your teacher say?”
Lauren sat still for a moment, then got off the bed and went to her backpack, on the floor in a corner of the room. She dug around in it and pulled out an orange binder. “It’s just supposed to be something ‘good for you,’” she said, making air quotes with her fingers.
“A spinach book,” Sarabeth said, and Lauren gave her a mischievous look.
“You mean broccoli.”
“Brussels sprouts! Actually, you know what’s weird? This is more true of movies, maybe, but sometimes you’ll hear about some book, and it’ll be a total chocolate-cake book, and then you won’t read it for a long time, you’ll sort of put it off, and all of a sudden you’ll realize it’s become a broccoli book. Like, overnight.”
Lauren smiled, but after a moment color rose up into her face, and she looked away.
“What?” Sarabeth said.
Lauren shook her head. She turned and stuffed the binder back in her backpack. “Excuse me,” she said, and she left the room, and a moment later Sarabeth heard the bathroom door close.
What had just happened? Was she supposed to wait? She heard the water go on; she heard the muffled sounds of Brody’s game, coming from the little TV room at the end of the hall. She looked around the room. Next to Lauren’s door was a grid of wooden shelves holding CDs, and just above that, drawn directly on the wall by Lauren, was a colored-pencil picture of a big-eyed girl playing guitar. If there were a spectrum of girls’ bedrooms, this one would be at the opposite end of the one Sarabeth had had on Cowper Street. Her mother had hired a decorator, for one thing, and she remembered being shown the finished room after school one day when she was about six: the violet-sprigged wallpaper, the fan-backed wicker chair, the silky purple curtains that she’d been told in advance she should try not to touch. She remembered knowing what her mother wanted, standing next to her in the doorway, and how she still somehow couldn’t manage to say it, that the room was pretty. “Do you love it?” her mother cried at last, and Sarabeth nodded quickly and said she did.
She moved to Lauren’s door and made her way down the stairs. Liz had taken a huge, flame-colored casserole from the oven and was ladling beef and vegetables onto a serving platter.
“I thought this was supposed to be a simple dinner.”
Liz looked up and smiled. “There you are.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. “I got inspired, what can I tell you?”
Sarabeth reached for the cheese roll bag and held it up for Liz to see. “Hey, I went to the Cheese Board. Got some you-know-whats.”
“Oh, that is so nice,” Liz said. “We’ll die.”
Sarabeth set the bag down and found the aluminum foil. She tore off a piece and laid it on the counter, then removed the rolls from the bag, setting aside the one she’d been eating. Except…here was another she’d been eating. Now there were two rolls with gouges, which meant someone—she, of course—would have to have one with dinner. But then, no, there were
three
rolls with gouges—she’d ruined three of the rolls.
“I’m such a jerk!” she exclaimed.
“What?”
She gestured at the rolls. “
Ta da.
What kind of guest snacks on her contribution to the meal before she presents it to you? Jesus.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is!”
Liz left the ladle in the casserole and came over. “Now, now.” She gathered the rolls onto the foil, turning the torn ones ripped-side down and wrapping the foil over them. “See?” She patted Sarabeth on the shoulder, then put an arm around her and pulled her close. “They’ll be perfect with the stew. OK? I’m so glad you’re here.”
5
L iz first heard it in the middle of the night, a sound like rice pouring into a measuring cup, an infinite stream of rice pouring into an infinite cup. Hours later, it was still pouring, the first rain of the season: blurring the windows, blackening the wooden furniture
Lauren sat still for a moment, then got off the bed and went to her backpack, on the floor in a corner of the room. She dug around in it and pulled out an orange binder. “It’s just supposed to be something ‘good for you,’” she said, making air quotes with her fingers.
“A spinach book,” Sarabeth said, and Lauren gave her a mischievous look.
“You mean broccoli.”
“Brussels sprouts! Actually, you know what’s weird? This is more true of movies, maybe, but sometimes you’ll hear about some book, and it’ll be a total chocolate-cake book, and then you won’t read it for a long time, you’ll sort of put it off, and all of a sudden you’ll realize it’s become a broccoli book. Like, overnight.”
Lauren smiled, but after a moment color rose up into her face, and she looked away.
“What?” Sarabeth said.
Lauren shook her head. She turned and stuffed the binder back in her backpack. “Excuse me,” she said, and she left the room, and a moment later Sarabeth heard the bathroom door close.
What had just happened? Was she supposed to wait? She heard the water go on; she heard the muffled sounds of Brody’s game, coming from the little TV room at the end of the hall. She looked around the room. Next to Lauren’s door was a grid of wooden shelves holding CDs, and just above that, drawn directly on the wall by Lauren, was a colored-pencil picture of a big-eyed girl playing guitar. If there were a spectrum of girls’ bedrooms, this one would be at the opposite end of the one Sarabeth had had on Cowper Street. Her mother had hired a decorator, for one thing, and she remembered being shown the finished room after school one day when she was about six: the violet-sprigged wallpaper, the fan-backed wicker chair, the silky purple curtains that she’d been told in advance she should try not to touch. She remembered knowing what her mother wanted, standing next to her in the doorway, and how she still somehow couldn’t manage to say it, that the room was pretty. “Do you love it?” her mother cried at last, and Sarabeth nodded quickly and said she did.
She moved to Lauren’s door and made her way down the stairs. Liz had taken a huge, flame-colored casserole from the oven and was ladling beef and vegetables onto a serving platter.
“I thought this was supposed to be a simple dinner.”
Liz looked up and smiled. “There you are.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. “I got inspired, what can I tell you?”
Sarabeth reached for the cheese roll bag and held it up for Liz to see. “Hey, I went to the Cheese Board. Got some you-know-whats.”
“Oh, that is so nice,” Liz said. “We’ll die.”
Sarabeth set the bag down and found the aluminum foil. She tore off a piece and laid it on the counter, then removed the rolls from the bag, setting aside the one she’d been eating. Except…here was another she’d been eating. Now there were two rolls with gouges, which meant someone—she, of course—would have to have one with dinner. But then, no, there were
three
rolls with gouges—she’d ruined three of the rolls.
“I’m such a jerk!” she exclaimed.
“What?”
She gestured at the rolls. “
Ta da.
What kind of guest snacks on her contribution to the meal before she presents it to you? Jesus.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is!”
Liz left the ladle in the casserole and came over. “Now, now.” She gathered the rolls onto the foil, turning the torn ones ripped-side down and wrapping the foil over them. “See?” She patted Sarabeth on the shoulder, then put an arm around her and pulled her close. “They’ll be perfect with the stew. OK? I’m so glad you’re here.”
5
L iz first heard it in the middle of the night, a sound like rice pouring into a measuring cup, an infinite stream of rice pouring into an infinite cup. Hours later, it was still pouring, the first rain of the season: blurring the windows, blackening the wooden furniture
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