Alice in the Know

  How could Sylvia sit there and lie with a straight face? I wondered. Her story sounded so authentic, it was scary.

  “We’d invite you to come for dinner first, but I’m afraid things will be pretty hectic here,” she continued. I knew she’d said that so he wouldn’t come early and see people arriving at the party.

  “That’s okay. I haven’t been too hungry lately,” Les said. He looked at me. “Don’t tell me Alice is going to be here by herself.”

  “I’ll be staying at Elizabeth’s,” I said. “Not that I couldn’t. I know how to run a house, Lester. I can lock the doors and water the plants and sort the mail like anyone else.”

  Lester didn’t stay much longer. He opened our gifts—a check from Dad, a shirt from Sylvia, a CD from me, and candy from Aunt Sally and Uncle Milt—and then he went out to his car. “See you Friday,” he called.

  “We are such good liars!” I said to Sylvia as we watched him drive away.

  “Sinfully so,” she said. “But he needs some cheering up, you can tell.”

  “He did clean his plate, however,” said Dad. “That counts for something.”

  On Labor Day we had our last swim at Mark’s. Pamela, Liz, and I wore straw hats we’d bought at the beach and looked like something out of a nineteenth-century painting—from the neck up, anyway. The other girls had to try them on, and even some of the guys wore them for a while. The Stedmeisters had a barbecue for us. Mark’s dad, short and dumpy, stood at the grill cooking hamburgers to order, and Mark’s mom put out potato salad and chips and veggies and dips.

  “You’ve been so nice to put up with us all these years,” I said to Mrs. Stedmeister as she brought out some brownies.

  She seemed almost teary at the compliment, as though she had been waiting all this time for somebody to say that. I was ashamed I hadn’t thanked them before.

  “We like seeing Mark’s friends,” she said. “It’s been a pleasure to have you.” I guess if you’re an only child, like Mark, you want a lot of friends around.

  If she noticed Jill and Karen smoking, she didn’t say anything. As long as it wasn’t marijuana, I suppose she’d figure she’d let it go.

  “When did you start smoking?” I asked Jill later.

  “Couple months, and I’ve lost four pounds,” Jill said. “It’s the way French women keep their figures, you know.”

  “Curbs the appetite,” said Karen.

  “And your lungs?” asked Gwen.

  “We’ll worry about our lungs when we’re sixty-five,” said Jill, inhaling and blowing the smoke above her head.

  “I worry about my skin,” I said. “Sylvia says that smoking’s the fastest way to look like a wrinkled prune. That and sunbathing. Dries out the skin.”

  Jill shrugged, but Karen, I noticed, took only a couple more drags of her cigarette, then stamped it out and frowned at no one in particular.

  Keeno came by without Brian, and Patrick and Justin were there. Yolanda brought a boyfriend. We always manage to have a crowd.

  “How did the landscaping job go this summer?” I asked Patrick as we sat with our legs in the pool, paper plates on our laps, as he devoured a second burger.

  “Good for my arms and legs and wallet,” he said, and he really did look huskier. “Takes me forever to tan, though.”

  “The trials of the redhead,” I told him.

  “Yeah. Send me a sympathy card.” He grinned. Then, “Hey, we might have a class together this semester.”

  “Really?”

  “I put off World History last year to squeeze in an economics course. Have you picked up your schedule yet? I got mine this week, and World History’s second period.”

  “I’ll check,” I said. “That would be great.”

  “Yeah, I could steal your homework,” he said.

  “I can’t imagine you ever needing something from me,” I told him.

  Patrick had to leave early, but the conversation turned to school, and we started to get nostalgic. September had arrived, the Stedmeisters would be closing their pool, and the summer of our sixteenth year would soon be only a memory. “We ought to take a picture,” someone said. “Anybody have a camera?”

  No one did, so Mark went inside the house and brought out his dad’s digital. I was sorry Patrick left early, and, just for the sake of a picture, I was sorry Brian was missing too. I hated the thought that we might be slowly breaking apart, going in different directions—that we had to take whatever time we could get with the old crowd and not worry too much about what we’d all be doing next year.

