Smart Women by Judy Blume Page B

some experience with whatever marriage was and was not. He’d have kids at least as old as hers, maybe even older. She was not interested in merging families. She had only one more year, after this one, with kids living at home. Then it was to be her turn. She wasn’t about to give up that kind of freedom for some guy with kids. And he would have had plenty of experience with women, her steady man, and with life, so that settling down with her would be a pleasant relief. Not boring, of course, and not routine. But he wouldn’t need to prove anything either. They would see eye to eye on important subjects. He would be politically liberal, but no longer an activist. He’d have gotten that out of his system in the sixties. He’d welcome a nice place to live, a real home, but he wouldn’t get crazy over it. He wouldn’t be a collector, like Leonard, who couldn’t get a divorce because he was afraid of losing his de Koonings, his oriental rugs, his Ming vases. They would share a simple life, with plenty of laughter, plenty of passion, but without crazy expectations.
    That’s how it would be with her steady man.
    Andrew was probably in bed now, thinking about tonight. Thinking about her. If they had kissed, if she had gone next door with him, they would be in bed together now, their bodies, naked, wrapped around each other. She would like to have kissed him. His lower lip was fleshy and inviting. She would have nibbled on it. It would have been nice to run her hands through his soft-looking hair, to kiss the back of his neck.
    That’s enough, Margo! Go to sleep.
    Sleep . . . how can I possibly sleep?
    Close your eyes, for a start. Then count sheep. Count lovers. Count anything. But get off the subject of Romeo next door before you start thinking you’re Juliet, at forty.

12

    M ICHELLE HAD A RASH on her legs. The doctor said she had probably gotten flea bites over the summer and they had caused this allergic reaction. He prescribed a white cream, which she was supposed to apply twice a day. But most mornings she forgot because she was always in a hurry to get to school. So all during the day her legs itched and she scratched until they were bloody and sore.
    School wasn’t bad this year. She liked her English teacher. She liked her Chemistry teacher. She liked Gemini, a new girl in her class. She thought they might get to be friends. Real friends. She was even getting along with her mother, who had changed for the better over the summer. This year Margo wasn’t on her case all the time and they hadn’t had one major battle since Michelle got back from New York.
    Puffin was coming to dinner tonight. Puffin was in her class too, but they had never been friends. Puffin was so spoiled flitting around town in her Porsche. A princess from Texas. Michelle didn’t see how her mother could be friends with Clare, Puffin’s mother, but they were. “I don’t judge my friends by their children,” Margo had said one time, “any more than you judge your friends by their parents.”
    “But Mother,” Michelle had argued, “she’s a product of her environment. Clare must have made her the way she is.”
    “Clare has gone through many changes, Michelle,” Margo had said. “And Puffin will too. It’s not her fault that her parents have so much money she doesn’t know what to do. Shopping to her means going out and buying a Georgia O’Keeffe. Try to remember that.”
    “I still don’t like her,” Michelle had said. “I don’t like her attitude toward life.”
    “You’re entitled, “ Margo had said.
    And so Puffin was invited to dinner. And then Margo decided to ask Andrew Broder too, the Brat’s father, because he was new in town and seemed lonely. When Michelle heard that, she asked Margo if she could invite Gemini, who was also new in town. Gemini was a Pueblo Indian from New Mexico. She was living with the family of an anthropologist from C.U. who had met Gemini a year ago while he was doing research at her