The Unlikely Romance of Kate Bjorkman Read Free Page B

face. My dad says I’m intelligent and that’s the important thing. Mother says I’m wholesome-looking. Give me a break. Standing there in the bathroom, hearing Richard’s voice, his “full and masculine laugh”—I copied that from the phrase book, but it’s true—I was willing to drop twenty-five IQ points in exchange for looking exactly like Fleur St. Germaine.
    L ATER WE SIPPED Russian tea, made with cinnamon sticks borrowed from the neighbors, from Santa Claus mugs in front of a blazing fire in the living room. The first thing Bjorn saw was the Christmas tree, my mother’s tiny, perfect work of art, placed carefully on the grand piano. “
That’s
it?” His voice rose like a boy’s. “
That’s
the tree?” He stood next to it. “It’s pathetic.”
    “Feel free to speak your mind, Bjorn dear. Don’t be shy,” Mother said.
    Trish, who sat next to Mother on the sofa, said, “Mind your own business, Bjorn!”
    Bjorn feigned a churlish look. “Excuse me, but this
is
my business. Tell me if I’m wrong, but didn’t we always have a huge tree with all these wonderful ornaments on it? Wasn’t that the
tradition
in the Bjorkman household?”
    “You mean wonderful ornaments like that little sled made of Popsicle sticks that you made in Cub Scouts?” Mother’s arched eyebrows created pleasant lines in her forehead.
    Trish, smirking, nudged her.
    “No,” Richard said, “he means the boondoggle candy cane. I know that was
my
mother’s favorite.” He grinned at Mother.
    “Yes, that was a very good year, the boondoggle year,” Mother agreed.
    “Actually, my favorite was the pinecone Santa Claus that we made in fifth grade with Mrs. Seely. Remember?” Bjorn was asking Richard. “We used red and white felt.”
    “And a gallon of that white glue. But it was supposed to be an elf,” Richard said.
    “No, it wasn’t.”
    “Yes, it was.”
    “You guys, nobody cares,” Trish said.
    “We made pinecone
mice
when I was in third grade.” Fleur startled me when she spoke. We had been sitting in the window seat together and I had somehow—through osmosis, I guess—gotten the idea that she was shy and that we would have to ask her questions to draw her out.
    “Mice” was the operative word here. Bjorn and Richard simultaneously clamped their hands over their mouths. “Don’t ever say the M-word in front of Boo!” Richard said.
    “Singular or plural M-words make her very nervous,” Bjorn said.
    Fleur turned her dazzling head my way. “The M-word?”
    “You guys!” I yelled. They were always going to keep me frozen at age thirteen. It was hopeless.
    “M-I-C-E.” Richard spelled it slowly. “Or M-O-U-S-E. Never”—he squinted for emphasis—“say those in Boo’s presence.”
    “You guys are such dorks. Don’t give them any satisfaction. Fleur,” I said. “Don’t ask a single question.”
    Trish held up her hands for quiet. “Better let Tweedledee and Tweedledum just tell the story. Maybe they’ll wear themselves out.” She smiled in my direction. “Tell it, but tell it fast,” she directed.
    “It was in early spring,” Richard began.
    “Late winter,” Bjorn corrected. “We were having one of those unusual early thaws.”
    “Which one is Tweedledum? That’s what I want to know,” Fleur said.
    “I’m Dee; he’s Dum,” Bjorn said.
    “A judgment,” Richard said, “from a man who doesn’t even know the difference between Santa Claus and an elf.” The fingers of both hands circled the mug as if to keep his hands warm. Very nice hands. “I was there first,” he said, continuing the story. “I heard her screaming her head off out in back.”
    “It was early spring,” I said.
    “And?” Fleur prodded.
    “We were all at Midgely’s house,” Richard continued.“He was the tennis coach at the high school, but he also taught everybody in this neighborhood how to play—”
    “He lives across the street,” I said. I decided not to mention the cancer.
    “Anyway,