Babylon Sisters by Pearl Cleage

sitting there glowering at me. “In fact, we weren’t even friends. We were just lab partners.”
    “I know,” Monica said. “I was in that class, too. You probably don’t remember me. You were too busy talking to my husband.”
    I resisted the temptation to remind her that they weren’t married then and apologized one last time.
    “Well, I’m sorry about everything,” I said. “Bobby’s completely innocent. He won’t hear from my daughter again.”
    She was saying something else shrill as I handed him back the phone.
    “Monica, it’s me!” he interrupted her tirade. “Now do you believe me? I told you we never even . . .
did it!
”
    Just the thought made me feel a little queasy. I stood up.
    “Take your time and finish your call,” I whispered with a small wave. I still had time to get my Chianti without overcooking my lasagna and, as far as I was concerned, this conversation was truly over.
    “Monica?” he said, standing up, too. “I’ll call you right back.”
    He snapped the phone closed and looked at me, suddenly uncomfortable again. That was an improvement over the glowering, but not by much. I wondered if there was a more direct way to say good-bye and get him off my porch.
    “I’m a teacher now,” he said, apropos of nothing. “Tenth-grade Chemistry and Biology.”
    “Still doing that science, huh?” I said, heading for the front steps and pleased that he took the hint and walked with me.
    “Yeah. Same old, same old.”
    His tone had changed completely. He sounded almost wistful. What was going on?
    “Well, I’m sure your students are lucky to have you,” I said, although I wasn’t sure of anything of the kind. His little gray Honda Civic was parked right behind the big old green Buick I inherited from Louis a couple of years ago and that I’m still driving. His car looked old and sad, just like he did.
    “You think so?” he said, fishing in one pocket after the other for his keys. He hadn’t changed a bit. Still awkward. Still confused.
    “Don’t you?”
    “I don’t know what they think,” he said. “They probably hate me.”
    He was suddenly awash in self-pity, his voice almost a whine. I could tell he wanted to tell me his troubles, but that was not going to happen. I’d had enough.
    “Well, good seeing you, Bobby,” I said, opening the car door. “Sorry about the circumstances. You take care, now.”
    “You, too.” He watched me climb in, but before I could pull away, he tapped on my window. I reluctantly lowered it and he leaned down to look me in the eye. “You should have told me, you know?”
    “Told you what?”
    A slow, goofy smile spread across his face. “That you felt that way about me. Maybe we could have worked something out.”
    Was boring Bobby Hicks hitting on me? How much worse could this get?
    “Maybe we still could,” he said.
    I put the car in drive. If it was going to be worse than this, I wasn’t going to stick around to see. “Go home to your wife,” I said. “Before I call her back and tell her being lab partners was just the tip of the iceberg.”
    He must have believed me, or his fear of Monica’s wrath far outweighed his desire to rekindle our imaginary romance, because by the time I got to the corner and looked in the rearview mirror, he had pulled off the other way and disappeared.

17
    Bobby’s unexpected drop-by had really rattled me, but I still managed to get the wine, and the lasagna was perfect. We were only six, but we could have easily fed a dozen. Flora had grilled a variety of fresh vegetables from her prizewinning garden, with just a touch of olive oil and herbs. Aretha had roasted a free-range chicken with tarragon. Miss Iona had brought a pan of her legendary macaroni and cheese, and Regina had made a salad with fresh tomatoes and basil and mozzarella cheese that melted in your mouth. For dessert, Amelia had constructed six colorful parfaits.
    The wine flowed freely and so did the conversation. The book was a