NOTHING, AND I MEAN NOTHING, MAKES A GIRL MORE popular at PA than kissing a boy at the freshman dance at GSA. OMG. Who knew? This is, like, double the Founder’s Day admiration. Triple. Quadrillion. I’m on a whole different level at PA now. The upperclassmen sort of look at me as one of their own now, even though I was pigeonholed as an arty type who wore the wrong shoes on the first day of school. I may even be able to wear my yellow patent leather flats again, because it’s not so much about the shoes as it is about the person wearing them.
I went from rule breaker to rule maker overnight. No longer fringe, I am now mainstream. I thought academic achievement, excellence in field hockey, or not screaming in terror during mouse college in biology qualified for respect. But no. It’s dating. That’s the ticket to instant status at PA.
Andrew IMs me.
AB: How was the dance?
Me: I thought it would suck, but it was fun.
AB: Were the guys in military uniforms?
Me: Most of them just wore blazers and ties. And they aren’t allowed to have long hair.
AB: Bummer.
Me: You’d hate it.
AB: So, what did you do?
Me: Had fun.
AB: I took Olivia Olson to the movies.
Okay, this is weird. I sit back in my seat. I meet a boy and suddenly at the very same moment, Andrew decides to date Olivia Olson? It can’t be something in the water, as we are, like, three states apart. What is it?
AB: Are you there?
Me: Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Suzanne just interrupted me.
That’s a lie. She didn’t. She’s in her bunk listening to her iPod. I’m in a state of shock but I can’t share that with Andrew.
AB: Olivia is not annoying anymore. I don’t know what happened to her. But since her grandmother died, she’s actually okay.
Me: Cool.
Olivia Olson is probably the best-looking girl in the ninth-grade class at LaGuardia. She’s of actual and authentic Nordic descent so she is tall and blond and fierce in basketball. Nobody needs to make excuses for Olivia. She’s not annoying; she’s just a take-charge girl. A leader.
AB: She and I were put on a team for the science fair, and I felt I had to ask her out.
Me: Great.
But I’m thinking it’s anything but “great.” Andrew has to make it seem like he doesn’t like her. I am sensing some insecurity and fear here. Maybe he’s afraid she’ll drop him.
AB: I hope you don’t mind.
Me: Mind what?
AB: That I asked her out.
Why would he think I would mind? Even though I sort of do.
Instead of reassuring him, I tell him my news.
Me: I met a nice guy at the GSA dance.
I call it GSA instead of Drab Dull just to make the point that it wasn’t drab or dull, it was fun.
Andrew doesn’t respond for a moment. I bet he thinks I’m making Jared up just to be competitive. Okay. Whatever.
Me: Are you there?
AB: My mom called me.
Me: Do you need to go?
AB: Nope. So, who is this guy?
Me: His name is Jared. He’s already made a movie.
AB: No way!
Me: Yep. Short-subject doc.
AB: Not full length?
Me: Nope.
AB: Okay.
Me: Okay what?
AB: Okay he hasn’t made a full-length movie yet.
Me: Should he have?
AB: Not necessarily…Gotta go.
Me: Me too.
I don’t know why I didn’t tell Andrew everything about Jared. I guess when he said he was dating Olivia Olson, I didn’t want to make it seem like I was competing with him. Andrew is my BFFAA, and not someone I have to impress. I’ll leave that kind of silly competition to girls who need their guy friends to worship them. I like my friendship with Andrew to be pure.
The computer dings softly. I look up at the screen. OMG. It’s Jared!
JS: Hi, Vi.
Me: Hi, Jared.
JS: What are you doing?
Me: Wishing I didn’t have to research nuclear fusion in the twenty-first century.
JS: Boring.
Me: Tell me about it.
JS: I’ve been thinking about the pier.
Me: Me too.
JS: You’re different.
Me: Thanks. I’d rather focus on the fact that you said I was pretty.
JS: YOU ARE.
Me: I like the caps.
JS: I figured you would.
Me: So what’s new over there?
