says it’s so authentic, a real showpiece.”
I shrug, say, “I wouldn’t want to live in the eighteenth century,” and decide to chance the effects of one bite of the bagel on my bubbling cauldron of a stomach. “That trip to Sturbridge Village was enough for me.”
“I’m sure Michael’s house isn’t like that!” Tori laughs. “He has electricity, right?”
“Of course they do,” Mom assures me. “And they have very impressive antiques and maintain the original part of the home in the Federal style. It’s a piece of local history… The home will be on the spring garden tour, too. I hear the grounds are gorgeous.”
I get up then, willing to leave the bagel behind to get away from my mom’s rhapsodies about Michael’s house; they seem kind of tacky and underscore our canyon-sized differences – the ones between Mom and me and between Michael and me.
But before I can contemplate why Michael would play knight in Ralph Lauren-designed armor for me, I hit the laptop and find that he has sent me a Friend Request on Facebook. I accept it and moments later receive this IM:
How are you feeling?
I type: “Like a truck backed over me. But thank you for taking me home in my appalling and shameful state.”
He types: “All in a day’s work, ma’am. See you in school.”
As I contemplate our new, official, sanctioned-by-Facebook public status (Georgiana Barrett is now Friends with Michael Endicott), Shondra IMs:
“What happened since I last saw you? J ”
but I pretend not to see it. I still feel too much like there’s a jackhammer pounding on my brain to comprehend this new social development myself.
***
But back in school two days later, things are definitely friendlier between Michael and me. In English we get into a happy debate over whether Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver was truly an idiot in thinking the Houhnhyms (the horse people) were better than humans; Michael accuses me of having the same conviction in the superiority of animals over people since I’m a vegan and an animal rights person. But he’s not smirking for once when he says it. He’s actually smiling.
The change between us must be noticeable to others, too, because after class Shondra walks me to Spanish and says, “I’m glad you guys worked things out.”
“I have to admit that Michael was really great at Jason’s party. And after.”
Shondra rolls her wide eyes and laughs, “Yeah. I heard about that party. And I heard about you and Jeremy Wrentham, too.”
“Oh, God. There he is.”
Jeremy walks toward us, in all his golden-haired, cashmere-sweatered glory, carrying a few books so loosely under his arm they seem to stay aloft through the sheer force of his personality. He’s chatting and smiling at everyone as he makes his way down the hallway, like a celebrity shown up in a small town, being gracious to all the little people as he makes his way to his car and driver.
To me he nods and says, “Hey, Dutch,” as he walks by.
And that’s it.
The boy who was so desperate to “ring in the New Year” with me couldn’t get past me faster if he’d had a rocket stuffed in his boxer shorts.
“Well, obviously our New Year’s Eve together represents a golden memory for him, too.” I think I sound normal, but my stomach is clenched like a fist.
At the door to Spanish class Jason Antin punches my arm lightly as he goes in, saying, “Hey, Georgia, glad you’re still with us!”
Shondra takes my arm before we walk through the classroom door but she can’t seem to speak. She just looks at me with sad eyes, her mouth slightly open but someone’s hit the “mute” button.
“What?” I demand when I can’t take it for another nanosecond.
“I don’t know how to say this …”
“So just say it.”
“I heard Jeremy took Amanda Anderson home after you left Jason’s party the other night,” she says in one breath.
I throw my arm against my forehead and mock wail, “Oh, no! And I was having our
I shrug, say, “I wouldn’t want to live in the eighteenth century,” and decide to chance the effects of one bite of the bagel on my bubbling cauldron of a stomach. “That trip to Sturbridge Village was enough for me.”
“I’m sure Michael’s house isn’t like that!” Tori laughs. “He has electricity, right?”
“Of course they do,” Mom assures me. “And they have very impressive antiques and maintain the original part of the home in the Federal style. It’s a piece of local history… The home will be on the spring garden tour, too. I hear the grounds are gorgeous.”
I get up then, willing to leave the bagel behind to get away from my mom’s rhapsodies about Michael’s house; they seem kind of tacky and underscore our canyon-sized differences – the ones between Mom and me and between Michael and me.
But before I can contemplate why Michael would play knight in Ralph Lauren-designed armor for me, I hit the laptop and find that he has sent me a Friend Request on Facebook. I accept it and moments later receive this IM:
How are you feeling?
I type: “Like a truck backed over me. But thank you for taking me home in my appalling and shameful state.”
He types: “All in a day’s work, ma’am. See you in school.”
As I contemplate our new, official, sanctioned-by-Facebook public status (Georgiana Barrett is now Friends with Michael Endicott), Shondra IMs:
“What happened since I last saw you? J ”
but I pretend not to see it. I still feel too much like there’s a jackhammer pounding on my brain to comprehend this new social development myself.
***
But back in school two days later, things are definitely friendlier between Michael and me. In English we get into a happy debate over whether Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver was truly an idiot in thinking the Houhnhyms (the horse people) were better than humans; Michael accuses me of having the same conviction in the superiority of animals over people since I’m a vegan and an animal rights person. But he’s not smirking for once when he says it. He’s actually smiling.
The change between us must be noticeable to others, too, because after class Shondra walks me to Spanish and says, “I’m glad you guys worked things out.”
“I have to admit that Michael was really great at Jason’s party. And after.”
Shondra rolls her wide eyes and laughs, “Yeah. I heard about that party. And I heard about you and Jeremy Wrentham, too.”
“Oh, God. There he is.”
Jeremy walks toward us, in all his golden-haired, cashmere-sweatered glory, carrying a few books so loosely under his arm they seem to stay aloft through the sheer force of his personality. He’s chatting and smiling at everyone as he makes his way down the hallway, like a celebrity shown up in a small town, being gracious to all the little people as he makes his way to his car and driver.
To me he nods and says, “Hey, Dutch,” as he walks by.
And that’s it.
The boy who was so desperate to “ring in the New Year” with me couldn’t get past me faster if he’d had a rocket stuffed in his boxer shorts.
“Well, obviously our New Year’s Eve together represents a golden memory for him, too.” I think I sound normal, but my stomach is clenched like a fist.
At the door to Spanish class Jason Antin punches my arm lightly as he goes in, saying, “Hey, Georgia, glad you’re still with us!”
Shondra takes my arm before we walk through the classroom door but she can’t seem to speak. She just looks at me with sad eyes, her mouth slightly open but someone’s hit the “mute” button.
“What?” I demand when I can’t take it for another nanosecond.
“I don’t know how to say this …”
“So just say it.”
“I heard Jeremy took Amanda Anderson home after you left Jason’s party the other night,” she says in one breath.
I throw my arm against my forehead and mock wail, “Oh, no! And I was having our
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