The Basic Eight Read Free Page B

beat faster is carved out of marble.” I briefly described my experience with Michelangelo’s David. She broke character for a full minute as she listened to me, shaking her head slightly. Her silver earrings waved and blinked. I was a little proud to have hushed her; even my best poems haven’t done that. When I was done she remembered who she was.
    “So this is the guy you’re waiting to hear from?” she asked. “Can I give you a piece of advice? Statues never call. You have to make the effort.”
    “You have experience in this realm?” I said. “And here I thought you only slept with anything that moved .” Natasha threw back her head and cackled. U.p. and a.n. went down again; the men all sat and wished they were the ones making her laugh like that. I jumped in while she was laughing.
    “It’s Adam State. I’m waiting for Adam State to call.” Once I finally told someone it seemed much smaller, a

    problem made not of earth-shattering natural forces but of proper nouns: first name Adam, last name State.
    Her cackling stopped like somebody pulled the plug. “ Adam State ?” she screeched. “How can you have a crush on anyone who has a name like a famous economist?”
    “It’s not because of his name. It’s because of–”
    “That sine qua non ,” Natasha finished, batting her eyelashes. She stopped when she saw my face. “Don’t get angry. You know how I am. Underneath all my Bette Davis-meets-Dorothy Parker act I try to be good, really. There’s no accounting for taste. Do you think it will work out?”
    I bit my lip. “Honestly?”
    Natasha looked at me as if I suggested she keep her hair natural. “Of course not. Honestly . The very idea .”
    “In that case, yes. It will definitely work out. I’m just worried about how ‘Flannery State’ will look on my stationery.”
    “You could do that hyphenated thing. Culp-State, say.” “Sounds like a university. Where criminals go after high
    school.”
    I finished my latte and paid careful attention to the taste of the milk. I didn’t notice any real similarity, but my palate isn’t as experienced. “This is a secret, Natasha.”
    “Mum’s the word,” she said. Her hair looked gorgeous. “Don’t say the word to me. My parents have vanished as far
    as I’m concerned.”
    “You have to stop traveling with them,” she said, smiling slightly as her eyes met one of her admirers. “Get them to send you to summer school. You’d learn things.”
    “Thanks, but there’s enough steamed milk in my life.” “Come on, you need to buy notebooks so you can write his
    name on them in flowery letters.”

    I rolled my eyes and followed her across the street to a station- ery store. We opened our purses and bought things: notebooks, pencils, paper with narrow, straight lines. Our school colors weren’t available, which is a good thing: Roewer’s colors are red and purple.
    She drove me home, which made me worry a little bit about the flask. I leaned back in the passenger seat and everything felt like a transatlantic flight again. I hoped I had enough interesting books, but for now I felt at ease, pampered even. It was almost dusk. I rolled down the window and felt air rush into my mouth. I stole a look at Natasha as she stole a look at me. Friends, we smiled and I closed my eyes again and let the sublime noise sur- round me.
    “The music is great. Who is this?”
    Natasha turned it up. “Darling Mud. They’re all the rage in England.”
    It sounded great. It was all thundering percussion and snarling guitars, and the chorus told us over and over that one thing led to another. “On and on and on and on,” the singer wailed, on and on and on and on.
    As I opened the door to get out, Natasha touched my hand. “Listen, if you want Adam, you’re going to have to move . I talked to Kate just the other day, and she had talked to Adam just the other day. He’s apparently been getting crazy love letters from someone all summer. He wouldn’t