walking past. He isn’t thinking about his mouth! That’s what’s so overwhelming.
“She has to calm down,” Dunk advises Felicia.
“I know, but she can’t,” Felicia replies.
This delirious, buzzing feeling is neither unpleasant nor unfamiliar—I used to get it lying in the mildewed hammock in my
grandmother’s backyard, utterly relaxed in body if not in mind, the tops of the trees moving back and forth across the sky,
the rope creaking, the peeling paint on the garage coming into view and then leaving again, slower, slower, slower, until
I had to reach out with my stick and give another push. I do miss childhood: one long trance state, broken only by bouts of
sickening family discord.
What if this guy actually wants to talk to me?
“Don’t worry,” Felicia says soothingly. “He won’t.”
“This is clinically depressing me,” Gina Maroni, Duncan’s best friend, says. She’s a tall, graceful girl with a large nose
and silky black hair who used to be a figure skater until her butt grew—as she puts it—and threw everything off. She’s outgoing,
which means she doesn’t really belong with us, but we like having her. “Not talking to someone is snotty. Why would you want
to be snotty to him?”
This kind of psychology never works on me.
“You ought to give him a piece of this fudge,” Dunk suggests. “Just go, ‘Want some fudge?’ and then hold out a little piece
of this.”
“What if he says no and I’m just standing there with fudge in my hand? Or what if he asks where I got it?”
“Then you tell him. Go, ‘I brought it from home.’ ”
“Then he’ll think I’m someone who’s making fudge and bringing it to school. He’ll think I’m Amish.”
“No!” Felicia says. “Say you made it in home ec. Go, ‘I made this in home ec.’ This shows you’re being nice, yes, but it doesn’t
look like you’re offering him
fudge.
It just looks like ‘Ihave to get rid of this fudge I made in home ec; I’ll give some to a kid in my detention.’ ”
“How can she be giving him fudge when she can’t even look at him?” says Jan Larson. Her parents call her Yawn. White blond
hair and a round face, braces, also has a bird, but hers talks. After it bites you, it says it’s sorry in a flat Norwegian
accent. “Too complicated. Why not just have her go—”and she shrugs, does a Mona Lisa, braces-hiding smile.
“She needs to do both,” Maroni says definitively. “Fudge, then smile. Or maybe smile, then fudge. And while he’s eating it,
ask him if he’s going to the game.”
They’re giving me a drowsy, moth-headed feeling, as though I’m in a beauty parlor, being turned this way and that, a plastic
sheet snapped around my neck, under which my hands are nicely folded in case it’s whipped off unexpectedly. Snip, snip.
“Look, she can’t even listen to this,” Felicia says.
“So do it with yours,” Maroni says. Felicia’s hasn’t been saying hi to her, but he’s been veering into her when they pass
in the halls. “Smile, fudge, game.”
“Okay,” Felicia says agreeably.
This kind of psychology does work with me.
“Wait,” I say.
“Don’t try to tell me you’re going to a football game and it isn’t with Flea, because I know better,” my mother says. “You
are not to be seeing her whatsoever.”
“I’m going to a football game with Dunk and Maroni,” I say patiently. “And maybe Yawn and maybe Luekenfelter, if her mom says.”
“Why
wouldn’t
her mom say? Is there something I don’t know about these football games?”
“No.
God.
It’s a game, people throw a ball around; it’s exciting. If I can’t go, just tell me, and I’ll get someone else to use my
ticket.”
“You have a ticket?”
“You can’t go to a game without a ticket! God!”
There’s a long wait as she reads her newspaper and smokes.
“Be home by nine,” she says.
“The game begins at eight! God!”
“Be home by ten,” she amends
“She has to calm down,” Dunk advises Felicia.
“I know, but she can’t,” Felicia replies.
This delirious, buzzing feeling is neither unpleasant nor unfamiliar—I used to get it lying in the mildewed hammock in my
grandmother’s backyard, utterly relaxed in body if not in mind, the tops of the trees moving back and forth across the sky,
the rope creaking, the peeling paint on the garage coming into view and then leaving again, slower, slower, slower, until
I had to reach out with my stick and give another push. I do miss childhood: one long trance state, broken only by bouts of
sickening family discord.
What if this guy actually wants to talk to me?
“Don’t worry,” Felicia says soothingly. “He won’t.”
“This is clinically depressing me,” Gina Maroni, Duncan’s best friend, says. She’s a tall, graceful girl with a large nose
and silky black hair who used to be a figure skater until her butt grew—as she puts it—and threw everything off. She’s outgoing,
which means she doesn’t really belong with us, but we like having her. “Not talking to someone is snotty. Why would you want
to be snotty to him?”
This kind of psychology never works on me.
“You ought to give him a piece of this fudge,” Dunk suggests. “Just go, ‘Want some fudge?’ and then hold out a little piece
of this.”
“What if he says no and I’m just standing there with fudge in my hand? Or what if he asks where I got it?”
“Then you tell him. Go, ‘I brought it from home.’ ”
“Then he’ll think I’m someone who’s making fudge and bringing it to school. He’ll think I’m Amish.”
“No!” Felicia says. “Say you made it in home ec. Go, ‘I made this in home ec.’ This shows you’re being nice, yes, but it doesn’t
look like you’re offering him
fudge.
It just looks like ‘Ihave to get rid of this fudge I made in home ec; I’ll give some to a kid in my detention.’ ”
“How can she be giving him fudge when she can’t even look at him?” says Jan Larson. Her parents call her Yawn. White blond
hair and a round face, braces, also has a bird, but hers talks. After it bites you, it says it’s sorry in a flat Norwegian
accent. “Too complicated. Why not just have her go—”and she shrugs, does a Mona Lisa, braces-hiding smile.
“She needs to do both,” Maroni says definitively. “Fudge, then smile. Or maybe smile, then fudge. And while he’s eating it,
ask him if he’s going to the game.”
They’re giving me a drowsy, moth-headed feeling, as though I’m in a beauty parlor, being turned this way and that, a plastic
sheet snapped around my neck, under which my hands are nicely folded in case it’s whipped off unexpectedly. Snip, snip.
“Look, she can’t even listen to this,” Felicia says.
“So do it with yours,” Maroni says. Felicia’s hasn’t been saying hi to her, but he’s been veering into her when they pass
in the halls. “Smile, fudge, game.”
“Okay,” Felicia says agreeably.
This kind of psychology does work with me.
“Wait,” I say.
“Don’t try to tell me you’re going to a football game and it isn’t with Flea, because I know better,” my mother says. “You
are not to be seeing her whatsoever.”
“I’m going to a football game with Dunk and Maroni,” I say patiently. “And maybe Yawn and maybe Luekenfelter, if her mom says.”
“Why
wouldn’t
her mom say? Is there something I don’t know about these football games?”
“No.
God.
It’s a game, people throw a ball around; it’s exciting. If I can’t go, just tell me, and I’ll get someone else to use my
ticket.”
“You have a ticket?”
“You can’t go to a game without a ticket! God!”
There’s a long wait as she reads her newspaper and smokes.
“Be home by nine,” she says.
“The game begins at eight! God!”
“Be home by ten,” she amends
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