heads nearly touched. The girl’s hair brushed Mother’s shoulder as she smiled with tiny, closed lips, her narrow nose twitching slightly. Instead of chewing the pastry in one gulp, she took miniature bites at its edges, licking it now and then to prevent the filling from dripping. I watched her until every bit of the pastry had disappeared.
In the hall, the marble table was still piled with appetizers. I crammed my napkin with as many fritters and cheese squares and crackers as it would hold. Then I climbed the stairs with clattering footsteps, not caring who heard me.
Seated cross-legged on the handwoven Indian carpet Mother had recently purchased for my room, I devoured one hors d’oeuvre after another. Within minutes, a dusting of crumbs littered the new rug, but I made no attempt to brush them away, only gobbled bite after bite until the first heave of nausea hit. Then, when the last morsel had been swallowed, I threw myself onto my bed unwashed, having tossed my dress to the floor, letting it lie in a crumpled puddle.
In the first days of September, before my ninth-grade year and Christopher’s fifth, the streets of New York flooded again with zigzagging cars and jostling pedestrians as they did at the close of every summer. We, too, had just returned from two months away at the house we rented in Montauk for every July and August.
“It’s invigorating, isn’t it?” Mother said one glaringly blue morning as we stood on the terrace watching the bustling people below. “The city rushing with life—surging once more with energy.” She sipped from the polka-dotted mug of coffee in her moisturized hand and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. She’d lightened it a shade, I thought, more streaks of yellow.
“You must be excited for the first year of high school.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess it won’t be much different from last year.”
I squinted through the trees of Central Park to see if I could make out the flat gray oval of the reservoir.
“If you want to invite any friends to the recital tomorrow night, you are welcome to. Everyone must be back from vacation by now.”
I shrugged again. I had only two girlfriends, really—Sharon Frasier and Emily McKenzie. Sharon was expected home for dinner every night, and I was temporarily avoiding Emily—she’d responded to none of the letters I had mailed her at summer camp. “I’d rather not.” Besides, I couldn’t imagine any reason they would want to sit in our living room for two solid hours of harp music, even if the harpist
was
“heaven inspired,” as Mother had exclaimed after seeing her perform the previous spring.
“Are you sure? Larissa Balliet is so gifted. I bet your friends would enjoy her. I think it’ll be fun!” Mother leaned her hip against the terrace rail. The breeze lifted the hair from her neck. Then, glancing at her watch, she said, “I suppose I should make a few phone calls. Breakfast ison the table. Just don’t touch any of the wrapped appetizers in the refrigerator, love. They are to be saved for tomorrow evening.”
The afternoon before the recital, white-painted rental chairs with gold cushions arrived and were arranged in rows facing the living room fireplace. Mother adjusted their fabric ties and placed the programs she’d had printed on each seat. She set bowls of pink rosebuds on the two living room coffee tables and a vase of white tulips and lilies and peonies in the foyer.
“The house looks nice,” I said. It had suddenly occurred to me that possibly the Dempseys had been invited, and if so, might bring their son Jamie. “The East Coast Hottie,” Sharon and Emily called him because Emily had kissed him once at a wedding reception in Amagansett and told us his lips made her feel she would slide to the ground and melt into a puddle. Behind her back, Sharon and I agreed she was exaggerating, but this did not stop me from thinking of Jamie Dempsey when I watched movie love scenes, or
In the hall, the marble table was still piled with appetizers. I crammed my napkin with as many fritters and cheese squares and crackers as it would hold. Then I climbed the stairs with clattering footsteps, not caring who heard me.
Seated cross-legged on the handwoven Indian carpet Mother had recently purchased for my room, I devoured one hors d’oeuvre after another. Within minutes, a dusting of crumbs littered the new rug, but I made no attempt to brush them away, only gobbled bite after bite until the first heave of nausea hit. Then, when the last morsel had been swallowed, I threw myself onto my bed unwashed, having tossed my dress to the floor, letting it lie in a crumpled puddle.
In the first days of September, before my ninth-grade year and Christopher’s fifth, the streets of New York flooded again with zigzagging cars and jostling pedestrians as they did at the close of every summer. We, too, had just returned from two months away at the house we rented in Montauk for every July and August.
“It’s invigorating, isn’t it?” Mother said one glaringly blue morning as we stood on the terrace watching the bustling people below. “The city rushing with life—surging once more with energy.” She sipped from the polka-dotted mug of coffee in her moisturized hand and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. She’d lightened it a shade, I thought, more streaks of yellow.
“You must be excited for the first year of high school.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess it won’t be much different from last year.”
I squinted through the trees of Central Park to see if I could make out the flat gray oval of the reservoir.
“If you want to invite any friends to the recital tomorrow night, you are welcome to. Everyone must be back from vacation by now.”
I shrugged again. I had only two girlfriends, really—Sharon Frasier and Emily McKenzie. Sharon was expected home for dinner every night, and I was temporarily avoiding Emily—she’d responded to none of the letters I had mailed her at summer camp. “I’d rather not.” Besides, I couldn’t imagine any reason they would want to sit in our living room for two solid hours of harp music, even if the harpist
was
“heaven inspired,” as Mother had exclaimed after seeing her perform the previous spring.
“Are you sure? Larissa Balliet is so gifted. I bet your friends would enjoy her. I think it’ll be fun!” Mother leaned her hip against the terrace rail. The breeze lifted the hair from her neck. Then, glancing at her watch, she said, “I suppose I should make a few phone calls. Breakfast ison the table. Just don’t touch any of the wrapped appetizers in the refrigerator, love. They are to be saved for tomorrow evening.”
The afternoon before the recital, white-painted rental chairs with gold cushions arrived and were arranged in rows facing the living room fireplace. Mother adjusted their fabric ties and placed the programs she’d had printed on each seat. She set bowls of pink rosebuds on the two living room coffee tables and a vase of white tulips and lilies and peonies in the foyer.
“The house looks nice,” I said. It had suddenly occurred to me that possibly the Dempseys had been invited, and if so, might bring their son Jamie. “The East Coast Hottie,” Sharon and Emily called him because Emily had kissed him once at a wedding reception in Amagansett and told us his lips made her feel she would slide to the ground and melt into a puddle. Behind her back, Sharon and I agreed she was exaggerating, but this did not stop me from thinking of Jamie Dempsey when I watched movie love scenes, or
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