I Am the Wallpaper Read Free Page B

he asked.
    I shrugged.
    “Listen, I do believe we ought to get you another glass of champagne.” At that moment the tray came by again, so he grabbed two glasses and held one out for me.
    “No, thank you. That other one was just for show. My mother doesn’t allow it.”
    He stepped in a little closer. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said, still holding out the drink. “What your mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
    “But my mother
would
know. She’d see.” I nodded toward where Ma stood.
    When he saw who she was, he stepped back a little. “You couldn’t be … you’re not Lillian’s little eleven-year-old sister, are you?”
    I shook my head. “Thirteen.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, blushing. “I didn’t know. I guess I should have—You look a lot like her.”
    I probably ought to have been flattered, but beyond the dark wavy hair and pale skin, I think we only look alike if you’re not paying attention. Still, he seemed so nice I didn’t want to argue.
    “It’s just that you seem older than I expected. More, you know, mature.” I didn’t want him to see how happy that made me, so I tried my best to keep a poker face. He looked down at the chair I’d been sitting in and then glanced around at the crowded room. “It must be hard for you today.”
    I studied his beautiful face. Was he only being nice to me because he thought I was just a sad nobody who needed cheering up, or did he really think I was mature? I wished I weren’t wearing the Glinda the Good Witch costume.
    My mother was still listening to the square-faced man, only now his jolly-looking wife had joined them. Here I was just a few feet away with an older boy who might even have lewd intentions, and Ma was completely oblivious.
    “I changed my mind,” I said. “I
will
have that champagne.”
    He hesitated, but I grabbed the glass out of his hand and took a sip. It was sweet, like lemon soda.
    “Maybe we’d better go into the kitchen,” he said. “Would you like to come with me?”
    I almost said no, but he moved away, so I followed him. We had to fight our way through the people. Once we reached the kitchen, a group of Helmut’s incredibly tall, German-speaking relatives blocked us from my mother’s view. We found an empty space at the corner of the counter.
    “Okay, she’s not around anymore.” He raised his glass. “To never being afraid to have a glass of champagne at your own sister’s wedding.”
    I felt my cheeks grow warm. I raised my glass too and then emptied it in one long swallow. He watched me, surprised. Finally, I handed him the empty glass and said, “What’s your name?”
    “I’m Calvin,” he laughed. “Helmut’s uncle, sort of. His stepmother is my sister.”
    Another failed relationship.
    “I like your accent,” I said. “Where are you from?”
    “Providence,” he said, and then grinned. “But transplanted two years ago from Oklahoma City.”
    “I’m Floey,” I said. Then I noticed the top of Aunt Sarah’s head bobbing in the doorway of the television room just above one of the shorter German ladies. “Would you mind standing right here?”
    Since Calvin didn’t seem to understand and wasn’t moving quickly enough, I grabbed him by the arms and pulled him into place. I was starting to feel a comfortable glow across my face.
    “Wh-what?”
    I whispered into his ear. “It’s my aunt Sarah. I don’t want to talk to her.”
    “Ahh …,” he said, as if he understood. He looked over his shoulder. “Which one is she?”
    “Skinny lady. Tight hairdo. Ugly brown dress. Please don’t stare.” He turned back. He had a wonderful smile. I suddenly felt relaxed and wicked. “What do you do when you’re not pushing alcoholic beverages on underage girls?”
    He grinned. “I’m a poet.” When I didn’t say anything, he continued, “Well, I go to school, of course. Moses Brown. I’ll be a sophomore this September. But I do poetry readings all the time. You know,