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Authors: Audrey Couloumbis
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you.”
“Which is?”
“Um …”
“You might as well say it.” I heard the irritation in my voice and I guess she did, too. She took a second to venture an answer.
“I thought maybe you’re ugly.”
“Ugly?”
“You could be. Why else would you call like this?”
I ignored that. “How does my name being Italian change things?”
“I guess … it’s romantic. Italian. You know.”
She was one crazy girl. I liked that. The sad truth was, I liked her. I said, “I’ve seen some ugly Italians in my time.”
“Do you have any scars?”
“Scars?”
“If you aren’t ugly but you don’t want me to see you—”
“Cripes.” She had some imagination.
“No scars,” she concluded.
“No.”
“So you didn’t know it was me. The actual me, Patsy.”
I laughed. Was I admitting I knew who she was all along? Was that wise?
“I guess I can understand it, anyway.”
“How’s that?”
“Oh, you know. I mean, I guess I can understand what you’re feeling if you’re just … ordinary.”
She left me gasping. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might not make obscene phone calls out of total admiration? I mean, maybe I called you because you looked like you’d be receptive to—”
Click.
Sociologists have pointed out that attractive people get treated better than less-attractive ones. They get complimented more often. They get unsolicited favors. They get a distorted impression of their importance. It makes sense.
If you looked in a mirror and saw that you were beautiful,you’d be satisfied, wouldn’t you? You’d look more often, and each time you’d feel that same satisfaction. After a while, you wouldn’t have to look in the mirror to get that feeling going. You’d just have to think about it. Or not. Satisfaction with yourself is something that can get to be a habit.
Patsy found this phone-call business titillating not because I was attracted to her but because it was a different approach. The problem would soon be how to hold her interest.
TWENTY-THREE
On Saturday morning, Mom made pancakes from an “add water only” mix and some kind of quickie frozen sausage. She was making a show of it, wearing an actual apron.
Despite the cardboard pancakes, Mr. B was in excellent spirits. He’d found a nice review of the game in the local paper and he didn’t spare us any insider details he supposed we might have missed. It was nothing we hadn’t gone over more enthusiastically after getting home the night before.
As for me, I was somewhat preoccupied. I had as much as admitted to Patsy that I knew who she was. The actual her. I could deny it again, of course, but did it matter? The main thing was not to be found out.
I poured more syrup over the cardboard pancakes. Big bites with lots of syrup was the definitive technique here.
Maybe Mr. B read our not-so-high-spirited responses as a sign that he might sound like he was bragging, because he added something that was news to me. “That girl next door came up with the whole skit herself. I didn’t know half of what she had planned, just the other girls did. I never would have dared put her underneath a pileup.”
Mom took a bite of her own pancake and chewed vigorously. “I think we should go out on Saturday mornings. Make a tradition of it,” she said, taking up the horoscope page that Mr. B had set at her place.
“I have practice on Saturdays all through football season, don’t forget,” Mr. B said.
“You could take your thermos and a box of donuts out and watch practice from the bleachers, Mom.” I chewed thoughtfully, if not enthusiastically, on as much pancake as I could wad onto my fork. “Or you could take a cooking class on Saturdays.”
I avoided meeting their eyes during the brief silence that followed. “Vinnie?” Mom sounded like she was going to check my forehead for a fever.
“Just an idea,” I said.
Dad was already waiting when I got outside. I took the passenger side of the front seat and he
“Which is?”
“Um …”
“You might as well say it.” I heard the irritation in my voice and I guess she did, too. She took a second to venture an answer.
“I thought maybe you’re ugly.”
“Ugly?”
“You could be. Why else would you call like this?”
I ignored that. “How does my name being Italian change things?”
“I guess … it’s romantic. Italian. You know.”
She was one crazy girl. I liked that. The sad truth was, I liked her. I said, “I’ve seen some ugly Italians in my time.”
“Do you have any scars?”
“Scars?”
“If you aren’t ugly but you don’t want me to see you—”
“Cripes.” She had some imagination.
“No scars,” she concluded.
“No.”
“So you didn’t know it was me. The actual me, Patsy.”
I laughed. Was I admitting I knew who she was all along? Was that wise?
“I guess I can understand it, anyway.”
“How’s that?”
“Oh, you know. I mean, I guess I can understand what you’re feeling if you’re just … ordinary.”
She left me gasping. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might not make obscene phone calls out of total admiration? I mean, maybe I called you because you looked like you’d be receptive to—”
Click.
Sociologists have pointed out that attractive people get treated better than less-attractive ones. They get complimented more often. They get unsolicited favors. They get a distorted impression of their importance. It makes sense.
If you looked in a mirror and saw that you were beautiful,you’d be satisfied, wouldn’t you? You’d look more often, and each time you’d feel that same satisfaction. After a while, you wouldn’t have to look in the mirror to get that feeling going. You’d just have to think about it. Or not. Satisfaction with yourself is something that can get to be a habit.
Patsy found this phone-call business titillating not because I was attracted to her but because it was a different approach. The problem would soon be how to hold her interest.
TWENTY-THREE
On Saturday morning, Mom made pancakes from an “add water only” mix and some kind of quickie frozen sausage. She was making a show of it, wearing an actual apron.
Despite the cardboard pancakes, Mr. B was in excellent spirits. He’d found a nice review of the game in the local paper and he didn’t spare us any insider details he supposed we might have missed. It was nothing we hadn’t gone over more enthusiastically after getting home the night before.
As for me, I was somewhat preoccupied. I had as much as admitted to Patsy that I knew who she was. The actual her. I could deny it again, of course, but did it matter? The main thing was not to be found out.
I poured more syrup over the cardboard pancakes. Big bites with lots of syrup was the definitive technique here.
Maybe Mr. B read our not-so-high-spirited responses as a sign that he might sound like he was bragging, because he added something that was news to me. “That girl next door came up with the whole skit herself. I didn’t know half of what she had planned, just the other girls did. I never would have dared put her underneath a pileup.”
Mom took a bite of her own pancake and chewed vigorously. “I think we should go out on Saturday mornings. Make a tradition of it,” she said, taking up the horoscope page that Mr. B had set at her place.
“I have practice on Saturdays all through football season, don’t forget,” Mr. B said.
“You could take your thermos and a box of donuts out and watch practice from the bleachers, Mom.” I chewed thoughtfully, if not enthusiastically, on as much pancake as I could wad onto my fork. “Or you could take a cooking class on Saturdays.”
I avoided meeting their eyes during the brief silence that followed. “Vinnie?” Mom sounded like she was going to check my forehead for a fever.
“Just an idea,” I said.
Dad was already waiting when I got outside. I took the passenger side of the front seat and he
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