Read Online He Loves Me Not by Caroline B. Cooney - Free Book Online
Authors: Caroline B. Cooney
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skating, walking, kissing, hugging—and I was going to end up on a piano bench again with a flash bulb going off in my face. “It’s okay, I guess,” I said. “But the soloist might object.”
“I won’t photograph her. It won’t bother her at all. What time is the rehearsal and where?”
As I told him, I pictured his engagement calendar. It would be just like mine. Fat and scribbled on. He’d have a pencil in his hand. He’d be the sort whose pencils were always sharp and whose pens were never out of ink.
I said good-bye.
All day in school I caught myself fantasizing that at this meeting Ted would get to know the real Alison and be so taken with her that he would ask her on a real date. I tried to stop myself. I was never going to have a real date, because the only date anybody ever wanted Alison Holland for was a paying club date.
9
I WALKED INTO THE church, Ted carrying my music and my organ shoes, as if he really were my boyfriend and was coming along for the pleasure of my company. It felt sort of comfortable to have him walking along next to me. I had the sensation that he and I had done this many times and would do it many more. It was a warm feeling, but when I looked over at him to see if he shared it, Ted was staring at the stained glass windows and wondered how old they were. “Centuries,” I said grumpily and stalked up to the organ.
Whoever had told the soloist she could sing should be imprisoned. The rehearsal was awful. It made my stomach twist to think of her actually singing out loud at a wedding. The only good thing was that she demanded to know who Ted was and he told her! “I’m Ted Mollison, ma’am,” he said. He had a deep, nice voice. I decided to overlook his interest in the stained glass windows and enjoy our interview. Or at least enjoy his voice during it, even if he behaved like a turkey by being completely professional and not at all interested in me personally.
Mollison, I thought throughout the rehearsal. He’s Molly’s son. I wondered if that stern-sounding woman on the phone could really have a name as warm and friendly as Molly. No. She probably had a name like Prudence or Hildegarde.
Ted Mollison. It had a nice sound.
Nicer by far than the sounds the soloist was making.
“Whew!” said Ted, when the soloist had finally given up and left us. “They pay her to sing?”
I laughed, glad to know that Ted could at least distinguish between a horrible voice and a decent one. “I doubt it. She’s probably somebody’s favorite aunt.”
“She won’t be such a favorite after the wedding, I bet,” said Ted. He turned off the church lights before I was ready and I fumbled in the dark, trying to gather my music together. “I’ll help,” said Ted, but he didn’t help by turning on the lights—he helped by bending over to pick up my music with me.
We crashed skulls.
Other girls, I am confident, would manage to touch fingertips. I, Alison had to crash into him with my rock-hard cranium.
The church was filled with gentle groans as Ted and I simultaneously dropped whatever music we had picked up and clutched our heads. I staggered past him and found the light switches again. We eyed each other rather bleakly. He’s going to figure I’m so dangerous he can’t be around me, I thought. If I’m not plotting how to break his ribs, I’m trying to give him a concussion. I’m worse than being on the football team.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Ted held up a hand to stop me from bending down again to get the music. “One of us at a time,” he said firmly. When he was very sure his upturned palm had stopped me from getting closer to him, he bent over and retrieved all my music. Stacking it very neatly and carefully, he said politely, “We ready to go now?”
But we weren’t. I had to change my shoes. I had never felt so stupid. I had to sit on the chancel steps, untie the laces of my organ shoes, put those shoes back in their box, and jam my feet into my old
“I won’t photograph her. It won’t bother her at all. What time is the rehearsal and where?”
As I told him, I pictured his engagement calendar. It would be just like mine. Fat and scribbled on. He’d have a pencil in his hand. He’d be the sort whose pencils were always sharp and whose pens were never out of ink.
I said good-bye.
All day in school I caught myself fantasizing that at this meeting Ted would get to know the real Alison and be so taken with her that he would ask her on a real date. I tried to stop myself. I was never going to have a real date, because the only date anybody ever wanted Alison Holland for was a paying club date.
9
I WALKED INTO THE church, Ted carrying my music and my organ shoes, as if he really were my boyfriend and was coming along for the pleasure of my company. It felt sort of comfortable to have him walking along next to me. I had the sensation that he and I had done this many times and would do it many more. It was a warm feeling, but when I looked over at him to see if he shared it, Ted was staring at the stained glass windows and wondered how old they were. “Centuries,” I said grumpily and stalked up to the organ.
Whoever had told the soloist she could sing should be imprisoned. The rehearsal was awful. It made my stomach twist to think of her actually singing out loud at a wedding. The only good thing was that she demanded to know who Ted was and he told her! “I’m Ted Mollison, ma’am,” he said. He had a deep, nice voice. I decided to overlook his interest in the stained glass windows and enjoy our interview. Or at least enjoy his voice during it, even if he behaved like a turkey by being completely professional and not at all interested in me personally.
Mollison, I thought throughout the rehearsal. He’s Molly’s son. I wondered if that stern-sounding woman on the phone could really have a name as warm and friendly as Molly. No. She probably had a name like Prudence or Hildegarde.
Ted Mollison. It had a nice sound.
Nicer by far than the sounds the soloist was making.
“Whew!” said Ted, when the soloist had finally given up and left us. “They pay her to sing?”
I laughed, glad to know that Ted could at least distinguish between a horrible voice and a decent one. “I doubt it. She’s probably somebody’s favorite aunt.”
“She won’t be such a favorite after the wedding, I bet,” said Ted. He turned off the church lights before I was ready and I fumbled in the dark, trying to gather my music together. “I’ll help,” said Ted, but he didn’t help by turning on the lights—he helped by bending over to pick up my music with me.
We crashed skulls.
Other girls, I am confident, would manage to touch fingertips. I, Alison had to crash into him with my rock-hard cranium.
The church was filled with gentle groans as Ted and I simultaneously dropped whatever music we had picked up and clutched our heads. I staggered past him and found the light switches again. We eyed each other rather bleakly. He’s going to figure I’m so dangerous he can’t be around me, I thought. If I’m not plotting how to break his ribs, I’m trying to give him a concussion. I’m worse than being on the football team.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Ted held up a hand to stop me from bending down again to get the music. “One of us at a time,” he said firmly. When he was very sure his upturned palm had stopped me from getting closer to him, he bent over and retrieved all my music. Stacking it very neatly and carefully, he said politely, “We ready to go now?”
But we weren’t. I had to change my shoes. I had never felt so stupid. I had to sit on the chancel steps, untie the laces of my organ shoes, put those shoes back in their box, and jam my feet into my old
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