All Your Pretty Dreams Read Free Page B

to
tell.)
    “ I just arrived. Home—
here. I’m practicing for the family band. The Notable Knobels. The
accordion, as you heard. Polka mass in three days. My dad is on my
ass.”
    “ You play so— notably. But
some of us have to sleep.” Did all Minnesotans assume you care
about their lives?
    She gave him a last look—
he was wearing cool shoes, high-top leather sneakers— then let
herself into her room, chilly from running the air conditioner full
blast. She flipped the dial and it ticked slowly into
oblivion.
    She’d heard enough out of
the accordion in Europe to last a lifetime. The post-football-match
all-night annoyance of choice. Through the thin walls his footsteps
faded away, back toward the garage then a few minutes later toward
the house.
    Ozzie’s son. Poor him. How
old was he, she wondered, then stopped herself. He was just a guy
who lived somewhere slightly more hip than Red Vine, Minnesota.
Imagine that.
    Isabel threw her hat on the
bed. At least she didn’t have to room with one of the students.
They seemed so vacant, so unfocussed. For biology majors
especially, although she had doubts about that. Alison for one
could no more be a biology major than, say, Wendy Knobel, last seen
tearing around town in a blue convertible, wearing a halter top and
short-shorts, clinging to the neck of some yokel.
    Wendy made Isabel think of
her own sister. She hadn’t heard from Daria, who was four years
older and lived in Chicago, or their parents in Winnetka, since
she’d returned from Spain. Nor had she called them. She loved her
sister but her parents were rich and bossy as only rich people who
think they know better than anybody else can be. Yet she did love
them too. The fact that they had forgiven her for the legal
emancipation was to their credit. They would be mad at her for not
keeping in touch this year. She’d hardly written a postcard in
twelve months.
    Stalking to the bathroom,
she stared at her hair in the etched mirror over the sink. Ugly
business. Why didn’t hair grow faster? Four months had passed since
the au fait decision to dye it black. Two inches of blonde roots made her
look like a skunk. Another week of hats and she was going to take
the plunge and cut off all the black. She pulled the elastics out
of her braids and rubbed her scalp. What had she been thinking,
pretending to be a Spaniard?
    Things are at a pretty poor
impasse when you dye your hair to keep your boyfriend. For weeks in
Barcelona she had watched the Catalan girls with their flouncy
skirts throw themselves at Luis. How could she compete with their
casual seductiveness, tanned legs, and flashing dark eyes? Beside
them she looked like a seashell left in the sun too long. She
wasn’t going to buy some silly ruffled skirt. She had an allergy to
ruffles, and wore skirts only when it was so hot wearing slacks was
suicidal.
    She could still feel Luis,
his warm skin, the taste of his mouth. His brooding eyes and full
lips. From the first moment she saw him, singing in that bar in
Montpellier, she had wanted him. She loved musicians, their
sensitive spirit, their dedication, their passion.
    How desperate she’d
been.
    She climbed into bed and
tried not to think about Luis or Winnetka. Thinking of calling her
parents made her shudder. She knew what would happen, how she would
lose control of her life. It was better this way, for all of them,
she told herself, sighing into the pillow.
    Thoughts of Luis led as
always to Alec. Her first boyfriend. The reason she ran away to
Spain. How could she have been so wrong about him? His parents were
plain, hardworking people, salt of the earth. Alec was the bright
spot in their lives, and Isabel’s too. Her college career could be
summed up as stubborn ambition, numbing all-nighters, and grinding
low-wage jobs. It was the way she wanted it. Nobody would get
credit for her success but herself. She thought Alec was the same.
They were united in their passion for the independent spirit,