Front Lines Read Free Page B

call her effects. But it’s all on the bottom of the Pacific, I guess, and we won’t ever know.”
    â€œI guess not,” Jenou says. “What did she write about?”
    Rio shrugs. “I don’t know. I haven’t had the . . . I haven’t read it. Her secret crushes, I guess. But if I read it . . . I mean, what if she just complains about her annoying little sister?” She tries to force a smile, and it doesn’t quite work.
    â€œYou know you don’t have to be funny and lighthearted with me.”
    â€œIt’s not for you, Jenou. I heard someone say, I don’t know who, some wise man, or some snake oil salesman, whoever, anyway . . . I heard somewhere that you make achoice in life between tragedy and comedy.”
    â€œIt’s a choice?”
    â€œWell, you can’t choose what happens. You can’t even really choose how you’re going to feel about it, I guess. But you can choose how to cope with it.”
    Jenou nods her head. “You’re becoming deep, Rio.”
    â€œAm I?”
    â€œVery deep.”
    Rio raises a skeptical eyebrow. “It just seems that way because I’ve always been so shallow.”
    â€œNonsense. I’m the shallow one. I insist that I am more shallow than you.”
    â€œRachel was not shallow. She was always different, not like me. Rachel had ambition and goals and . . . ideas.” She shrugs again. “She was so definite. Do you know what I mean? I feel . . . I mean, I never had to think about—”
    She’s interrupted by the loud crash of a dropped glass behind the counter. Strand looks up at the sound, sees Rio, and smiles.
    â€œNever had to think about what?” Jenou prompts.
    â€œOh, I don’t know. About the future. Life. You know. I mean, who am I, anyway? I’m just some silly girl. I was Rachel’s little sister, and your less-pretty friend. But—”
    â€œYou are not less pretty,” Jenou says, reaching over to pat her hand. “You’re just less sexy.” She whispers the last word, earning one of Rio’s slow-build grins, which inturn causes Jenou to giggle, which causes the boys to turn around, their eyes and bodies all eagerness and energy.
    â€œSee? That was a sexy giggle,” Jenou says. “Shall I teach it to you?”
    Rio throws a small french fry at Jenou.
    Thank God for Jenou.
    â€œI guess if I was ever to enlist it would be in the army,” Jenou says. There’s a false note to her nonchalance that pricks Rio’s interest.
    â€œYou enlist? They’ll have to draft you, Jen, and then hunt you down with a net.”
    Jenou does not immediately laugh. Rio sets down her burger and leans forward. “Jen?”
    â€œDid I mention that this town is really boring?”
    â€œJenou Castain, what are you thinking?”
    â€œWell, everyone knows sooner or later this war goes to France, which means Paris. Haven’t you always wanted to see Paris? City of lights? City of love? City of lovers? City of my rich and handsome future husband? You know, I come from French stock.”
    â€œYes, you’ve mentioned it a hundred times, but, Jen, are you serious?” Jenou has always craved travel, especially to romantic France. She has always—well, since age twelve anyway—insisted on the French pronunciation of her name. Not a solid American j sound like jump , but a soft zh . Zhenou. Or Zhen for short. Jenou.
    Jenou looks up from her burger with the slyly defiant expression Rio has seen on many occasions, most often occasions that end with Jenou on the wrong end of a stern lecture from parents or from the pastor or even, on one occasion, from the chief of police.
    â€œYou haven’t thought of it?” Jenou asks.
    â€œMe? I’ve got months before I’m of legal age and—”
    â€œOh, do you really think you couldn’t get around that?” Jenou puts on her most worldly-wise face.