He was being polite, that’s all.”
“Uh-uh,” Tiffany says. “I know when boys are being polite. He was glad to see you.” She arches an eyebrow. “Also … ”
“Also?” I echo.
“Yes, also. As in, do you think Gabe might have been a little taken aback by the fact that Josh Morgan and your grandfather seemed to be the best of friends? I mean, I was totally flabbergasted myself. So was Matt. Emma, I can’t believe you never even mentioned you knew one of his fraternity brothers so well.”
“I don’t really know him that well,” I say. Which is not exactly a lie.
She casts me a skeptical glance, but lets it go—which would be a relief to me if I didn’t know her so well. It’s not that she’s not interested in getting to the bottom of me and Josh, she’s just not going to get sidetracked trying to figure it out now. Focus is her strong suit. She’s made up her mind that Gabe Parker likes me and, once finals and a fabulous all-Matt-all-the-time winter break are behind her, she’s going to do whatever she has to do to prove she’s right.
Ten
As for my own winter break: I return home to more of Mom’s theorizing about the unchanging nature of the cosmos.
I should say, first, that she is not a big fan of Christmas.
1) She’s not religious, so it feels phony to her to celebrate what is allegedly a deeply religious holiday.
2) She feels manipulated by the fact that the true meaning of Christmas in our culture has become buying and accumulating even more stuff and there’s no real way you can opt out without looking like a jerk.
3) She hates shopping. Period.
So I am not surprised when she shares the observation that Christmas is yet another proof of her theory.
“It comes every year, doesn’t it,” she says in a fake cheerful voice. “You go out and buy a bunch of stuff nobody wants or needs. Right? It’s the American way.”
I just look at her. I’ve dragged myself to the kitchen, poured myself a bowl of Froot Loops. Jesus, I’m barely awake. But I still know exactly where this is going. Please. Spare me, I think. She needs moral support on the inevitable trip to the mall, and that moral support is going to be me.
Sure enough, within an hour we’re trudging from store to store, me playing yes-man to her gift choices. “Brilliant,” I say. “Absolutely.” Jules or Dad or whichever friend or relative will love it. Eventually, we collapse on an empty bench and people-watch a while. Shoppers hurry by, their arms hung with bags. Teenagers flirt, braces flashing. “White Christmas” plays, then “Home for the Holidays.”
Nearby, a young couple not much older than I am struggles with a baby stroller. He’s tall and gangly, dressed in black leather and chains. She’s got on ripped-up jeans and a jacket with “GRRRL POWER” painted on the back of it. Her hair is dyed platinum, cut short in little spikes. She wears dark red lipstick. When she turns to put the baby in the stroller, I can’t help laughing. It’s a beautiful little girl, dressed in a pink snowsuit with furry white trim, smiling a two-toothed smile.
“Look!” I whisper to Mom. “You won’t believe this!”
“Oh!” she says. Then her eyes fill with tears.
As the couple passes by us, the girl says, “Okay, Damien. Remember, fifteen dollars per person. That’s it. Now, what do you think for your mom? Lotion from the Body Shop? Or maybe we could find a nice pair of earrings on sale.”
We watch the
m make their way down the broad hallway; then, abruptly, Mom stands up and strides after them, fumbling in her purse as she goes. I’m so startled that I just sit on the bench and watch her catch up to them. She taps the girl on the shoulder. The girl turns and looks at her, kind of belligerently, like, What?
Mom says something I can’t hear. Then she takes a handful of bills from her wallet and thrusts them toward the girl. Shocked, the girl takes them. Then she just stands there, watching Mom hurry toward the mall exit like a hit-and-run driver. Then both she and the boy call out at the same time, “Thank you. Ma’am! Hey, thanks a lot!”
But Mom is already halfway to the doors. She doesn’t look back.
“I’m sorry,” she says when I catch up to her, lugging all our shopping bags. “But I looked at those kids and suddenly remembered how your dad and I saved quarters in a jar for Julie’s first bicycle—that little pink bike with its pink-flowered banana seat and high handlebars with pink and white streamers. It just killed me, you know? To think that no present I could ever buy for anyone ever again would matter the way that bike mattered. So why even try—”
“How much did you give them?”
“I don’t know.” She waves her hand. “A couple of hundred dollar bills. Three, maybe. A fifty, some twenties. The poor girl was so mortified that she didn’t know what to do but take it. I was babbling about how they reminded me of myself when I was young and Julie was a baby. It was the baby that made me do it,” she says in a wobbly voice. “That pink snowsuit and her fuzzy hair, like a halo. I know it was a crazy thing to do.”
“It was a little crazy, yeah. But it was nice.”
I get her out to the car. She’s in no shape to drive, so I take the keys and slide into the driver’s seat. I start the engine, hoping for something dopey and cheerful on the Oldies station she always listens to—but, no. The DJ’s talking to a woman whose postcard was just pulled out of the hopper in the Christmas Wish Contest. What she wishes for is a La-Z-Boy Recliner. For her husband, she says. Because he works “real hard” and she wants him to be able to come home to his own special place to relax and watch TV in the evenings.
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