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Authors: Caroline B. Cooney
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on).
Possible.
And maybe his mother needed him to take out the garbage.
Possible.
But whatever the reasons Tim had for refusing to go to a party with Margaret, even in my wildest dreams it was hard to pretend he’d turned Margaret down because the only person he wanted to go to parties with was me.
My crush on Tim was proving to be very unwieldy. It was always in the way. I thought of it at the most inconvenient times and it interrupted my thoughts just when I needed them to be uninterrupted. Since I was always thinking about him, when we met I was always a little bit embarrassed. And the worst thing about seeing Tim now was that I felt extra thin around him. He had turned into a muscular tanned man, and I was still this scrawny little girl who undoubtedly qualified as a bookmark in his mind.
Oh, well.
I closed up Second Time Around, hopped on my bicycle, and headed for home. The Jaycees and their wives were busy getting ready to decorate Main Street for the Fourth of July. The street would be closed off for a fair—crafts and game booths and raffles and yummy food and stuff—and then there would be a block dance and finally the fireworks.
I love the Fourth of July. Especially in Sea’s Edge.
Today’s fantasy had me and Tim hand in hand, sauntering from booth to booth, Tim buying me cotton candy, me buying him an initialed leather key ring, the two of us square dancing, watching the fireworks together.
He would probably decline.
He would probably have to “work” instead.
I stuck my bike in our garage and clumped over the cedar decking to tell Mrs. Lansberry the news about Tim.
The Lansberry house, inside and out, is perfection. The signed lithographs are always hanging nice and straight and the white upholstery is always spotless, and the kitchen counter so crumb-free you wonder if they even eat.
They don’t have a maid. It’s Mrs. Lansberry who keeps it in this pristine condition. I think there are better things to do in life than vacuum but Mrs. Lansberry, judging from appearances, disagrees. Imagine being turned on by another chance to dust!
She didn’t answer the doorbell for so long I began to worry that something had happened. Maybe she’d had a fall on her newly waxed kitchen floor and broken her hip or something. I was just planning to go in by a window when she came to the door.
Her eyes were puffy and her hair disheveled. I had never seen her anything but perfect. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “You already went to bed. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“No, no, I wasn’t asleep. I was watching this movie on TV. It was so sad I cried all the way through it. That’s why I look so awful.”
“Oh, I love sad movies,” I said. “Which one was it?”
She didn’t tell me. “Well, come in,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. Tim just asked me to give you a message.”
She had left the door for the living room, so to give her the message I had to follow her. When I came into the living room I actually gasped in surprise. Damp towels, used paper cups, overflowing ashtrays, opened newspapers, dead flowers in smelly vases. Mrs. Lansberry actually shoved a stack of newspapers off the couch onto the floor to make room for me to sit down. I knew for a fact that newsprint had not even been allowed in the same room with that white upholstery last summer, let alone been allowed to repose on it.
“Are you sick?” I said. She looked pitiful. “I’m not working tomorrow. Want me to come over and run the vacuum for you?”
“No, no.” She laughed nervously. “I’ll get myself together. Clean this up in the morning.” She looked at her living room as if it would be a lifetime task to straighten it. She looked at her hands as if she had terminal arthritis and it would have to take somebody else’s lifetime to do the housework from now on.
Probably a better attitude, all things considered.
“How about some coffee?” she said. “Pie? Cake? Ice cream? You must be
Possible.
And maybe his mother needed him to take out the garbage.
Possible.
But whatever the reasons Tim had for refusing to go to a party with Margaret, even in my wildest dreams it was hard to pretend he’d turned Margaret down because the only person he wanted to go to parties with was me.
My crush on Tim was proving to be very unwieldy. It was always in the way. I thought of it at the most inconvenient times and it interrupted my thoughts just when I needed them to be uninterrupted. Since I was always thinking about him, when we met I was always a little bit embarrassed. And the worst thing about seeing Tim now was that I felt extra thin around him. He had turned into a muscular tanned man, and I was still this scrawny little girl who undoubtedly qualified as a bookmark in his mind.
Oh, well.
I closed up Second Time Around, hopped on my bicycle, and headed for home. The Jaycees and their wives were busy getting ready to decorate Main Street for the Fourth of July. The street would be closed off for a fair—crafts and game booths and raffles and yummy food and stuff—and then there would be a block dance and finally the fireworks.
I love the Fourth of July. Especially in Sea’s Edge.
Today’s fantasy had me and Tim hand in hand, sauntering from booth to booth, Tim buying me cotton candy, me buying him an initialed leather key ring, the two of us square dancing, watching the fireworks together.
He would probably decline.
He would probably have to “work” instead.
I stuck my bike in our garage and clumped over the cedar decking to tell Mrs. Lansberry the news about Tim.
The Lansberry house, inside and out, is perfection. The signed lithographs are always hanging nice and straight and the white upholstery is always spotless, and the kitchen counter so crumb-free you wonder if they even eat.
They don’t have a maid. It’s Mrs. Lansberry who keeps it in this pristine condition. I think there are better things to do in life than vacuum but Mrs. Lansberry, judging from appearances, disagrees. Imagine being turned on by another chance to dust!
She didn’t answer the doorbell for so long I began to worry that something had happened. Maybe she’d had a fall on her newly waxed kitchen floor and broken her hip or something. I was just planning to go in by a window when she came to the door.
Her eyes were puffy and her hair disheveled. I had never seen her anything but perfect. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “You already went to bed. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“No, no, I wasn’t asleep. I was watching this movie on TV. It was so sad I cried all the way through it. That’s why I look so awful.”
“Oh, I love sad movies,” I said. “Which one was it?”
She didn’t tell me. “Well, come in,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. Tim just asked me to give you a message.”
She had left the door for the living room, so to give her the message I had to follow her. When I came into the living room I actually gasped in surprise. Damp towels, used paper cups, overflowing ashtrays, opened newspapers, dead flowers in smelly vases. Mrs. Lansberry actually shoved a stack of newspapers off the couch onto the floor to make room for me to sit down. I knew for a fact that newsprint had not even been allowed in the same room with that white upholstery last summer, let alone been allowed to repose on it.
“Are you sick?” I said. She looked pitiful. “I’m not working tomorrow. Want me to come over and run the vacuum for you?”
“No, no.” She laughed nervously. “I’ll get myself together. Clean this up in the morning.” She looked at her living room as if it would be a lifetime task to straighten it. She looked at her hands as if she had terminal arthritis and it would have to take somebody else’s lifetime to do the housework from now on.
Probably a better attitude, all things considered.
“How about some coffee?” she said. “Pie? Cake? Ice cream? You must be
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