JS: Are you making a film for the Midwest Secondary School Film Competition?
Me: Don’t know anything about it.
JS: I’ll send you an application. It’s for the spring. March deadline.
Me: Cool.
JS: I have to go home this weekend.
Me: Wish I could. Good for you.
JS: Is it? My mom is having the baby. C-section.
Me: Very exciting.
JS: Yeah.
I sit and think for a moment before typing. Then I hit the keys:
Me: I know that you’re apprehensive about the new baby, but take it from me, if you stay open to new experiences, sometimes life works out in ways you least expect.
There is a pause before Jared writes back. Finally:
JS: Thanks. You’re sweet.
I take a deep breath and type:
Me: So are you.
JS: I hope to see you real soon. There isn’t another dance until the new year.
Me: Sign up for the lecture series.
JS: Really?
Me: We invite you guys to the lecture series.
JS: Cool. I will.
Me: Great.
JS: It’s a date.
I take another deep breath before typing this, as my fingers are literally shaking with excitement. A date. How I love that word date. I type:
Me: It’s a date.
Suzanne stands behind me. “Wow. That IM was about four miles long.”
“I know.”
“He really likes you,” Suzanne says. “Excellent.”
“You think?”
“I would say you are right on schedule.” Suzanne flips her hair back into her hairband and it falls away from her face like gold ribbons.
“For what exactly?” I’m dying to know.
“Your first official boyfriend.” Suzanne shrugs. “I mean, you do have Andrew back home, but that’s platonic.”
“Right.”
“And that guy, Tag, he’s a total fantasy, right?”
“I guess.” I hate to admit it, but Suzanne is right. Only if there was some blight in Brooklyn that forced every teenage girl there to move out of the borough and I were the only girl left, then, and only then, would I have a realistic shot at TN. There’s nothing wrong with that, it just happens to be true.
“So this is perfect.” Suzanne stretches out on her bunk. “Sure makes life more interesting, doesn’t it?”
I smile. It is perfect. Jared is perfect for me. I didn’t think of him in that way, but it’s true. He’s just right.
Marisol and Romy come in carrying their books from math lab. The blue streaks in Romy’s hair have grown out since we’ve been here and now they look like two blue feathers. I think her hair grows faster than the general population’s and for sure, faster than mine.
“What a day.” Marisol plops down on her bed.
“Is it me, or are the classes, like, getting so difficult you have to be Madame Curie to pass?” Romy unloads her book bag.
“You guys need a break,” Suzanne says. “Listen, I asked my mom if I could invite you all home for Thanksgiving. She said, bring the quad!”
“Really?” Romy’s eyes widen. “Are your hot college brothers going to be there?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, I am so there.” Romy laughs.
“Thank you. I’d love to go,” Marisol says. “No way can my parents afford to bring me home at Thanksgiving and then again at Christmas.”
“I know.” Suzanne smiles. “Not that I eavesdrop on your phone calls or anything.”
“I’d love to come,” I tell Suzanne. “They keep school open, but we’ll be stuck doing morning hikes with Mrs. Zidar—and pressed turkey in the cafeteria might kill me.”
“Great. I’ll tell my mom. We’ll take the train into the city.”
My appointments with Mrs. Zidar have become a pain. I really don’t have any extra time to hang out and speculate about the roots of my insomnia when I have bio, horticulture, and English midterms that count for 30 percent of the grades in each class. I don’t even notice how much I’m sleeping—or not sleeping—because I’m so busy.
“I sense you’re getting a little impatient with this process,” Mrs. Zidar says.
Oh, really, what was your first clue? I want to retort, but instead, I say, “No, I just have a lot on my mind.” I’m dying to spice up these sessions with a play-by-play of the dance, my three kisses, and my obvious boost upward on the PA social ladder. But that’s way too private.
“We could suspend our sessions until after Thanksgiving,” she offers.
“Fantastic!” I stand up so fast it takes Mrs. Zidar aback.
“Well, that was easy,” she says. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving break?”
