Hurricane Days Read Free Page A

everyone knew that Peggy Hoolihy had spent most of her high school years underneath the bleachers. She must know everything there was to know, right? Now I wondered if I should have asked Mom to give me that book anyway, even if she was about to pass out.
    Summer was coming soon, and by fall we’d be in different states anyway. I knew this meant something big to him. So I leaned in and tried to kiss him his way. But all I felt was a wet, flopping eel running along my tongue and inside my cheeks. It was like getting a cheek swab for strep at the doctor, but more uncomfortable. I wanted it to stop. Now. After what seemed like a reasonable amount of time I managed to pull away, and I smiled as if it had been a pleasant experience. Judging from his dreamy face, I must have played my part well.
    That was my first lesson in duplicity. I discovered I was good at it. For most of the summer, to avoid that kind of kiss again, I made excuses every time he wanted to see me. And when I did see him, I made sure it was at a group, family or church event, so he wouldn’t try that kind of kiss there.
    A few weeks ago, as summer was drawing to a close, we talked on the phone.
    “I’m really gonna miss you,” Marc said. He sounded upset, as if something was on his mind.
    “Me too,” I replied.
    “I don’t feel like…well, it doesn’t seem like you really wanna be with me anymore.”
    “Why would you say that?”
    “You never can go out with me.” His voice was sad and kind of pitiful.
    “It’s not my fault I had summer jobs.” Yes, make him feel guilty for saying such a thing. I was being so manipulative, I was surely damned to hell. Dad always said I was melodramatic, and now I was using my acting powers for evil purposes. I was sure to burn for eternity. Even so, it seemed worth the price to avoid having to kiss someone like that.
    “No, I get that. I understand. I really do.” Of course he did. How could he argue with helping schoolchildren learn how to read or coordinating all the food for the church picnics? After all, that potato salad wasn’t going to make itself.
    There was a long silence. “I have to go. My mom needs my help with dinner.” I always found a way to get off the phone quickly.
    So the last call before I’d leave for college was one I couldn’t endure—an awkward maze with no easy way out. As the credits rolled for Casablanca , I sat back in the comfortable velvety chair and sighed. I loved film noir. Nothing in these films was as it seemed, particularly the women. They were mysterious creatures with power and beauty and that certain something that made the men fall at their feet.
    Of course I couldn’t imagine myself as a film siren or femme fatale . I wasn’t as cool or confident. I worried constantly, always feeling a little strange compared to my friends. I spent my time deep in thought, usually thinking about things I couldn’t control—the nuclear threat, violence in the Middle East or when Saturday Night Live was going to get funnier. I was inquisitive about the world and social issues, but all my friends wanted to talk about were boys. Not to sound rude, but my friends were boring. It was as if none of them cared about whether or not we invaded another country or why the price of gas was going up. They were content to live in their little suburban bubbles with freshly cut grass and think only about getting a ring. I’d have to accept being different.
    I didn’t even dress right, according to the unspoken laws of high school. Too often I wore blouses given to me by Granny Inez, who sewed them from ugly, old-lady patterns. I couldn’t hurt her feelings or Dad’s by refusing them. As a result I ended up going to school looking about forty years older than I was. For college, however, I packed only two of the blouses—to appease Dad. Then I said I didn’t have any more room in my suitcase. When I could, I wore simple, button-down shirts tucked into jeans. I liked simplicity, not fashion