Read Online The Miseducation of Cameron Post by Emily M. Danforth - Free Book Online
Authors: Emily M. Danforth
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you?”
“Except for Grandma Post, none of my grandparents ever even met me,” I said.
“You would have liked your grandpa Wynton. And he would have liked you. He was very much a rapscallion.”
I liked that Margot had decided, reflecting on the small collection of times she had “known” me, that I would have been appealing to my grandfather. My mother had told me that before too, but it was different coming from Margot.
“Do you know what a rapscallion is?” she asked, waving at the waitress to bring her another drink.
“Yeah,” I said. “A trickster.”
“Very nice,” she said, chuckling. “I like that—a trickster.”
The pictures at the back of the stack were older, from my mom’s high school days and before: a picnic, a football game, a Christmas pageant, Margot towering over the girls in each shot, and as she and my mother grew younger, photo by photo, Margot towering over many of the boys as well.
“You were always really tall,” I said, and then was embarrassed about having said it.
“At school they called me MoM for years and years—it stood for Miles of Margot,” she said, looking not at me but at a table of diners who had started their cross-restaurant trek to the salad bar.
“That’s sort of clever,” I said.
She smiled. “I think so too. Well, now I do. Not so much then.”
The waitress came back to take our order and bring Margot her second drink. We hadn’t even looked in the maroon menu folders with their gold tassels, but I knew that I wanted chicken-fried steak and hash browns, and Margot apparently knew that she wanted prime rib, because that’s what she ordered, with a baked potato, as well as another Shirley Temple for me. She ordered it without even asking me if I wanted it. It was nice.
I pulled three photos from the stack—one of my mom and dad dancing at their wedding, one of my mom on the shoulders of some unknown boy with a chipped front tooth, and one of Mom and Margot, maybe nine or ten, in shorts and T-shirts, arms around each other’s waists, handkerchiefs on their heads—that one reminded me of a picture I had of Irene and me. I held up my choices in front of her and shrugged my shoulders.
“So you’ve made your selections, then.” She nodded at the pictures in my hand. “The one with both of us was taken at a Campfire Girls jamboree. I was looking for something the other day and came across my old handbook. I’ll try to remember to send it to you; you’ll get a kick out of it.”
“Okay,” I said.
Then we looked at each other, or the table, or the salt and pepper shakers, for what seemed like a very long time. I concentrated on tying one of my cherry stems into a knot with my tongue.
Margot must have noticed my mouth working, because she said, “My brother, David, used to do that too. He could do two knots on a single stem, which he told us meant that he was a very fine kisser.”
I blushed, as usual. “How old was he?” I asked, without finishing the question with when he died , but Margot understood me all the same.
“He had just turned fourteen the weekend before the earthquake,” she said, stirring her drink. “I don’t think he had actually kissed very many girls before he died. Maybe none except for your mother.”
“Your brother kissed my mom?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “In the pantry of the First Presbyterian Church.”
“So much for romance,” I said.
Margot laughed. “It was very innocent,” she said. She picked up the salt shaker and tapped its glass base against the tablecloth a few times. “I haven’t been back to the Rock Creek area since it happened, but I’m going straight there after I leave Miles City tomorrow. I feel like I need to.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“I wanted to go back anyway; I’ve been wanting to for several years,” she said.
“I don’t ever want to go there.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.” Margot reached her hand across the table
“Except for Grandma Post, none of my grandparents ever even met me,” I said.
“You would have liked your grandpa Wynton. And he would have liked you. He was very much a rapscallion.”
I liked that Margot had decided, reflecting on the small collection of times she had “known” me, that I would have been appealing to my grandfather. My mother had told me that before too, but it was different coming from Margot.
“Do you know what a rapscallion is?” she asked, waving at the waitress to bring her another drink.
“Yeah,” I said. “A trickster.”
“Very nice,” she said, chuckling. “I like that—a trickster.”
The pictures at the back of the stack were older, from my mom’s high school days and before: a picnic, a football game, a Christmas pageant, Margot towering over the girls in each shot, and as she and my mother grew younger, photo by photo, Margot towering over many of the boys as well.
“You were always really tall,” I said, and then was embarrassed about having said it.
“At school they called me MoM for years and years—it stood for Miles of Margot,” she said, looking not at me but at a table of diners who had started their cross-restaurant trek to the salad bar.
“That’s sort of clever,” I said.
She smiled. “I think so too. Well, now I do. Not so much then.”
The waitress came back to take our order and bring Margot her second drink. We hadn’t even looked in the maroon menu folders with their gold tassels, but I knew that I wanted chicken-fried steak and hash browns, and Margot apparently knew that she wanted prime rib, because that’s what she ordered, with a baked potato, as well as another Shirley Temple for me. She ordered it without even asking me if I wanted it. It was nice.
I pulled three photos from the stack—one of my mom and dad dancing at their wedding, one of my mom on the shoulders of some unknown boy with a chipped front tooth, and one of Mom and Margot, maybe nine or ten, in shorts and T-shirts, arms around each other’s waists, handkerchiefs on their heads—that one reminded me of a picture I had of Irene and me. I held up my choices in front of her and shrugged my shoulders.
“So you’ve made your selections, then.” She nodded at the pictures in my hand. “The one with both of us was taken at a Campfire Girls jamboree. I was looking for something the other day and came across my old handbook. I’ll try to remember to send it to you; you’ll get a kick out of it.”
“Okay,” I said.
Then we looked at each other, or the table, or the salt and pepper shakers, for what seemed like a very long time. I concentrated on tying one of my cherry stems into a knot with my tongue.
Margot must have noticed my mouth working, because she said, “My brother, David, used to do that too. He could do two knots on a single stem, which he told us meant that he was a very fine kisser.”
I blushed, as usual. “How old was he?” I asked, without finishing the question with when he died , but Margot understood me all the same.
“He had just turned fourteen the weekend before the earthquake,” she said, stirring her drink. “I don’t think he had actually kissed very many girls before he died. Maybe none except for your mother.”
“Your brother kissed my mom?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “In the pantry of the First Presbyterian Church.”
“So much for romance,” I said.
Margot laughed. “It was very innocent,” she said. She picked up the salt shaker and tapped its glass base against the tablecloth a few times. “I haven’t been back to the Rock Creek area since it happened, but I’m going straight there after I leave Miles City tomorrow. I feel like I need to.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“I wanted to go back anyway; I’ve been wanting to for several years,” she said.
“I don’t ever want to go there.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.” Margot reached her hand across the table
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