“I’m going to Chicago with my roommates, all of us, to Suzanne Santry’s.”
“Wonderful!”
“I’ll miss you on the nature hike,” I tell her. “But I won’t miss the pressed turkey with the yellow gravy.”
Mrs. Zidar tries not to laugh.
Romy, Marisol, Suzanne, and I stand on the platform of Union Station after having made, like, a million stops between South Bend and downtown Chicago. I didn’t mind all the stops because I knew at the end of the ride, I’d be back in a major city.
As I breathe in the Chicago air for the first time, cold and smoky with exhaust, I remember what I left behind in Brooklyn: sirens, traffic noise, and crowds. It’s so peaceful in South Bend that I’ve actually forgotten how to tune out because there’s no need to in a small city that folds up at nightfall. The only noise you hear in South Bend is the occasional long-distance fire whistle or the marching band at the University of Notre Dame when they practice their drills outdoors. I’ve missed the racket of city life.
Chicago is a sprawling city spread over miles, with a giant lake in the center, whereas New York City is crammed onto one small island. Chicago has skyscrapers like New York City, but here, there seems to be more room on the ground. There are wide streets and sidewalks. No cobblestones.
The sky over Chicago is expansive. At home, we appreciate the smallest stretches of sky. Sometimes a cloud that passes through what looks like a small blanket of blue between two buildings is all you will see of the greater universe.
“Crepes!”
Suzanne turns. “Kevin!” She waves. “Over here!”
One of Suzanne’s brothers, Kevin, stands by the driver door of an old station wagon across from Union Station. He has layered light-brown hair and blue eyes. He looks even better in person than he did in the picture on Suzanne’s desk.
Suzanne leads us across the median. Kevin grabs her duffel and mine and takes them around to the back of the car. Romy sort of freezes until Kevin smiles at her and grabs her bag out of her hands before throwing it in the back. Marisol stuffs hers in on top of the rest. “Step on it, girls. I’m in a tow zone.”
We pile into the car. Kevin and Suzanne get in the front. Romy, Marisol, and I climb into the backseat. In the reflection of the rearview mirror, I see that Kevin has a nice smile and an overbite that has been partially corrected. He’s major handsome. He looks a lot like Suzanne, with the same high forehead and strong jawline.
“This is Kevin,” Suzanne says, giving her brother a big hug. “He’s my favorite brother.”
“Until Joe picks her up.”
“He’s your other brother?” Romy pipes up.
“Yep. But this is the one who counts, until I get my license of course.”
“I’m not teaching you how to drive, Crepes,” Kevin says, and he sort of twinkles.
“Why do you call her Crepes?” Romy asks. I think she couldn’t care less about Suzanne’s nickname; she just wants to keep the conversation going with Kevin.
“For Suzette. Crepe Suzette. Because she’s so sweet,” Kevin says.
“I’m going to be sick,” I joke.
The drive to Lake Forest is speedy, as Kevin knows the back roads and the best ways to avoid traffic. He plays the radio loudly and, every once in a while, lowers the volume to say something to his sister.
We can only see the back of his head and occasionally his blue eyes in the rearview, but it doesn’t matter. I can tell Romy is already crazy about Kevin. She applies pink gloss on her lips repeatedly until it’s so thick, I finally lean over and whisper, “You look great.” Romy has one of those instant love-at-first-sight crushes that almost-fifteen-year-old-girls only get on older guys. It’s like Romy’s been hit with a rubber mallet that we use to pound chicken fillets in healthy cooking class.
Romy leans forward from the backseat and asks Kevin a ton of questions about college. I think she likes that she has her face close to his and can check how they look together in the rearview. She asks him perfectly intelligent questions and Kevin doesn’t seem to mind answering them. It turns out he’s a freshman at Marquette University and he plays hockey. Partial scholarship. With that, he and Romy go into sports world with a conversation that only the athletically inclined would find remotely interesting.
