Read Online Other People We Married by Emma Straub - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emma Straub
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look pretty.”
She kept her eyes closed. “Not as pretty as you are,” Jackie said.
Franny laughed a little, even though she knew Jackie wasn’t joking. She was prettier; everyone knew that. But there was something in Jackie’s voice that was different. She’d told Fran before that she thought she was prettier, but always in a jokey, self-deprecating way. This time, Jackie said it like she wanted to kiss her. Which she did.
Here are all the boys Franny let kiss her before going to Barnard: Samuel Epstein, who was two years ahead of her atMidwood and immediately lied about her to all his friends; Josh Schwartz, who was almost as short as she was and had a slippery tongue; Barry Weinstein, who was soft around the middle and touched her with the gentlest hands she’d ever felt, until now.
Here are all the boys Jackie ever let kiss her: zero.
She kept her eyes closed. Jackie didn’t know if Franny found her mouth, or the other way around. One of them had moved closer to the other, or they both had, and Jackie could feel Franny’s mouth in all different parts of her body: her rib cage, where it was vibrating against her chest, and in her underwear, twitching like someone had flipped a switch. Jackie slipped her tongue past Franny’s lips and teeth, and there was a shudder somewhere inside her that she could feel. If Franny had opened her eyes, she would have seen Jackie’s eyes open, too. But Franny kept her eyes closed, as though that would ensure that they would laugh about this later, the way girls laugh when they’re with their friends and they’ve just said something so deeply personal that they had to look at each other in a new way, to recalibrate what they’d previously taken for granted.
When they finally pulled apart, slow as taffy, their chins were red, as though they’d been mining their pores for blackheads. The bathroom mirror stared back at them, agape. Franny put her hand to her mouth, and Jackie did the same, Simon Says.
“Well, are you gonna put that mascara on me or what?” Jackie said, her face now pulling into a sideways grin. The small bathroom smelled like sweat and perfume and possibility. Franny plunged the mascara wand into the bottle afew times and then leaned forward, moving her hands back to Jackie’s face. She shut her eyes slowly and evenly, as docile as if she’d been hypnotized. If Franny had snapped her fingers, Jackie would have done anything she said. She could have whispered.
The ballroom made Rockefeller Center look like Times Square, seedy and filled with prostitutes. The walls were covered with red and gold silk, and above their heads, chandeliers twinkled like enormous diamond rings. There were round tables circling a dance floor, and the orchestra was already playing: Rodgers and Hammerstein. Jackie recognized the song. All around them, people were having the polite kind of talk that sounded like falling leaves, small crunches and murmurs. All the men wore tuxedos and bow ties that matched their wives’ dresses. The waitstaff from the hotel restaurant was present and dolled up in black and white. Young men Jackie recognized from the pool walked by carrying platters of champagne glasses. Inside, in the relative dark, their tans made them look like silent film stars, with features so easily translated into black and white.
“Why didn’t I bring a camera?” Franny said into Jackie’s ear. But of course, there were photographers and flashbulbs, and for the first time, Jackie hoped that one of them would catch her, that maybe one of the photographers would take a picture of Franny and Jackie and their arms would be around each other’s waists and only they would know why they were smiling.
Franny couldn’t stop looking at Jackie, which she knew from her peripheral vision. Whenever Jackie actually turnedto look back, Franny would turn away, cheeks brighter than any man-made blush. Mrs. Johnson cupped her hand around Mr. Johnson’s biceps as they entered the
She kept her eyes closed. “Not as pretty as you are,” Jackie said.
Franny laughed a little, even though she knew Jackie wasn’t joking. She was prettier; everyone knew that. But there was something in Jackie’s voice that was different. She’d told Fran before that she thought she was prettier, but always in a jokey, self-deprecating way. This time, Jackie said it like she wanted to kiss her. Which she did.
Here are all the boys Franny let kiss her before going to Barnard: Samuel Epstein, who was two years ahead of her atMidwood and immediately lied about her to all his friends; Josh Schwartz, who was almost as short as she was and had a slippery tongue; Barry Weinstein, who was soft around the middle and touched her with the gentlest hands she’d ever felt, until now.
Here are all the boys Jackie ever let kiss her: zero.
She kept her eyes closed. Jackie didn’t know if Franny found her mouth, or the other way around. One of them had moved closer to the other, or they both had, and Jackie could feel Franny’s mouth in all different parts of her body: her rib cage, where it was vibrating against her chest, and in her underwear, twitching like someone had flipped a switch. Jackie slipped her tongue past Franny’s lips and teeth, and there was a shudder somewhere inside her that she could feel. If Franny had opened her eyes, she would have seen Jackie’s eyes open, too. But Franny kept her eyes closed, as though that would ensure that they would laugh about this later, the way girls laugh when they’re with their friends and they’ve just said something so deeply personal that they had to look at each other in a new way, to recalibrate what they’d previously taken for granted.
When they finally pulled apart, slow as taffy, their chins were red, as though they’d been mining their pores for blackheads. The bathroom mirror stared back at them, agape. Franny put her hand to her mouth, and Jackie did the same, Simon Says.
“Well, are you gonna put that mascara on me or what?” Jackie said, her face now pulling into a sideways grin. The small bathroom smelled like sweat and perfume and possibility. Franny plunged the mascara wand into the bottle afew times and then leaned forward, moving her hands back to Jackie’s face. She shut her eyes slowly and evenly, as docile as if she’d been hypnotized. If Franny had snapped her fingers, Jackie would have done anything she said. She could have whispered.
The ballroom made Rockefeller Center look like Times Square, seedy and filled with prostitutes. The walls were covered with red and gold silk, and above their heads, chandeliers twinkled like enormous diamond rings. There were round tables circling a dance floor, and the orchestra was already playing: Rodgers and Hammerstein. Jackie recognized the song. All around them, people were having the polite kind of talk that sounded like falling leaves, small crunches and murmurs. All the men wore tuxedos and bow ties that matched their wives’ dresses. The waitstaff from the hotel restaurant was present and dolled up in black and white. Young men Jackie recognized from the pool walked by carrying platters of champagne glasses. Inside, in the relative dark, their tans made them look like silent film stars, with features so easily translated into black and white.
“Why didn’t I bring a camera?” Franny said into Jackie’s ear. But of course, there were photographers and flashbulbs, and for the first time, Jackie hoped that one of them would catch her, that maybe one of the photographers would take a picture of Franny and Jackie and their arms would be around each other’s waists and only they would know why they were smiling.
Franny couldn’t stop looking at Jackie, which she knew from her peripheral vision. Whenever Jackie actually turnedto look back, Franny would turn away, cheeks brighter than any man-made blush. Mrs. Johnson cupped her hand around Mr. Johnson’s biceps as they entered the
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