Read Online Someday, Someday, Maybe by Lauren Graham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lauren Graham
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this the right way … you’re usually kind of, covered up, I guess? In the way you dress? But tonight, and I hope you won’t be offended by this, but what I saw tonight told me, well, you’ve got a very pretty little body under there. You should show it off more often. Not just by accident.”
James turns red and stuffs his hands in his pockets, and holds my eyes with his. I don’t even care if he’s lying to make me feel better, because I do; I feel better. I want to say thank you, maybe even give him a hug, but then the heavy theater door bursts open, and Penelope appears in a short, blinding white fur jacket. She smiles when she sees James, but then her gaze shifts back and forth between us and her eyes dart down to his scarf around my neck, and her smile seems to crack, her eyes narrowing a bit. She recovers in an instant, though, and cocks her head at me, making a sad face and pushing out her lower lip in a little pout.
“You poooor thing,” she says, coming toward me with her arms outstretched. “C’mere, sweetie. I bet someone needs a hug .” She encircles me with a surprisingly strong grip and lays her head on my chest, rocking us both back and forth like we’re an eighth-grade couple slow-dancing to “Freebird.” “Awwww,” she whispers into my clavicle.
Arms welded to my sides, I look helplessly over Penelope’s head to James.
“Uh, Pen?” he says gently. “I was just telling Franny how the chair thing wasn’t really a big deal …”
“Well, of course not!” she exclaims at full volume, releasing me with such force that I have to take a step back. “Not a big deal at all !”
“I was telling her the performance was still there,” he adds.
“Absolutely!”
“And that she’ll laugh about it someday.”
“Of course she will!” Penelope nods, turning away from me and beaming at James. She slides over to him and slips her arm casually through his.
“Yeah, I’m almost ready to laugh about it now, in fact. Ha, ha, ha,” I singsong.
James nods sympathetically at me, and slaps his knee in faux enthusiasm. Penelope smiles and then tries to stifle a giggle, but she doesn’t seem to be able to control it, and it erupts and grows into a full-blown laugh that eventually spills out into a sort of snort. “Well, that’s a relief,” she cackles. “I mean, it is pretty funny.” She’s laughing so hard now that she’s having trouble breathing. I smile like a good sport and chuckle a bit, trying to play along. I did say I was ready to laugh about it, after all, but Penelope is curiously on the verge of some sort of hysteria. She holds her stomach and bends over a bit, gasping for air. “The funniest part … ( giggle, giggle ) … is that … ( gasp, cough ) … it isn’t even Monday .” And she lets out a whoop that pierces the cold night air, then punches me on the arm in a way that’s meant to be playful but is just hard enough that something in me snaps. She has an agent, she has a boyfriend, she didn’t fall onstage tonight revealing her inaccurate choice of days-of-the-week underwear, and I’m inexplicably mad at her for no reason.
“Is that real?”
“Huh?” Penelope asks, still panting a bit.
“Your jacket. Is that made of real fur?”
This is mean. But my arm hurts where she punched it and I’m upset. I don’t think I really care if her jacket is made of real fur. I guess if I thought about it, I would say I’d have to come down against fur jackets made of formerly frolicking bunnies, but it’s not something I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about. And even if I give it more thought, and someday decide I’m very definitely against wearing the same animal that brings Easter baskets to little children, it’s not really like me to judge someone else for her rabbit-related choices.
Penelope’s face falls and she looks down at her jacket.
“You know,” she says, “it is real. I wasn’t sure about it myself. But it was my mother’s, and so
James turns red and stuffs his hands in his pockets, and holds my eyes with his. I don’t even care if he’s lying to make me feel better, because I do; I feel better. I want to say thank you, maybe even give him a hug, but then the heavy theater door bursts open, and Penelope appears in a short, blinding white fur jacket. She smiles when she sees James, but then her gaze shifts back and forth between us and her eyes dart down to his scarf around my neck, and her smile seems to crack, her eyes narrowing a bit. She recovers in an instant, though, and cocks her head at me, making a sad face and pushing out her lower lip in a little pout.
“You poooor thing,” she says, coming toward me with her arms outstretched. “C’mere, sweetie. I bet someone needs a hug .” She encircles me with a surprisingly strong grip and lays her head on my chest, rocking us both back and forth like we’re an eighth-grade couple slow-dancing to “Freebird.” “Awwww,” she whispers into my clavicle.
Arms welded to my sides, I look helplessly over Penelope’s head to James.
“Uh, Pen?” he says gently. “I was just telling Franny how the chair thing wasn’t really a big deal …”
“Well, of course not!” she exclaims at full volume, releasing me with such force that I have to take a step back. “Not a big deal at all !”
“I was telling her the performance was still there,” he adds.
“Absolutely!”
“And that she’ll laugh about it someday.”
“Of course she will!” Penelope nods, turning away from me and beaming at James. She slides over to him and slips her arm casually through his.
“Yeah, I’m almost ready to laugh about it now, in fact. Ha, ha, ha,” I singsong.
James nods sympathetically at me, and slaps his knee in faux enthusiasm. Penelope smiles and then tries to stifle a giggle, but she doesn’t seem to be able to control it, and it erupts and grows into a full-blown laugh that eventually spills out into a sort of snort. “Well, that’s a relief,” she cackles. “I mean, it is pretty funny.” She’s laughing so hard now that she’s having trouble breathing. I smile like a good sport and chuckle a bit, trying to play along. I did say I was ready to laugh about it, after all, but Penelope is curiously on the verge of some sort of hysteria. She holds her stomach and bends over a bit, gasping for air. “The funniest part … ( giggle, giggle ) … is that … ( gasp, cough ) … it isn’t even Monday .” And she lets out a whoop that pierces the cold night air, then punches me on the arm in a way that’s meant to be playful but is just hard enough that something in me snaps. She has an agent, she has a boyfriend, she didn’t fall onstage tonight revealing her inaccurate choice of days-of-the-week underwear, and I’m inexplicably mad at her for no reason.
“Is that real?”
“Huh?” Penelope asks, still panting a bit.
“Your jacket. Is that made of real fur?”
This is mean. But my arm hurts where she punched it and I’m upset. I don’t think I really care if her jacket is made of real fur. I guess if I thought about it, I would say I’d have to come down against fur jackets made of formerly frolicking bunnies, but it’s not something I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about. And even if I give it more thought, and someday decide I’m very definitely against wearing the same animal that brings Easter baskets to little children, it’s not really like me to judge someone else for her rabbit-related choices.
Penelope’s face falls and she looks down at her jacket.
“You know,” she says, “it is real. I wasn’t sure about it myself. But it was my mother’s, and so
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