A Soldier's Daughter Never Cries by Kaylie Jones Page B

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    One Sunday afternoon shortly after Kevin’s arrival, Mrs. Fortescue took Francis and me to the opera to see Madame Butterfly. As the three of us were sitting all dressed up in the otherwise empty subway car, the most horrible coincidence in the world occurred. Kevin Westgate, accompanied by an older girl and younger boy who had the same tow-hair and little upturned nose and green eyes as he, got on the train and sat down across from us. Kevin’s face lit up and he smiled, raising his hand in a wave. I automatically, without thinking, turned my face away and stared out the window. There, my own horrified face glared back at me, as well as Francis’s, who was grinning evilly. In fact, both Fortescues were smiling at me with know-it-all expressions.
    What a perfect opportunity to talk to Kevin this could have been, I realized with dismay. Francis’s reflection in the window was not only girlish but completely uncool; he was wearing a bowtie, his pants were too short, and his hair, which was also too short, stuck straight up in a curl at the back of his head. A real mama’s boy, I thought. I saw myself the way I imagined Kevin perceived me and my heart sank to my shoes.
    “Don’t you know that boy, Channe?” Francis said loudly. “Why don’t you say hello?”
    He was right, of course; I was not dealing with the situation properly. But by now my voice and sensibilities had completely abandoned me.
    During Madame Butterfly all I could think about was the horrendous, accidental encounter in the subway. It was the first time I truly realized how odd Francis seemed to others, and that our relationship had come to fit into a space and time that I wanted separate from my daily social life. He embarrassed me the same way Candida embarrassed me. They were a constant reminder that I was overprotected, childish, and naïve, when all I wanted was to be sophisticated and adult.
    I realized with a terrible, crushing feeling that the reason I did not want Francis to sleep over anymore was that he still pretended we were sexless children; he was holding me back from growing up. I was seized by a terrible, choking rage. All I wanted was to escape.
    We had ham sandwiches at a café after the opera, and I was so morose I couldn’t speak at all. Francis tapped me gently on the arm and said, “Oh, come now. It’s all right. He’s so stupid he’ll forget by tomorrow that he saw you with me.”
    Mrs. Fortescue laughed in her shrill, impish way.
    What’s wrong with this woman, I thought; can’t she see that her son is weird?
    On the last day of school before summer vacation, Francis announced to me that he was planning to leave École Internationale Bilingue to attend a lycée in the fall. He told me this as we were climbing the back stairway to my apartment. The stairwell was old, musty, and dark. The automatic timer on the lights went out before we’d reached the doorstoop.
    “What?” I said, spinning around in the darkness and pressing the light switch again. Francis appeared a few feet before me, leaning his hip against the wooden banister with his arms crossed over his chest.
    “I’m tired of it,” he said in a defeated tone. He’d developed quite a downy black moustache by then, but hadn’t shaved yet.
    I was frightened at the thought of being without him in the fall, but in the next moment I felt immensely relieved. He must have seen this on my face.
    “I want to tell you something,” he said, and took a step toward me. “Now, don’t get upset and throw a fit. I know you and I know you’re going to throw a fit anyway.” He paused, giving me time to imagine every horrible thing in the world. His fingers were lightly tapping his biceps, like fingers practicing piano keys.
    “I’m in love with you a little bit,” he said. He lifted his right hand off his arm and made a little pinch with his thumb and index finger. “Just a little bit,” he said. “It used to be much worse a few years ago but now I’ve got