  “Hold it!” said Keeno. “We don’t want an ordinary picture. I think we ought to have a mystery person in it.” He looked us over. “I think we ought to dress Alice up as a guy.”

  “Yeah,” said Justin, grinning. “That bikini top has got to go.”

  “Ha-ha,” I said.

  “Seriously,” said Keeno. “Mark, get some clothes and a cap, and let’s turn her into a boy. Three years from now we’ll look at the picture and say, ‘Who was that?’”

  “And turn you into a babe?” I said.

  “Yeah! Let’s give Keeno a makeover!” said Liz.

  So everyone set to work. Pamela pinned my hair up, and they put a baseball cap on my head. I pulled on a pair of Mark’s jeans and loafers and a camouflage vest. Jill took eyeliner pencil and gave me a mustache and sideburns, darkened my eyebrows.

  “Hey! You look studly!” said Pamela.

  But we had the most fun with Keeno. Jill went in the bathroom and exchanged her 34D bra for a T-shirt, and we put the bra on Keeno with an orange in each cup. He pretended to fall forward with the weight of it. Penny put her flowered top over the bra but left it unbuttoned in front so we could see the bra, and Jill made a sarong out of her cover-up and tied that around Keeno’s waist. We put Liz’s butterfly thongs on his feet, and his heels hung over the backs.

  “Oh, man, Keeno, you are hot!” I laughed. He blew me a kiss.

  “What do we do about his hair?” said Karen. “Turban?”

  When Mark went into the house again, his mom got in the act and brought out a box of layered cotton. She showed us how to comb it into platinum blond curls. We put a bandana around Keeno’s head and tucked the curls in around the edge. The guys all whistled.

  Then we posed—Keeno and me in the center, with my arm around his shoulder and Keeno standing flirtatiously, one hand on his hip. Mark’s dad came out and took several shots of the group, and then Keeno and I spent the rest of the evening playing our appropriate roles. Funny what it does to you. I found myself sitting with one ankle propped on my other knee. Keeno really played the feminine role too, crossing his legs at the ankles.

  When Mr. Stedmeister printed the photos out and brought copies to us, it really did look as though a new couple had joined the group.

  “You’re so cute together!” Jill said.

  “You’d make a good couple,” said Penny.

  Keeno and me? Oh, I don’t think so.

  As it turned out, Patrick and I did have that class together. We’re allowed to come in before school starts to pick up our schedules. So with school beginning on Wednesday, Dad drove Pam and Liz and me over to the high school the day before, and we got in line outside the office. We all like to get the room assignments in advance—put stuff in our lockers. Decorate them, even. It was fun seeing kids we hadn’t talked to since June—catch up on what everyone was doing.

  Lori and Leslie were standing just in front of us. They were still a couple and excitedly told us about their summer internship for the National Park Service.

  “What were you doing?” I asked.

  “Clearing sections of the Appalachian Trail,” Lori explained. “We worked with a team—slept in tents, and in the evenings we had seminars on wildlife, rocks, trees … all sorts of things.”

  “Next year we’ll work on another section of trail,” said Leslie. “It’ll look great on our résumés when we apply for career status.”

  Patrick was in line too
. He’d picked up his schedule last Friday, and now he was back trying to replace his lunch hour with calculus.

  “Patrick, when will you eat?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I eat on the way to class. I don’t suffer, believe me.”

  Everyone else seemed so focused. Gwen had taken exams for two advanced placement courses, and I was simply sailing along, happy to be average. Was that so awful? I asked myself. Did everyone have to be in the top 10 percent?

  “Now, this is the closest stairway to the gym… . ,” we heard a voice saying, and I turned to see one of the guidance counselors doing freshman orientation, a group of wide-eyed ninth graders following close at her heels. One anxious-looking boy was even taking notes. Just two years ago that was us, I thought, excited and scared, regarding upper-classmen as gods, never imagining we could ever be that self-assured. “If you get confused,” the counselor went on, “all you have to do is ask directions.”

