whirled and danced. All was well in the hive of students.
When I got home after breakfast the next morning, the house was quiet. Ginger and Daddy-o and Jane were still sleeping, and Miss Maura was cleaning up the kitchen. I heard TV noises coming from the den, and looked in. Sassy was on the couch watching cartoons with Takey, her arm over his shoulder, his hand on her leg. They didn’t notice me. They were both mesmerized by the show, with that TV zombie look on their faces, unself-conscious,cherry Popsicles melting in their hands. In that pose Sassy looked like a little kid, unaware of the way her left foot bounced off the end of the ottoman or the sticky Popsicle juice dripped down her fingers.
I felt old suddenly. Or maybe not old, but mature. I felt happy and sad. I touched my face, my bony new cheeks.
Everything was different now.
THIRTEEN
YOU INVITED SASSY, AND ONLY SASSY, FOR TEA THAT WEEK. Ginger, Jane, and I got the message: You were mad at us. I don’t know what Ginger did to upset you, but I figured some of the rumors about me had gotten back to you. As for Jane, her crimes were no mystery: the Sun had just published the story about her blog and all the scandalous family secrets, and then she was suspended from school for blasphemy. She expected trouble—no, she wanted trouble.
I came home from school and then realized I’d forgotten to get tampons, so I asked Jane if she wanted to drive to Roland Pharmacy with me. She was restless from being stuck at home all day so she said yes. It started raining. We drove to the pharmacy accompanied by the slap of the wipers, the swish of the water under our tires, and the smell of wet wool.
I pulled up in front of the pharmacy. “Come in or wait in the car?”
“Wait in the car,” Jane said. “Get me a Mounds bar.”
I picked up a box of tampons and stopped to scan the magazine rack for a second. I heard a familiar voice say, “I’m picking up a prescription for my mother.” Brooks Overbeck propped hiselbows on the pharmacy counter, handing a prescription slip to the pharmacist.
“It’ll be ready in just a minute, son,” the pharmacist said.
Brooks turned and leaned against the counter to wait, surveying the after-school activity in the store. His eyes brushed past the middle school girls giggling over greeting cards and a woman studying moisturizers until they reached the magazine rack and caught me staring at him. As he ambled over, I casually held the box of tampons behind my back.
“Hey, Norrie, what d’ya know?”
“Hi, Brooks.”
He pulled a cream-colored envelope from his jacket pocket. “Got this in the mail today. You’ll be getting my official reply in writing, of course, once my mother shows me the proper way to write it, but off the record the answer is ‘Yeah, baby!’”
“Answer?” I didn’t know what he was talking about. “Answer to what?”
“You’re a cool one.” He tapped the envelope against his palm. “Always were, weren’t you?”
“Cool? Me? No, I’m not cool at all.” I shifted the box of tampons to the crook of my arm—let him see them, I didn’t care anymore—and snatched the envelope out of his hand. It was thick, creamy Downs’ stock, addressed to him, and the return address was mine. But the handwriting—thin, scratchy, yet forceful—was unmistakably yours, Almighty.
“I was hoping you’d ask me,” Brooks said. “I got a few other invitations too, but I was waiting for yours.”
I opened the card. Mr. and Mrs. Alphonse Sullivan III request the pleasure of your company at the presentation of their daughter, Louisa Norris, at the Bachelors Cotillon, Saturday, December 21…
This might surprise you, Almighty, but I don’t like it when people take actions in my name without my permission. My first thought was: How dare she?
My mind raced furiously, but I didn’t know what to say to Brooks. This wasn’t his fault.
“Overbeck,” the pharmacist called.
“I’ve got to go,”
When I got home after breakfast the next morning, the house was quiet. Ginger and Daddy-o and Jane were still sleeping, and Miss Maura was cleaning up the kitchen. I heard TV noises coming from the den, and looked in. Sassy was on the couch watching cartoons with Takey, her arm over his shoulder, his hand on her leg. They didn’t notice me. They were both mesmerized by the show, with that TV zombie look on their faces, unself-conscious,cherry Popsicles melting in their hands. In that pose Sassy looked like a little kid, unaware of the way her left foot bounced off the end of the ottoman or the sticky Popsicle juice dripped down her fingers.
I felt old suddenly. Or maybe not old, but mature. I felt happy and sad. I touched my face, my bony new cheeks.
Everything was different now.
THIRTEEN
YOU INVITED SASSY, AND ONLY SASSY, FOR TEA THAT WEEK. Ginger, Jane, and I got the message: You were mad at us. I don’t know what Ginger did to upset you, but I figured some of the rumors about me had gotten back to you. As for Jane, her crimes were no mystery: the Sun had just published the story about her blog and all the scandalous family secrets, and then she was suspended from school for blasphemy. She expected trouble—no, she wanted trouble.
I came home from school and then realized I’d forgotten to get tampons, so I asked Jane if she wanted to drive to Roland Pharmacy with me. She was restless from being stuck at home all day so she said yes. It started raining. We drove to the pharmacy accompanied by the slap of the wipers, the swish of the water under our tires, and the smell of wet wool.
I pulled up in front of the pharmacy. “Come in or wait in the car?”
“Wait in the car,” Jane said. “Get me a Mounds bar.”
I picked up a box of tampons and stopped to scan the magazine rack for a second. I heard a familiar voice say, “I’m picking up a prescription for my mother.” Brooks Overbeck propped hiselbows on the pharmacy counter, handing a prescription slip to the pharmacist.
“It’ll be ready in just a minute, son,” the pharmacist said.
Brooks turned and leaned against the counter to wait, surveying the after-school activity in the store. His eyes brushed past the middle school girls giggling over greeting cards and a woman studying moisturizers until they reached the magazine rack and caught me staring at him. As he ambled over, I casually held the box of tampons behind my back.
“Hey, Norrie, what d’ya know?”
“Hi, Brooks.”
He pulled a cream-colored envelope from his jacket pocket. “Got this in the mail today. You’ll be getting my official reply in writing, of course, once my mother shows me the proper way to write it, but off the record the answer is ‘Yeah, baby!’”
“Answer?” I didn’t know what he was talking about. “Answer to what?”
“You’re a cool one.” He tapped the envelope against his palm. “Always were, weren’t you?”
“Cool? Me? No, I’m not cool at all.” I shifted the box of tampons to the crook of my arm—let him see them, I didn’t care anymore—and snatched the envelope out of his hand. It was thick, creamy Downs’ stock, addressed to him, and the return address was mine. But the handwriting—thin, scratchy, yet forceful—was unmistakably yours, Almighty.
“I was hoping you’d ask me,” Brooks said. “I got a few other invitations too, but I was waiting for yours.”
I opened the card. Mr. and Mrs. Alphonse Sullivan III request the pleasure of your company at the presentation of their daughter, Louisa Norris, at the Bachelors Cotillon, Saturday, December 21…
This might surprise you, Almighty, but I don’t like it when people take actions in my name without my permission. My first thought was: How dare she?
My mind raced furiously, but I didn’t know what to say to Brooks. This wasn’t his fault.
“Overbeck,” the pharmacist called.
“I’ve got to go,”
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