sexy teenage rose still blushing on her hip. Sometimes the thought of that made her sad; sometimes it made her laugh.
She didn't worry much about her appearance anymore ... just enough to stay fit and wash her hair with Forever Blond once a week.
She wore simple clothing. She liked silks and Asian prints, dangling earrings and bangles. Today she was wearing a pair of shiny black slacks and a turquoise blouse. The blouse was sheer, but she wore a black tank top under it. A thin silver chain around her neck. An armful of silver bangles that made music as she walked, steered, brushed her hair.
Flat black shoes.
She dressed her age and income level, but did it creatively ... a little exotic, like the artist underneath the soccer mom she was. She was, it always surprised her to be reminded, still sexy enough to be whistled at on occasion while crossing the street at a busy intersection. She hadn't expected that at forty. It was one of the many pleasant surprises of middle age.
She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror.
Her teeth were crooked, but her lips were pretty. She looked like the woman she'd wanted to be.
Someday this will be your life,
she used to think when she was a dreamy adolescent staring out the kitchen window of the apartment she shared with her divorced mother, fantasizing.
Someday this will be your life,
she thought to herself even now, as if it weren't, hearing her voice clearly in her own mind ... the voice of the woman she had become, the pretty mother licking lipstick off her front teeth, smiling politely at her own reflection.
Summer...
And all the longing and damp hope of spring had finally
amounted to something. At home the peonies had ruffled up in the front yard like the sleeves of a fancy blouse—but sticky, sweet, crawling with little red ants.
The grass was green as eye shadow, green as satin.
The sky was a piece of hard candy.
And the bees hovered around the honeysuckle like tiny golden angels playing trumpets.
The lilies had just begun to open, and a breeze made out of perfume was passing from the pure centers of them into the world.
Mr. McCleod is reading aloud from the textbook....
He is fiddling with his glasses as he reads, and his hands tremble.
Nicotine.
Perhaps he's thinking of nicotine as he reads to the class about one-celled organisms becoming two.
He hears the laughter of girls and looks up.
From the opposite sides of the classroom, they've caught each other's eyes.
They weren't trying to look at each other—they know better than that, know it will lead to uncontrollable laughter if their eyes meet across the room. But laughter is a vibrating wire strung between them. All they can do is avoid looking at one another, to keep from laughing. But as Mr. McCleod is reading, their eyes wander intuitively in the direction of Nate Witt—
Nate Witt.
The boy with the unfortunate name.
Nit wit.
The boy with the flat-green eyes.
There are miles and miles of Astro Turf reflected in those eyes.
He has a mean laugh and a habit of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as if he's been boxing, as if he's just taken a punch to the jaw. He wears T-shirts with the names of bands and of baseball teams, faded jeans, and a pair of hiking boots every day. He's lean, with light brown hair, and neither girl has ever seen him laugh out loud, though they've seen him smile and smirk.
Nate Witt sits slumped and oblivious in the center of the room ... stoned and openmouthed between them, and while they are trying to catch a glimpse of him from opposite ends of the biology classroom, they catch a glimpse of one another glimpsing at him and begin to laugh.
"Is there a problem, girls?" Mr. McCleod asks.
Both girls try to go expressionless, and shrug.
"No," one of them says, though her eyes are wide and wet and she has to bite her lips.
"No problem," the other says, raising her shoulders and letting them drop.
There's laughter sliding all around her like an electric dress.
Mr.
She didn't worry much about her appearance anymore ... just enough to stay fit and wash her hair with Forever Blond once a week.
She wore simple clothing. She liked silks and Asian prints, dangling earrings and bangles. Today she was wearing a pair of shiny black slacks and a turquoise blouse. The blouse was sheer, but she wore a black tank top under it. A thin silver chain around her neck. An armful of silver bangles that made music as she walked, steered, brushed her hair.
Flat black shoes.
She dressed her age and income level, but did it creatively ... a little exotic, like the artist underneath the soccer mom she was. She was, it always surprised her to be reminded, still sexy enough to be whistled at on occasion while crossing the street at a busy intersection. She hadn't expected that at forty. It was one of the many pleasant surprises of middle age.
She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror.
Her teeth were crooked, but her lips were pretty. She looked like the woman she'd wanted to be.
Someday this will be your life,
she used to think when she was a dreamy adolescent staring out the kitchen window of the apartment she shared with her divorced mother, fantasizing.
Someday this will be your life,
she thought to herself even now, as if it weren't, hearing her voice clearly in her own mind ... the voice of the woman she had become, the pretty mother licking lipstick off her front teeth, smiling politely at her own reflection.
Summer...
And all the longing and damp hope of spring had finally
amounted to something. At home the peonies had ruffled up in the front yard like the sleeves of a fancy blouse—but sticky, sweet, crawling with little red ants.
The grass was green as eye shadow, green as satin.
The sky was a piece of hard candy.
And the bees hovered around the honeysuckle like tiny golden angels playing trumpets.
The lilies had just begun to open, and a breeze made out of perfume was passing from the pure centers of them into the world.
Mr. McCleod is reading aloud from the textbook....
He is fiddling with his glasses as he reads, and his hands tremble.
Nicotine.
Perhaps he's thinking of nicotine as he reads to the class about one-celled organisms becoming two.
He hears the laughter of girls and looks up.
From the opposite sides of the classroom, they've caught each other's eyes.
They weren't trying to look at each other—they know better than that, know it will lead to uncontrollable laughter if their eyes meet across the room. But laughter is a vibrating wire strung between them. All they can do is avoid looking at one another, to keep from laughing. But as Mr. McCleod is reading, their eyes wander intuitively in the direction of Nate Witt—
Nate Witt.
The boy with the unfortunate name.
Nit wit.
The boy with the flat-green eyes.
There are miles and miles of Astro Turf reflected in those eyes.
He has a mean laugh and a habit of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as if he's been boxing, as if he's just taken a punch to the jaw. He wears T-shirts with the names of bands and of baseball teams, faded jeans, and a pair of hiking boots every day. He's lean, with light brown hair, and neither girl has ever seen him laugh out loud, though they've seen him smile and smirk.
Nate Witt sits slumped and oblivious in the center of the room ... stoned and openmouthed between them, and while they are trying to catch a glimpse of him from opposite ends of the biology classroom, they catch a glimpse of one another glimpsing at him and begin to laugh.
"Is there a problem, girls?" Mr. McCleod asks.
Both girls try to go expressionless, and shrug.
"No," one of them says, though her eyes are wide and wet and she has to bite her lips.
"No problem," the other says, raising her shoulders and letting them drop.
There's laughter sliding all around her like an electric dress.
Mr.
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