old, he had agreed without complaint when toldhe could no longer leave his Lincoln Log or Tinkertoy constructions around the room for days on end nor sprawl on his bed in the daytime for fear the duvet cover would crease. “You’re just too young to be angry about how properly we have to keep
everything
!” I told him.
And now, even my own appearance, it seemed, required improvement. These were the injustices I stewed over from the stairwell as louder and louder fragments of conversation from Mother and Father’s party, peals of laughter floated up to me. Above the voices, I could hear Father addressing his guests by name, ushering them out of the foyer and into the living room. The swirl of Mother’s red skirts crossed the hall—once, twice, three times—as she moved from friend to friend. If she looked up, she would see my legs through the banister rails.
What are you doing, Francesca? It’s half past seven! I expected you downstairs thirty minutes ago
.
No. No, I refuse to go unless I can wear something else!
I envisioned the flames that would flash across Mother’s cheeks at the strength of my tone.
Then
she would understand how unhappy she had made me.
Then
she would apologize, stroking my hair with both hands as she used to do when I was little.
I’m sorry, Francesca, truly, I am sorry
. The imagined words brought a scratchy lump to my throat.
A combination of smells I couldn’t name began to emanate from the kitchen. The trim black pant cuffs and patent leather shoes of caterers whisked back and forth. I wondered if they were serving any of the miniature fried egg rolls that I loved. Usually these were passed with a sweet, plum-colored dipping sauce that made the roof of my mouth tingle.
The front hall began to clear; everyone had wandered into other rooms of the apartment. A man with a raspy voice was telling jokes. I could hear the clink of ice in glasses as women laughed. Two caterers returned to the hall and paused at the table near the entry before scurrying back to the kitchen. Creeping down a few steps, I could see that, surrounding a vase exploding with white roses, they had set silver trays of food on the marble tabletop. One tray held wedges of cheese and clusters of purple grapes, another strips of chicken on wooden skewers.There were plates full of meat pastries and heart-shaped potato fritters and crackers topped with a pink spread. Then, at the end of the table, I spotted a lazy Susan piled with the egg rolls I’d hoped for. If I dashed down the stairs and quickly ran up again, I could escape being noticed.
A stack of powder-blue linen napkins lay on the table. With quick fingers, I grabbed a handful of the rolls, a few pastries, cubes of yellow and orange cheese. I dropped them into a napkin and darted back upstairs. The crispy rolls were still warm from the oven. As I chewed, they filled my mouth with steam. It was eight o’clock. I had missed the first hour of my parents’ party. Incredible that my absence had gone unnoticed for this long. Ha! I covered my mouth with both hands, afraid I would giggle out loud. The hallway was still empty; I might as well run downstairs for another fried roll. Plucking a fresh napkin, I added to my bundle two potato fritters the width of my palm. At the head of the stairs, I spread the napkin across my knees and pushed a hole in one of the fritters, sticking my tongue into the center, licking at the salty softness inside. Between the shreds of potato hid melted drops of butter. When I had hollowed out the middle, I popped the remainder into my mouth, swallowing it down in a single bite. After the second fritter my stomach began to bubble noisily with air. I eyed the egg roll still in my napkin. Its greasy shell had left a spattering of stains on the blue linen. I folded the napkin in quarters over the roll to save for later.
Mother and Father’s friends seemed almost to be shouting now, and I wondered how they could hear one another. If I were
everything
!” I told him.
And now, even my own appearance, it seemed, required improvement. These were the injustices I stewed over from the stairwell as louder and louder fragments of conversation from Mother and Father’s party, peals of laughter floated up to me. Above the voices, I could hear Father addressing his guests by name, ushering them out of the foyer and into the living room. The swirl of Mother’s red skirts crossed the hall—once, twice, three times—as she moved from friend to friend. If she looked up, she would see my legs through the banister rails.
What are you doing, Francesca? It’s half past seven! I expected you downstairs thirty minutes ago
.
No. No, I refuse to go unless I can wear something else!
I envisioned the flames that would flash across Mother’s cheeks at the strength of my tone.
Then
she would understand how unhappy she had made me.
Then
she would apologize, stroking my hair with both hands as she used to do when I was little.
I’m sorry, Francesca, truly, I am sorry
. The imagined words brought a scratchy lump to my throat.
A combination of smells I couldn’t name began to emanate from the kitchen. The trim black pant cuffs and patent leather shoes of caterers whisked back and forth. I wondered if they were serving any of the miniature fried egg rolls that I loved. Usually these were passed with a sweet, plum-colored dipping sauce that made the roof of my mouth tingle.
The front hall began to clear; everyone had wandered into other rooms of the apartment. A man with a raspy voice was telling jokes. I could hear the clink of ice in glasses as women laughed. Two caterers returned to the hall and paused at the table near the entry before scurrying back to the kitchen. Creeping down a few steps, I could see that, surrounding a vase exploding with white roses, they had set silver trays of food on the marble tabletop. One tray held wedges of cheese and clusters of purple grapes, another strips of chicken on wooden skewers.There were plates full of meat pastries and heart-shaped potato fritters and crackers topped with a pink spread. Then, at the end of the table, I spotted a lazy Susan piled with the egg rolls I’d hoped for. If I dashed down the stairs and quickly ran up again, I could escape being noticed.
A stack of powder-blue linen napkins lay on the table. With quick fingers, I grabbed a handful of the rolls, a few pastries, cubes of yellow and orange cheese. I dropped them into a napkin and darted back upstairs. The crispy rolls were still warm from the oven. As I chewed, they filled my mouth with steam. It was eight o’clock. I had missed the first hour of my parents’ party. Incredible that my absence had gone unnoticed for this long. Ha! I covered my mouth with both hands, afraid I would giggle out loud. The hallway was still empty; I might as well run downstairs for another fried roll. Plucking a fresh napkin, I added to my bundle two potato fritters the width of my palm. At the head of the stairs, I spread the napkin across my knees and pushed a hole in one of the fritters, sticking my tongue into the center, licking at the salty softness inside. Between the shreds of potato hid melted drops of butter. When I had hollowed out the middle, I popped the remainder into my mouth, swallowing it down in a single bite. After the second fritter my stomach began to bubble noisily with air. I eyed the egg roll still in my napkin. Its greasy shell had left a spattering of stains on the blue linen. I folded the napkin in quarters over the roll to save for later.
Mother and Father’s friends seemed almost to be shouting now, and I wondered how they could hear one another. If I were
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