helpful," Mom says. She cuts her pasta, which she never
does. A careful, overly thought-out action that reeks of concern bordering on
panic.
"I don't need a counselor," Bex says. "I
just need more hours in the day. I hate wasting time playing dodge
ball."
"Sadistic game," I agree.
"I'm not sure if my insurance would cover it,
but I could check," Mom says. "This obsession ..."
"What about your Barbies, Bex?" Severin plops
some ice into the glass canister too, fits on the lid.
"She hasn't been into Barbies for two years,"
Mom says.
"I haven't been into Barbies for two years,"
Bex says. "Do you think I care about Barbies now, anyway? Do you think Barbies matter?"
"Honey," Mom says. But she doesn't seem to know
where to go from here. The word just hangs, until Severin starts the blender and
there's only the sound of crunching and grinding vitamins, the silvery core of
nourishment, containing every essential thing but the nourishment
itself.
Trevor's got his fingers in my hair, and I love
when he's got his fingers in my hair. We're lying on the grass by Pine Lake,
because Pine Lake is our place. It's not a big lake like Lake Washington or Lake
Sammamish, but a summer-camp type lake, with houses tucked around it--now, in
the dark, cozy and glowing from the lights inside. We have our house that we
like. It's not the biggest house, but has the lawn that rolls right to the
water's edge. The couple that lives there has a dog, and we see him
sometimes
83
paddling in the water or walking on the grass
with a tennis ball in his mouth. The house has a dock with two chairs on it,
sometimes an inflatable inner tube on a hot day. Someone is watching television
upstairs--there's the shadow-light blink of nervous, dancing images. My head is
lying in Trevor's lap, and he's combing my hair with his fingers and it's
baby-sleepy-soothing. We've been here awhile already; we sat quiet, just
watching twilight, taking in that sweet magic that happens when the light turns
golden. Why do you feel like your heart could break when the hills turn pink
and the trees turn yellow? Trevor asked. Why do you feel every joy and
sorrow and goodness and beauty and past and present and every perfect thing? And I kissed him then, just because he was right.
The magic light passed, and dark crept in;
heartbreak time changes to the hours when you tell deep and secret things. I
tell Trevor about the envelope.
"So, what do you put in an envelope?" he says.
Trevor's chin is tilted up. From where I lie, even in the moonlight, I can see
the narrow white place of his neck that isn't tan like the rest. He's got a
shirt on over his T-shirt because it's cool at the lake. It's white cotton with
pearly white snaps like cowboys wear. They make me want to pop them open with my
thumb and forefinger. He makes me want to pop them open.
"A letter," I say up into the night. "A
thank-you letter."
"That's a card. A big envelope says ..." He
thinks. "Legal."
"Business merger. I see. Wants me as his
partner for my cool head and brilliant mind."
"Or he's suing you," Trevor says.
"For giving him bad advice. Like those people
who sue McDonald's because their hot coffee is hot coffee."
"Maybe he's giving you his Vespa."
84
"Ha," I say. "Wouldn't I love that."
"You could sell it," Trevor says. "What, five,
six thousand? You'd be rich."
"We could run away to Mexico and buy some big
sombreros and a velvet painting," I say.
"You'd promise me that you wouldn't change,
even if you had all that money," he says.
"I'd promise you," I say, and he leans down and
kisses me then and his mouth is cold, but then, it's not cold for long, and I
like the feel of those snaps under my fingers.
The next morning Mom's in the kitchen in her
bathrobe, her old blue terry cloth that looks slouchy and depressed. She
doesn't, though. Maybe she's already had too much coffee, but she's rummaging
through the junk drawer with the energy and focus of someone
does. A careful, overly thought-out action that reeks of concern bordering on
panic.
"I don't need a counselor," Bex says. "I
just need more hours in the day. I hate wasting time playing dodge
ball."
"Sadistic game," I agree.
"I'm not sure if my insurance would cover it,
but I could check," Mom says. "This obsession ..."
"What about your Barbies, Bex?" Severin plops
some ice into the glass canister too, fits on the lid.
"She hasn't been into Barbies for two years,"
Mom says.
"I haven't been into Barbies for two years,"
Bex says. "Do you think I care about Barbies now, anyway? Do you think Barbies matter?"
"Honey," Mom says. But she doesn't seem to know
where to go from here. The word just hangs, until Severin starts the blender and
there's only the sound of crunching and grinding vitamins, the silvery core of
nourishment, containing every essential thing but the nourishment
itself.
Trevor's got his fingers in my hair, and I love
when he's got his fingers in my hair. We're lying on the grass by Pine Lake,
because Pine Lake is our place. It's not a big lake like Lake Washington or Lake
Sammamish, but a summer-camp type lake, with houses tucked around it--now, in
the dark, cozy and glowing from the lights inside. We have our house that we
like. It's not the biggest house, but has the lawn that rolls right to the
water's edge. The couple that lives there has a dog, and we see him
sometimes
83
paddling in the water or walking on the grass
with a tennis ball in his mouth. The house has a dock with two chairs on it,
sometimes an inflatable inner tube on a hot day. Someone is watching television
upstairs--there's the shadow-light blink of nervous, dancing images. My head is
lying in Trevor's lap, and he's combing my hair with his fingers and it's
baby-sleepy-soothing. We've been here awhile already; we sat quiet, just
watching twilight, taking in that sweet magic that happens when the light turns
golden. Why do you feel like your heart could break when the hills turn pink
and the trees turn yellow? Trevor asked. Why do you feel every joy and
sorrow and goodness and beauty and past and present and every perfect thing? And I kissed him then, just because he was right.
The magic light passed, and dark crept in;
heartbreak time changes to the hours when you tell deep and secret things. I
tell Trevor about the envelope.
"So, what do you put in an envelope?" he says.
Trevor's chin is tilted up. From where I lie, even in the moonlight, I can see
the narrow white place of his neck that isn't tan like the rest. He's got a
shirt on over his T-shirt because it's cool at the lake. It's white cotton with
pearly white snaps like cowboys wear. They make me want to pop them open with my
thumb and forefinger. He makes me want to pop them open.
"A letter," I say up into the night. "A
thank-you letter."
"That's a card. A big envelope says ..." He
thinks. "Legal."
"Business merger. I see. Wants me as his
partner for my cool head and brilliant mind."
"Or he's suing you," Trevor says.
"For giving him bad advice. Like those people
who sue McDonald's because their hot coffee is hot coffee."
"Maybe he's giving you his Vespa."
84
"Ha," I say. "Wouldn't I love that."
"You could sell it," Trevor says. "What, five,
six thousand? You'd be rich."
"We could run away to Mexico and buy some big
sombreros and a velvet painting," I say.
"You'd promise me that you wouldn't change,
even if you had all that money," he says.
"I'd promise you," I say, and he leans down and
kisses me then and his mouth is cold, but then, it's not cold for long, and I
like the feel of those snaps under my fingers.
The next morning Mom's in the kitchen in her
bathrobe, her old blue terry cloth that looks slouchy and depressed. She
doesn't, though. Maybe she's already had too much coffee, but she's rummaging
through the junk drawer with the energy and focus of someone
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