Girls in Pants - Ann Brashares [52]
She spotted a little group across the street, and she experienced that split second of objectivity when you see someone you know before you realize you know them. The tall one, of course, was Brian. Tibby constantly had to relearn what he looked like now. When he had been the lowliest of dorks, his unkempt hair—longish, unbrushed, needing a cut—had played a role in the vicious circle that had been Brian’s appearance. Now it looked conspicuously cool, neglected in exactly the right manner. She bought his clothes for him at Old Navy a couple times a year, so there were no pitfalls there. He had learned to like taking showers of his own accord. That helped too.
The little figure with the giant, lolling, hockey-player head was Katherine, of course. Every time Tibby saw that hockey helmet, she felt her guts constrict. Her facial muscles pulled into a grimace, even when she fought against it. The sight of it made her feel angry and it made her want to cry.
Nicky was holding Katherine’s other hand. Even he had become more protective of her.
They crossed the street and approached the doors of the theater. Katherine caught sight of Tibby in the plate-glass windows. She waved so fervently her helmet slid to the side, the chinstrap bending her ear in half. Tibby opened the doors for them.
“We’re going to see a movie at your theater!” Katherine shouted.
Tibby straightened the helmet. She was always doing that.
“Hey, look.” Katherine pointed to her head.
“What?” Tibby said.
“Stickers!” Katherine was exultant. “Nicky helped me do it.”
The hockey helmet was indeed plastered with stickers, every superhero and cartoon character in the history of cheap merchandising.
“Wow. Nice,” Tibby said.
“Now I might never want to take it off,” Katherine declared triumphantly.
Tibby felt her breath catch. There was some torture in this she couldn’t even identify. God bless, Katherine. How could she be how she was? How could Tibby be so different? Why was she so pained when Katherine really was okay? Tibby wasn’t the one who fell out the window. Her concern for Katherine had become a waste; Katherine didn’t need it. Who was it really for?
Forgetting about what had happened for a moment, Tibby looked instinctively at Brian. And Brian touched her tenderly on the hand, enveloping her in a look of support that didn’t have anything to do with whether he wanted to kiss her or not.
Carmen had saved Win’s telephone message and replayed it fourteen times in one hour. So why was she in the hospital—the very place where he worked—hunkered over a book in a corner, wearing sunglasses and a hat? It was Wednesday afternoon and Valia had her usual physical therapy session. Carmen knew where to find Win. Win might even be looking for her.
Instead, she picked the most remote spot she could find, which happened to be a deserted hallway in labor and delivery. It was nice and quiet for a while, but suddenly there was a virtual gaggle of pregnant women waddling toward her. She bent her head and tried to read a few more pages, but she was distracted. So much for her solitude. There was nowhere to run in this place.
All the women and their spouses were piling into a room. Carmen was imagining what it could mean—a big, wild rave for the pregnant folks?—when something began to dawn on her. She looked at her watch.
For the most part, she meanly ignored anything her mother said that contained the words labor, birth, pregnancy, or baby. But vaguely in the back of her mind she knew her mom and David were coming to a childbirth class at this very hospital.
Could it be? Could it?
Oh, man.
She tried to get back into her book, but she couldn’t. For pages and pages, Jane Austen’s elegant banter went into her eyes and stopped short