The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing - Melissa Bank [4]
Then Julia called us to dinner.
"Come on," he said.
Dinner: talk of great books everyone had read or planned to, except me. Julia had just read one by a famous author I'd never heard of and proclaimed it "extraordinary." I thought, You read too much.
At good-bye, I could tell how much both my parents liked her, and not just for Henry's sake; Julia was the kind, helpful, articulate daughter they deserved.
—•—
On the ride home, I thought about Julia. I calculated what an eight-year age difference would mean to me—a six-year-old boy—and thought of the one next door. I said, "It's like me going out with Willy Schwam."
My mother pretended not to hear.
I could hear the smile in my father's voice when he said that the important thing was that Willy and I were happy.
"I was dubious at first," I said. "I thought I might be just another baby-sitter to him. But then, one night—"
My mother interrupted. "I think I'm going to be ill."
I never talked to either of my parents seriously about love, let alone sex. The closest we'd come was talking about drugs, which I wasn't interested in.
—•—
On the last day of school, I realized I had no plans for the summer. Instead of looking forward to Nantucket in August, I'd be at home in the suburbs and at the shore in New Jersey, just dreading school in September.
I said good-bye to friends who were going off on wilderness adventures and teen tours, to camps with Indian names and Israel. We traded addresses and each time I wrote mine I felt the impending boredom of the summer days to come. When one friend asked what I'd be doing at home, I found myself saying, "I might get a job."
I told my parents at dinner.
My mother said, "I thought you were going to take art classes and work on your tennis."
"I could get a part-time job," I said.
"Maybe you could work in Dad's office again," she said, looking over at him.
I liked seeing Dad in action, the Chief of Neurology in his white coat, as he shook patients' hands and ushered them into his office. But I said, "I need new experiences,
Mom."
"What about an internship," she suggested, "in something you're interested in?"
I reminded her that I didn't have any interests.
"You like to draw," she said.
I told them I was thinking of being a waitress.
My dad said, "Practice by clearing the table."
—•—
I went through the help wanted section of the newspaper, but every job seemed to require experience. I called anyway to make my case, using the words I read in the paper: "I'm a detail-oriented self-starter." No luck, though. I gave in to a summer of art classes and tennis, swimming at my friend Linda's, and going on errands with my mother.
The nights were quiet. Dinner, and then I went up to my bedroom and wrote letters to my friends or sketched. I drew people standing in groups, as though posed for a photograph that would go in an album.
My father read his magazines, the green-covered Neurology and Stroke, up in his study. My mother read the newspaper in the breakfast room. She would call up to him, asking if he wanted a piece of fruit, and I'd go downstairs and back up to deliver the peach or plum or nectarine. Before bed, I walked Atlas, while I smoked a forbidden cigarette.
Most nights, I passed Oliver Biddle, who was middle-aged, yet lived with his parents—my own personal cautionary tale walking a miniature schnauzer. He was suburban-soft in stretchy clothes a grandfather would wear for golf, and he puffed a cigar. I'd heard rumors that he was retarded or a genius, but I didn't believe either. Oliver Biddle was who you became if you couldn't find anyone to love except your parents.
I'd say, "Hello, Oliver," and then, to his schnauzer, "Evening, Pepper."
Oliver said hello back, but always after a delay, as though each time deciding whether to answer. By the time he did, I'd be at least a few steps away and I'd say, "Good night," as though we'd passed the evening together.
—•—
Julia and Henry got out early on Fridays and were already at the shore when we arrived. She'd made dinner, and seemed more relaxed. Henry seemed