Kevin pulls into the driveway of their house on a pretty, tree-lined street with sidewalks. The Santrys live in a cottage-style stone house with a black wrought-iron gate. Classy. The trees have a few golden leaves hanging on, but the ground is clear where they’ve raked. The yards are soft brown where there was once green grass. A large silk flag with a turkey embroidered on it hangs over the Santrys’ entrance door. We grab our duffels and follow Kevin up the walkway.
“Ma, we’re here. I got the kids,” he says as we enter the house. Marisol and I look at each other. We can hardly be called kids after we’ve left home and lived on our own. We look over at Romy, who gets a look of concern on her face. She doesn’t want her crush to consider her a kid. Her determined chin softens, but then she gets a steely look in her eye. I’ve seen this look when she plays field hockey and is strategizing her path to the goal. She’s going to prove to Kevin she’s not a kid but a young woman. Her work is cut out for her over this break.
The Santry house smells like cookies are baking in the oven (maybe they are). The living room is big and comfortable with large bright paintings and lots of books in stacks everywhere. There’s an upright piano and potted plants in the windows.
Suzanne’s mother comes out of the kitchen. She’s wearing business clothes, and over them a faded apron that says FOR THIS I SPENT FOUR YEARS IN COLLEGE? “You made it!” Mrs. Santry greets us one at a time and gives us each a hug, which makes me feel welcome and miss my own mother. We follow her into the kitchen. It’s a bright yellow country kitchen with a blue tile floor and pots hanging over the sink. There’s a large bay window overlooking a backyard with an above-ground swimming pool in the center of it.
“Come on over and meet my dad,” Suzanne says.
I’m expecting a tall man (everybody in the Santry family is a giant) from the picture. We follow her to the bay window where her dad is sitting, reading. When we get close, I pause. Mr. Santry isn’t sitting in one of the kitchen chairs; he’s in a wheelchair. It’s rolled up to the table. His feet are placed on the floor, not in the stirrups.
Romy looks at me, then at Marisol. We’re all confused. Her dad must have been in an accident, but why wouldn’t Suzanne have mentioned it?
Suzanne runs to her father and sits on his lap.
“Whoa,” he says and laughs. Mr. Santry is as handsome as Kevin, and looks tall too. Suzanne takes her father’s hand, which he cannot seem to lift. Sh
e gives him a kiss on each cheek and then hugs him tightly. “Who did you drag home this time?” He grins at us.
Romy, Marisol, and I look at one another. And then I laugh, and they follow suit. “We’re spongers,” I tell him. “Boarding school girls with no place to go on the holiday.”
“But there’s no place else we’d rather be,” Romy says earnestly, looking at Kevin.
“Well, welcome to our house,” Mr. Santry says and smiles.
“You should feel sorry for us,” I tell him. “We’re all alone in the world.”
“Not anymore,” Kevin says. I notice this comment makes Romy stand taller and smooth the last bits of the blue streaks in her hair.
“Why don’t you girls go upstairs and put your things away? We have big plans this afternoon,” Mrs. Santry says.
“Great.” Suzanne climbs out of her father’s lap and gives him another kiss. We follow her into the hallway. I turn and look back at Mr. Santry, who smiles at us. Mrs. Santry goes to him and tucks the throw that rests on his legs. She leans down and kisses him on his cheek.
I follow Suzanne and the girls up the front stairs. The house feels like a country inn, with flowery prints and distressed furniture painted colors like cobalt blue and antique white. The artwork is fun, and framed photographs line the stairwell. The pictures are in rough-hewn frames from when the Santrys were children. Romy lingers on pictures of Kevin when he was young. I jab her with my elbow to keep her moving up.
“Okay, here’s my room.” Suzanne pushes the door open to a sunny and huge bedroom, painted with lavender and white stripes, and with a set of bunk beds and a trundle underneath. “You guys take the bunk and trundle.”
“Where are you going to sleep?” I ask her.
“The trusty air mattress. Don’t worry. I like it.”
Romy, Marisol, and I set about placing our duffels next to our beds. It’s so funny to have our quad transported intact from South Bend to Chicago. We are actually pretty good at moving as a unit.