I'm Not Your Other Half Read Free Page B

had been and I hoped he would not tell us. Price is a reasonably attractive person in the flesh and in some ways in the personality. But he’s wild in that borderline way that makes me nervous. No thought of consequences. No concern for people. Just doing whatever is exciting at the moment.
    Some girls are very attracted to that. They like the idea of a guy having a six-pack and then driving over the school field doing wheelies. I can only think, Yes, and what if you go home and take the curve at the bottom of Chapel Street at fifty miles an hour and some little kid like Kit Lipton happens to be crossing the street?
    â€œYou were smart to bring food,” said Price. “Saves money.”
    â€œMostly it saves time,” said Annie. “My time is too valuable to waste standing in line.”
    Price laughed, his eyes on Annie. Now, I certainly check boys out, and I certainly think Annie is a girl worth checking out, but it’s different when you actually watch the eyeballs trace the body and you know they’re wishing for no fabric between them and the full nude view. I felt slightly sick and turned to see how Michael was looking at me.
    He wasn’t. He was looking at the bus.
    Thanks a lot, I thought indignantly. I mean, you could at least show a little interest.
    â€œI knew I should have brought a thicker coat,” he said. “I always need padding on those buses.”
    â€œWe brought two blankets,” I told him. “We reupholster any bus we ride in. You want to share?”
    There was the briefest of pauses, as if we were all calculating something on invisible calculators. Price said, “How about Annie and I take the Army blanket there and you and Michael take the—whatever that thing is.”
    â€œThis is a Depression quilt,” I informed Price stiffly. “It is an honor to sit on it, so it’s just as well you realized you deserve only an old Army blanket in standard olive drab.”
    â€œA Depression quilt?” repeated Price. The quilt was ugly, in fat blocks of dark brown, striped gray and rusty black. “Is it supposed to start up your depression or clear it?” he asked.
    â€œThis quilt,” I said, “was made by my great-grandmother during the Depression out of old worn-out men’s suits in the church charity box. It’s stuffed with pieces of old coats and it wasn’t meant to be pretty. It was meant to keep them warm when they couldn’t afford to heat the bedrooms.”
    Michael looked at it with genuine interest. Price shrugged and led Annie onto the bus to reserve seats. What a sacrifice for Annie, I thought, having to share Price’s company. “Your great-grandmother,” said Michael. “That would be Viola Maude Fraser’s daughter?”
    I was immeasurably delighted. Of course it was only two days, and Michael didn’t have a wind cavern behind his eyes. But it was quite a compliment, his keeping track of my ancestry.
    Price and Annie were five seats behind the driver. It took me one step to pass them to slip into the sixth seat; one second was all I had to look at Price and Annie; and one moment was all I needed. They were framed in that curious way couples have. Heads coming together, slightly bowed, the same sort of intimacy of hands about to touch.
    Oh, no, I thought. Oh, Annie, don’t fall for Price Quincy, please.
    I would have worried, but Michael sat next to me, and I forgot Annie. They were inches from us; we could easily have addressed them over the seat back, but we never even thought of them. We talked of ordinary things, mostly school, yet the conversation was intense. It was intimacy with a pause. I was considering each syllable before I uttered it. Saying to myself, Yes, I’ll be that honest; it’s safe.
    With Annie, everything simply poured out.
    Someday, Michael and I will know each other well enough that we won’t stop to deliberate, I thought. There will be no