The Beautiful Between - Alyssa B. Sheinmel [37]
Mrs. Cole says, “Jeremy tells us you’ve been helping him with his SATs.”
I look up from my beef with broccoli, which I’m nearly leaning over the plate to eat. My grandmother always said that I should bring myself to the food, not the other way around, to prevent spilling. Only now do I realize this means that I’m eating without sitting up straight.
“Umm, yes. I mean, it’s not like he needs much help.”
“You know, we hired him a tutor last year, but he hated it.”
Most people I know had SAT tutors. Even I had one, for the math section.
I nod. “Yeah, mine always made me do practice tests.” I cringe, thinking that I should have said “yes” instead of “yeah,” but I continue: “I felt like I could have done that on my own.”
“That’s exactly what Jeremy said. And the truth is, he didn’t need help with the math, so it was just a matter of vocabulary, that kind of thing.”
“That’s what Connelly helps me with,” Jeremy interjects.
“Connelly,” Mrs. Cole says, and I look at her, thinking she’s asking me a question, but then I realize she’s just considering my name. “It’s an unusual name, isn’t it?”
“It’s my father’s mother’s maiden name.”
“Oh. Irish?”
I shrug. “I guess; I don’t honestly know. The rest of my family’s Jewish.”
“It’s an Irish name,” Mr. Cole says.
I’m nervous that the conversation might dwell on my family, but instead Mrs. Cole says, “My first name—Joan—was my father’s mother’s first name. I wish he’d thought of something as interesting as her maiden name instead. I can’t even remember what it was—isn’t that awful?”
I smile at her.
“And I did the same thing to Kate—my grandmother’s name. Parents should be more creative.”
“Nah,” says Mr. Cole. “Then you’d have kids walking around with ridiculous names.” He looks at me. “No offense, Connelly.”
“None taken,” I say, and I grin, at ease because he teases just like his son.
“You could have named me Staddler instead of Jeremy,” Jeremy says.
“No. Your father was set on Jeremy.”
“Mom, you were the pregnant one. I think you could have had your way.”
Kate speaks up. “She had her way with me. She chose Kate.” She’s been quiet all night; I think she must be exhausted, since she usually talks so easily.
“That’s right, I did,” Mrs. Cole says, as if, without Kate’s having reminded her, she might have forgotten.
I imagine Mr. and Mrs. Cole sixteen years ago, fighting over what to name their son. Maybe she’s lying on her back in bed, barely able to see over her big tummy, and maybe he’s lying with his hand on her stomach, trying to see if the baby kicks when he says a particular name, the name he wants. Jeremy. It’s such an intimate moment. And here are their kids, talking about it like it’s nothing. Maybe my father fought to name me Connelly. Maybe my mother doesn’t even like the name. I would never ask her how they ended up choosing Connelly, whether they fought, why my father wanted it. I wonder if my father was especially close with his mother, and whether this was something he wanted to do for her.
I turn to Mrs. Cole. “Were you close with your grandmother?”
“Oh, I suppose,” she replies lightly. “As close as one can be to someone when there’s such a generation gap.” I’m disappointed with her answer. I guess I was hoping she would give me more information, something I could apply to myself somehow. I hope my father didn’t settle on my name as lightly as that.
I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I’m not at all uncomfortable with the Coles. Kate eats her white rice carefully and I can’t help but remember watching Anorexic Alexis eating her food with the same care, sitting next to Jeremy in the cafeteria, as I am now in his dining room. When we started staring at Alexis ripping lettuce into shreds, then picking the shreds up one at a time and chewing them slowly—I never would have imagined that I’d end up here, with Jeremy, at his home, watching another skinny girl. Kate dips each grain of rice—she eats them one by one—into a pool of soy sauce on her plate. (She’s obviously not scared of