Local Girls by Alice Hoffman Page A

nagging feeling, as if Margot had somehow settled into her brain to remind her, again and again, that smart girls should always look before they leap.
    At the end of February, on a gray and heartless day, Gretel realized that her period was late. She went over to the Harringtons’ basement, where her friend Jill lived with her husband and six-month-old baby, Leonardo, named for his grandfather on his father’s side. Leonardo was advanced for his age, and he crawled in a circle on the floor, like some large crustacean, while Gretel cried.
    â€œYou’ll just have to make the best of it,” Jill told her. “Look at me.”
    Gretel did and started crying again.
    â€œWell, thanks a lot.” Jill was all huffy and defensive. “My sweet little crab boy.” She scooped up Leo and kissed him half a dozen times. “It’s not such a bad fate.”
    That evening, Gretel went to Margot’s house. She pounded on the front door, since the bell had broken ages ago.
    â€œYou almost gave me a heart attack,” Margot said when she let Gretel in. She’d been watching the news on TV and eating chocolate-covered pretzels. The house was something of a mess, and had been for several years, ever since Tony had taken off.
    â€œWhat if I was pregnant?” Gretel said tentatively.
    â€œOh, Jesus,” Margot said. “What’s wrong with you girls?”
    Gretel threw herself into an easy chair. Her head was spinning. “It’s just a what if situation.”
    â€œOkay, fine. You want a what if?” Margot got out her cigarettes and a diamond-studded lighter her ex had given her years before. “What if I killed you, how’s that?”
    â€œGo ahead, do it,” Gretel said. “I’d thank you.”
    â€œGretel, I thought you were smarter.”
    â€œI’m in love with him,” Gretel said, as though that were an explanation for anything.
    â€œSure you are.” Margot wasn’t wearing any makeup, and she looked tired, but she was still young enough to remember how all of this felt. “Whatever you want to do,” she told Gretel, “I’ll stand by you.”
    Three days later, Gretel got her period, but instead of feeling relief, she had the oddest sense of loss. She closed up on herself. She stopped talking. When Sonny gave her an opal ring for her birthday, all she could do was sit down and cry.
    â€œNot exactly the reaction I thought this would get,” Sonny said.
    There was nothing wrong with the ring. It was, by far, the most beautiful gift Gretel had ever received. She wore it day and night; she stared at it as she fell asleep and gazed upon it when she opened her eyes in the morning. But she could look at that opal all she wanted, and it still wouldn’t erase the premonition she had that disaster was only steps away, and heartbreak even closer. She had started to hear the phone ring late at night at Sonny’s place. She’d begun to feel an ache in her chest whenever she saw Sonny, the way people do when they know something is going to break apart.
    It happened in March, just when there were hints the winter would end. The sky was bluer, the wind less like a hammer; ice had begun to melt, leaving cold, little streams in the gutters and streets. It was a Saturday and Frances and Margot were in the kitchen preparing for a Saint Patrick’s Day party. They were fixing green potato knishes, éclairs filled with mint cream, and celery sticks stuffed with green-tinted tuna salad. It was noon, but no one ever ate lunch in this house. They grabbed bits and pieces, which is what Gretel did when she came into the kitchen, already wearing her navy-blue jacket.
    â€œWhere are you off to?” her mother asked her. “You’re never here anymore.”
    Gretel had already taken two of the éclairs, and now Frances smacked her hand when she reached for a third.
    â€œI’m just going out.” Gretel saw the