Girls in Pants - Ann Brashares [44]
—John Keats
“Let’s call her…Good Carmen,” Carmen said.
It was Saturday and they had spent most of the morning at the farmers’ market. Now Lena and Tibby were both lying on the deck in back of Tibby’s house, chins on hands, nodding.
“This guy who works at the hospital, you see, keeps running into this girl, this Good Carmen.” Carmen sat up in her lounge chair and crossed her legs Indian style. She breathed in the pineapple smell of Lena’s sunscreen. “Good Carmen is taking care of Valia. She’s being stoic and selfless. She’s taking care of Katherine. She’s doing it all out of the goodness of her heart. The problem is that this guy thinks Good Carmen is me.”
“Is he cute?” Tibby asked.
Carmen narrowed her eyes. “Tibby, have you been listening to anything I’m saying?”
“All of it. I just need a little context. What’s his name? What’s he like? How much do you care what he thinks?”
Carmen considered. “Well. Hmmm.” Truthfully, even thinking about him was fun. Talking about him was jubilation. “Is he cute, you ask? I mean, he’s no Ryan Hennessey, of course—”
“No, he’s not,” Tibby shot back. “He’s real, for one.”
“Yes. He is real. He does have that going for him. And yes, he is cute.” She couldn’t keep the smile off her face.
“He’s really cute,” Lena said. “I can tell. Look at you.”
“What’s his name?” Tibby asked.
“Win.” She realized she said it in the same slightly argumentative tone he did. She was already taking his side.
“Win?” they both asked.
“Yeah. Short for Winthrop. What can he do? He didn’t name himself.”
“I like it,” Lena stated.
Tibby studied Carmen for a long minute. “Oh, my God. Carma Carmeena Carmabelle. You like this guy, don’t you?”
Carmen was blushing.
“This is amazing. This is new,” Tibby continued. “You do like him.”
“But he doesn’t like me. That’s the problem. He is a good person. He’s premed. He volunteers at the hospital all day long. He likes Good Carmen.”
“So why not set him straight?” Lena asked.
“Because he won’t like me anymore.”
“Why don’t you try it?”
“Because I’m scared to. I don’t want to ruin it for him. I’d rather he have his idealized version of me than introduce him to the real thing. I like the way he thinks of me—I mean Good Carmen.”
Lena lifted her sunglasses. She was resolute. “Carmen, that’s just sad. Be yourself. If he doesn’t like you for yourself, then he ain’t worth it.”
“Hallelujah,” said Tibby.
Carmen studied them suspiciously. “What’s with you two?”
Bridget sat with her clipboard on her lap at the side of the soccer field, chewing on a piece of grass. She didn’t even bother to lace up her cleats these days. She went around barefoot. She even played barefoot. It was unorthodox, she knew, but who really cared?
Eric was pacing a few yards away. He was watching his team doing dribbling exercises. She didn’t get that screaming feeling in her cells quite so much now when she saw him. She was getting used to him.
“Blye at forward,” she said to no one in particular. She’d put Lundgren, the Swede, on defense. He was versatile. The European kids always had the best fundamentals. Naughton, her special favorite, she put in the goal. He was completely uncoordinated, but he had a weird, seemingly dumb magnetism for the ball. At the moment she had her team carrying out an elaborate pattern of sprints. She wanted to get her roster in order before they got back.
Suddenly her clipboard was in shadow. “Away. No spying,” she ordered without looking up.
Eric stepped back about one foot. “You’re crazy to put Naughton in the goal.”
“I’m crazy to put him anywhere. No spying. No peeking. No Peking. No Beijing.”
“It’s friendly advice.”
“All friendly till we beat you soundly.”
“Ooooh. I’m scared.”
She looked up at him finally. He pretended he was going to step on her feet. She put her hand over her eyes, squinting in the sun. She smiled at him, and a nice thought passed through her mind. I think we’re really friends.
Eric had joined her and Diana for dinner the past two nights. At first Diana seemed alarmed, but