Now I'll Tell You Everything (Alice) by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor Page A

with the guy in the tank top, who had just slipped a heavy cross around his neck. It rested against his hairy chest wrong side up, and one of the saleswomen reached across the table and adjusted it for him. This gave him an excuse to grab her hand flirtatiously and ask about the ring she was wearing.
    I couldn’t tell if the girl with him looked more annoyed or pleading. She slipped one hand through her boyfriend’s arm and gave it a gentle tug.
    Stop, stop! I wanted to call. Laugh it off and stroll on. Instead, she tugged more aggressively, and this time he pushed her hand away, then turned his attention to the second young woman, fondling the copper necklace that nestled between her breasts. I saw his girlfriend’s cheeks flush, and for a moment I thought she was going to intervene. She recovered, however, and fanned herself with a brochure from her green bag, lifting her long hairup off the nape of her neck. She even playfully fanned her boyfriend. But then, when she still got no response—no recognition at all, in fact—she reached for the hem of her tank top and pulled it up over her head. Then she shook her hair out and faced her boyfriend, naked from the waist up.
    My mouth dropped in astonishment, and this time the boyfriend noticed.
    And he laughed.
    Then the two women selling the jewelry laughed.
    There was something so pathetic and sad in the girl’s complete vulnerability and the guy’s callousness that it brought tears to my eyes. She stood there helplessly, doused with embarrassment, and reminded me of Pamela, back when we were high school sophomores on our trip to New York, the way she had humiliated herself with Hugh. Of myself, the way my heart broke when Patrick and I broke up in ninth grade.
    And right then I realized I needed a job where I was working with people. Baking was fun and creative, but I think I’d really miss counseling; I’d miss helping kids through some unbearable times.
    When the girl finally walked away, holding her tank top against her chest this time, the guy made no move to follow. He whistled for her once, as you would call a dog. She stopped, turned around and looked at him, but when he laughed and whistled again for her to come back, she kept going, and I silently cheered her on.
    *  *  *
    Dad called to find out if he should meet me at the airport.
    “You know,” I said, “I’ve been toying with the idea of not going back to school. Of maybe staying out here and trying my hand at the catering business full-time.”
    “Alice . . . ,” Dad began.
    “It’s really fun,” I said. “And I’m more creative in the kitchen than I thought. Jayne needs a baker, and the nights here in Eugene are great!”
    “Alice,” Dad said. “Come home!”
    I laughed. “Gotcha,” I said. “But catering has its moments.”
    “Don’t do this to me,” Dad said, laughing now. “I’m too old.”
    “No, you’re not, you’re just right,” I told him. “But to answer your question, you don’t need to come to the airport. Dave’s picking me up, and I’m going to his folks’ place for a few days before school starts. I’ll be home Tuesday.”
    “Okay, sweetheart. See you whenever,” Dad said.
    *  *  *
    On our last day in Oregon, Jayne took us tubing on the Willamette River. It was almost enough to make me change my mind yet again and stay there.
    We each had a giant inner tube, and we floated along, our arms and legs draped over the sides of the tube, the rubber—warmed by the sun—blissfully comforting, a counterpoint to the cold water lapping at us from below as our bottoms bounced along with the current.
    Every so often, another tuber would drift into view andwe’d wave. I tipped my head back and offered my throat to the sun, wiggling my toes in delight.
    “I’m going to miss you girls,” Jayne said at one point as our tubes lazily bumped together, and we floated as a clump for a few minutes.
    “Women,” Abby corrected. “Once we reach the age of twenty,