  We grinned at each other, remembering the many times upperclassmen had sent us in exactly the opposite direction.

  “And if you’re late to class,” the counselor said, “it’s not the end of the world. I think you’ll find our teachers here are freshman-friendly. But remember: The counseling offices are the most freshman-friendly spots in the whole school. Come by with any problem at all, at school or at home. Come by to tell us how things are going. To share good news. Come by just to say hello! We’re always glad to see you. If my door’s open, just walk in. If it’s not, pick up the green folder outside my door and pencil in your name in one of the time slots… .”

  My line moved forward, but I stood rooted to the floor. I thought of Mrs. Plotkin, my sixth-grade teacher, my favorite teacher in the whole wide world. I thought of Sylvia Summers and the day I’d cried in her seventh-grade English class when I recited the wrong poem, a poem that reminded me of my mother. The way Sylvia had put me at ease. And I knew at that moment that what I’d been thinking about off and on for the last couple of years was what I really wanted to do: I wanted to work in a school. I wanted to be that high school guidance counselor with the reassuring smile. I wanted my office to be the most welcoming place. I wanted to be there for all the Alices that would come along. For bright kids like Gwen and Patrick. For slow kids like Amy. For kids facing tough decisions. Sick kids and kids with mixed-up parents.

  I decided that after the new semester began, I would put my name on the sign-up sheet outside the counselor’s office. I’d sit down with Mrs. Bailey and ask about the courses I should be taking now. About the colleges with the best guidance programs. Things I should know or think about to be a counselor.

  Someone nudged me from behind, and I caught up with the line outside the school office. Then I watched Mrs. Bailey direct her small band of freshmen to the school cafeteria for refreshments, then head down to the gym to gather up her next little group.

  Everything seems fresh and new when you go back to school in September. The next morning I noticed that the hallways had been repainted, the floors waxed, the faucets and water fountains repaired, the windows washed… .

  I wished I could have driven to school—we hated the bus—but even if I had my own car, Dad says I can’t have any passengers other than family until the end of December. I am sooooo looking forward to that. Liz won’t be sixteen for a couple of months yet, and Pamela and Gwen don’t have cars either, so we’re stuck with the bus for a while.

  There was a meeting of the newspaper staff right after school the first day. We always rush to get out that first issue because it has to list new rules and procedures, introduce new teachers. We need to let students know about changes in the cafeteria, the dress code—stuff that isn’t particularly fun to write about. Fortunately, the news editor has to do most of that. As a roving reporter, I get to do more of the fun stuff.

  I was wondering what I’d say to Sam Mayer, one of our photographers. I hadn’t seen him around all summer. What do you ever say to an ex-boyfriend when you were the one who did the breaking up? But Miss Ames said he was already on assignment getting a photo of all the new teachers.

  We still met in Room 17, but the editor in chief had changed. He was a tall, thin guy named Scott Lynch, and another senior, Jacki Severn, was the new features editor. She came to our first meeting with a page full of ideas for feature stories, which was good in a way, except that they took up her whole page, I noticed. She hadn’t left any room for our ideas.

  “I’ve got a great idea for the first issue,” she said. “I just found out that one of our seniors, Molly Brennan, has leukemia and may not be coming back to school for a while. I want to do a story on her, but I’ll have to interview her immediately to make the first issue.”

  “Molly?” said Miss Ames. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that!”

  I stared. “How did you find out?” I asked Jacki.

  “Oh, we editors have our ways,” she said coyly. “Of course, I’ll have to be very diplomatic about it.”

  “But does Molly want you to do a story on her? Isn’t that sort of private?” I asked. “She may not want you to advertise it especially.”

  “I didn’t say advertise, I said write,” said Jacki. “We’re both seniors. So it would be like one senior confiding in another. A sort of sister-to-sister chat.”

