wasn’t his type because he didn’t pay her much attention.”
She shook this observation off. “You do this, Frannie. If there’s something uncomfortable to talk about, you try to avoid it. Not talking about it doesn’t make something go away. It has to be faced head-on, okay? We’re not discussing Tom here. I don’t care about Tom. No girl with half a brain is going to prefer Tom once she gets to know Jonathan.”
“Tom’s had lots of girlfriends.”
Tammy merely raised an eyebrow. I knew what that meant. No girl with half a brain , Frannie.
My shoulders slumped. She was right. Whatever there was between my cousin and Caroline Grant, hoping it wouldn’t be there wouldn’t make it go away. And it would be a relief to share my feelings, even with someone as biased as Tammy. At least I could be certain the idea displeased her as much as me. I felt the words bubbling up, as if I’d been sitting on top of a geyser, thinking that could contain it.
“She likes him,” I admitted. “She plays with her hair and laughs a lot and looks at him out of the tops of her eyes. Two times Tom was going somewhere with Eric Grant, and she was going to go, but then when she found out Jonathan wasn’t, she came up with some excuse to stay behind. And she’s been super nice to Aunt Marie and Aunt Terri. She ignored Paola at first until she saw that Jonathan was nice to her, and then she started being all nice to her. And you know how Jonathan is so good at conversation and he’ll ask you questions about yourself—well she just eats it up and goes on and on about herself. Like when she talked nonstop about her harp and why she loves her harp and her big dreams about playing her harp for the San Francisco Symphony, so of course Jonathan says he would like to hear her play the dumb thing, and he went to one of her recitals and came back talking about his new appreciation for it and what a ‘sensitive’ touch she had! She—I—oh, Tammy, I can’t stand her—I wish she would—”
Midway through my torrent, Tammy’s mouth fell open, and by the time I ran out of breath and sputtered to a halt, she was gaping at me.
I felt my stomach clutch up.
Tammy was bowled over. But I could see it was not my revelations about Caroline Grant that astonished her—it was what my revelations revealed about me. I felt color flooding my face and hoped it wouldn’t show under my sunburn.
“Frannie…” she said, as she pulled her thoughts together. “Frannie—you’ve been giving this a lot of attention.”
“He’s—Jonathan’s—my favorite cousin,” I said weakly. “My big brother.”
The eyebrow again. “No, Frannie. With language like that…”
For a minute we sat in silence, Tammy pondering while I dissolved in mortification like a slug in salt.
“Frannie,” she said finally, still sounding like her mind was elsewhere, “you shouldn’t hate her, you know.”
I didn’t answer. Of course I shouldn’t. But I did.
“But you already know that, don’t you,” Tammy continued. She scratched a mosquito bite on her calf. “What concerns me more, Frannie, is that—it sounds like you think of him as more than a brother. It sounds like you li —”
But then, glory hallelujah, little Jeff Robertson poked his brother Christopher in the face with the sharp stick, gashing his cheek and causing the blood to well up. Tammy sprang to her feet. “Jeff! Jeff Robertson! I told you to put down that stick, and now look what you’ve done!”
“He made me! He made me do’d it!” Jeff protested, bursting into tears. Christopher was screaming more from shock and drama than pain, and the two of them together made quite a racket. The oldest Robertson boy plunked himself on the curb to wait out the crisis. Tammy sent me for a washcloth and Band-Aid, and I returned a minute later from the supply room to find Mrs. Robertson’s car pulled up and all three boys shouting and accusing each other. Apparently, as the mother of three
She shook this observation off. “You do this, Frannie. If there’s something uncomfortable to talk about, you try to avoid it. Not talking about it doesn’t make something go away. It has to be faced head-on, okay? We’re not discussing Tom here. I don’t care about Tom. No girl with half a brain is going to prefer Tom once she gets to know Jonathan.”
“Tom’s had lots of girlfriends.”
Tammy merely raised an eyebrow. I knew what that meant. No girl with half a brain , Frannie.
My shoulders slumped. She was right. Whatever there was between my cousin and Caroline Grant, hoping it wouldn’t be there wouldn’t make it go away. And it would be a relief to share my feelings, even with someone as biased as Tammy. At least I could be certain the idea displeased her as much as me. I felt the words bubbling up, as if I’d been sitting on top of a geyser, thinking that could contain it.
“She likes him,” I admitted. “She plays with her hair and laughs a lot and looks at him out of the tops of her eyes. Two times Tom was going somewhere with Eric Grant, and she was going to go, but then when she found out Jonathan wasn’t, she came up with some excuse to stay behind. And she’s been super nice to Aunt Marie and Aunt Terri. She ignored Paola at first until she saw that Jonathan was nice to her, and then she started being all nice to her. And you know how Jonathan is so good at conversation and he’ll ask you questions about yourself—well she just eats it up and goes on and on about herself. Like when she talked nonstop about her harp and why she loves her harp and her big dreams about playing her harp for the San Francisco Symphony, so of course Jonathan says he would like to hear her play the dumb thing, and he went to one of her recitals and came back talking about his new appreciation for it and what a ‘sensitive’ touch she had! She—I—oh, Tammy, I can’t stand her—I wish she would—”
Midway through my torrent, Tammy’s mouth fell open, and by the time I ran out of breath and sputtered to a halt, she was gaping at me.
I felt my stomach clutch up.
Tammy was bowled over. But I could see it was not my revelations about Caroline Grant that astonished her—it was what my revelations revealed about me. I felt color flooding my face and hoped it wouldn’t show under my sunburn.
“Frannie…” she said, as she pulled her thoughts together. “Frannie—you’ve been giving this a lot of attention.”
“He’s—Jonathan’s—my favorite cousin,” I said weakly. “My big brother.”
The eyebrow again. “No, Frannie. With language like that…”
For a minute we sat in silence, Tammy pondering while I dissolved in mortification like a slug in salt.
“Frannie,” she said finally, still sounding like her mind was elsewhere, “you shouldn’t hate her, you know.”
I didn’t answer. Of course I shouldn’t. But I did.
“But you already know that, don’t you,” Tammy continued. She scratched a mosquito bite on her calf. “What concerns me more, Frannie, is that—it sounds like you think of him as more than a brother. It sounds like you li —”
But then, glory hallelujah, little Jeff Robertson poked his brother Christopher in the face with the sharp stick, gashing his cheek and causing the blood to well up. Tammy sprang to her feet. “Jeff! Jeff Robertson! I told you to put down that stick, and now look what you’ve done!”
“He made me! He made me do’d it!” Jeff protested, bursting into tears. Christopher was screaming more from shock and drama than pain, and the two of them together made quite a racket. The oldest Robertson boy plunked himself on the curb to wait out the crisis. Tammy sent me for a washcloth and Band-Aid, and I returned a minute later from the supply room to find Mrs. Robertson’s car pulled up and all three boys shouting and accusing each other. Apparently, as the mother of three
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