The One That I Want Read Free Page A

at the very least, a drive down the coast to California.
    “I wish we’d done it,” he said a few nights ago, shortly after I hung up with Principal Anderson. “I’ve always wanted to surf in San Diego. We should have at least done San Diego.”
    I laughed as I stirred the tomato sauce for dinner. “I’ve never heard you mention
that
before.”
    He shrugged, flipping the channel from one baseball game to another. “I’m feeling old. Feeling like I’d like to try new things. Why not surfing?”
    “Why not?” I agreed amicably, already relieved that he hadn’t mentioned trying to squeeze it in during August, mulling over how difficult it would have been to find time for our baby-making sex, considering who would have watered the plants, who would have looked out for the house, how I would have organized prom and now the musical.
It’s so much easier that we didn’t go
, I thought.
Tyler can learn to surf another time
. But I swirled the sauce with my wooden spoon and said nothing. I almost blurted out that we’d see Paris at the prom, but I suspected he’d just turn up the volume on the TV. Not that Tyler doesn’t enjoy prom; every year he dutifully holds my hand and slow-dances, but just last year, he mentioned that he was starting to feel a little too old for this stuff, a little more like a chaperone than an alumnus, and last week at dinner, when I announced the City of Lights theme with unhinged giddiness, I could detect the disinterest painted across his face. Though Susanna later said, “Who could blame him? He’s thirty-two. Who still wants to go to prom?” I twitched and supposed she was right, all the while thinking,
Well, I do!
    I fork over three bucks for my ice cream and wave good-bye to CJ. The Nutty Buddy stands no hope against the swelter and starts melting down my hand as soon as I tug off the gold wrapping, so Iswirl my tongue over the edges of the cone in a frantic race against the heat and suck in the flawless taste of vanilla ice cream, hardened chocolate sauce, and peanuts.
    I roam toward the bumper cars, the squeals of toddlers growing louder over the bluegrass band that plays on the stage behind me. I spot Susanna with her six-year-old twins, negotiating a cotton candy purchase, Austin hovering near their huddle, but I let them be.
    I’m wiping the sticky ice-cream residue off my hands when I notice a tent just behind the hot dog stand. It’s a compelling, rich shade of purple with an elaborate fabric door dotted with gold stars that shimmer in the glare of the sun. I start toward it and feel the pad in my underwear shift.
Please don’t be my period
. A silent prayer.
Please, please, please don’t be my period
.
    I pull back the velvet curtain and poke my head inside. The air is cool, so much cooler than the fairground, and for the first time in hours, my body calms itself, my pores shuttering, my pulse slowing in my neck. Incense burns in the corner, and a cloying scent of vanilla and clove overwhelms my nostrils.
    “Hello?” I say, my vision taking a moment to adjust to the darkness.
    “Just a moment.” A voice calls out from beyond yet another swath of fabric hanging behind a wobbly folding table. “Yes, hello.” A woman with a wrestler’s body emerges, squat, compact, almost lithe but too bulky to be graceful. Her hair is so black, it’s almost purple, and her skin, alabaster against it, is nearly translucent. She’s about my age, though her overuse of eyeliner reminds me of some of the Westlake students who are still learning the art of makeup application. Suddenly, she is familiar.
    “Oh my God, Ashley Simmons?” I say, squinting to make out the recognizable face.
    She steps closer. “Silly Tilly Everett.” Her lips purse together into a half smile. “I’m not surprised.”
Silly Tilly
. My nickname from a lifetime ago.
    “It’s Tilly Farmer now,” I say, then double back to her statement. “You’re not surprised to see me here?”
    “Not really.” She