  Scott cut in. “Molly’s got to want to do this, Jacki.”

  “Yes, Jacki. Make sure you’re not imposing,” said Miss Ames.

  “I don’t see what you’re all so upset about!” Jacki said. “There’s nothing shameful about having cancer.”

  “I didn’t say it was shameful,” I said. “I said it was private, and there’s a difference.”

  “Leave it to me,” Jacki said. “I’ll just go for a friendly visit and take notes, but if in the end she doesn’t want me to publish the story, we won’t. Don, would you be available tomorrow afternoon to take pictures if it’s a go?”

  The senior photographer didn’t look any happier about it than I did. “Only if Molly is willing,” he said.

  Jacki made some notes to herself and looked annoyed with the rest of us. I was annoyed too when the meeting was over, and it didn’t help my mood any that Tony Osier, sports editor for another year, leered at me and said, “Hey, sexy! Three times a week, huh?”

  Brian had obviously widely circulated those sex quiz answers, and I knew I’d probably have to deal with this a few more times before it became yesterday’s news. So I just said, “Are those things still floating around? Which version did you get? I sent him about five.”

  Tony looked confused.

  “It was the only way to get him to stop,” I said, stuffing my books in my backpack and walking out.

  I called Molly as soon as I got home. “Listen, Jacki Severn is features editor this year, and she found out you’re sick. She’s going to call you and try to set up an interview for tomorrow—photographer and everything,” I told her.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Molly said.

  “I wish I were. I wanted to warn you.”

  “What does she want? A picture of me lying in bed with a rose on my chest?” Molly asked.

  “I don’t know. Something like that, I suppose. A sisterly chat, is the way she described it to the staff.”

  “The nerve!” said Molly. “Sure, she can come and take pictures if I can go over the next time she has the flu and take pictures of her puking in the toilet.”

  “You go, girl!” I said.

  “No, wait a minute,” said Molly. “I’ve got a better idea… .”

  On Thursday after school we heard the doorbell ring as Jacki arrived at the Brennan house, photographer at her side. Molly’s mom answered and told them to go upstairs, that Molly was in bed.

  “We won’t wake her, will we?” I could hear Jacki asking.

  “I don’t think so,” said her mom.

  Jacki entered Molly’s bedroom, Don, the photographer, trailing reluctantly behind, and found Molly on the bed, surrounded by Pamela and Gwen and Liz and
me, all sharing a pizza in our sweats and flannel pajama bottoms.

  We had accented Molly’s big blue eyes with mascara and eyeliner, put blush on her cheeks and gloss on her lips. She was wearing the black cap with the red sequins.

  “Oh!” Jacki said. “I didn’t know you had company. I can come back.”

  “No, it’s fine!” said Molly. “Now or not at all. I only allow photographers on Thursdays.”

  We tried not to laugh.

  Jacki just had to know this was a put-on, but it didn’t stop her. She conducted the interview with all of us offering chirpy comments. Molly really mugged for the camera, striking one movie-star pose after another, and finally Jacki said bravely, “Well, I think we’ve done all we can here. Thanks so much, Molly, for letting us come by, and the whole Edge staff sends you our best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

  “I don’t know about speedy, but I’ll do the best I can,” Molly said.

  After Jacki and the photographer left, we rolled off the bed laughing.

  “That’s one interview that won’t make the paper, I’ll bet,” I said. “I don’t think that’s quite the story she had in mind.”

  17

  Party

  I was getting nervous. A few people had called to say they couldn’t make it to Les’s party, but some hadn’t replied to my phone messages at all. I’d been able to locate only one of the guys Les played baseball with, and he said he’d tell the others, and I’d left it to George Palamas to invite some of Lester’s friends from the U. We had no idea how many to expect.

  On Friday, Gwen and Liz and Pamela came over right after school, and we were glad the party was planned for that day, because rain was forecast for the next. It was warm, but a gentle breeze was blowing, fluttering the blue-checked tablecloth on the long metal fold-out table in the backyard that would hold the food.