Read Online The Rites and Wrongs of Janice Wills by Joanna Pearson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joanna Pearson
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star,
of course
happened to be an excellent dancer and singer, the universe having a wicked sense of humor).
“Hey, Paul,” I said when he showed up and I’d opened the car door. I smelled the faint mixture of his coconut shampoo and piney deodorant. My heart jumped up in my chest like it’d hit a speed bump. This did not ordinarily happen when I talked to Paul. It was just Paul.
“Hey, J. Ready to carbo-load?”
I nodded and hopped in beside him.
“So I have to admit it,” he said as we pulled away. “Your most recent mix CD was pretty excellent. You’ve set the bar even higher. I’m not sure what I’m going to find in response….”
“It’s hard to compete with early Afrobeat mixed with some of the greatest hits coming out of 1961 Detroit, I know….”
“I’ll triumph, though. You’re going to be dazzled, Janice. Oh, and I really liked the South African song you put on there.” He gestured to his CD player.
I inhaled the familiar scent of Paul’s car. It smelled like him — the shampoo and deodorant — plus coffee. There werepita chips and splashes of now-dried coffee seeped into the upholstery. Paul had a thing for eating while driving.
“So,” he said, “what’s the plan this evening?”
“Well, I think Margo and I might be going to that party that Jimmy Denton and some of the other senior drama guys are having.”
Paul kept his eyes forward and nodded, but I could see a frown deepening the crease in his forehead. “What,
Dad
, you don’t approve?”
He sighed, shaking his head. We were at a stoplight, so he turned to face me. “No, I think Jimmy’s fine, it’s just … I heard he’s been in a bad mood lately. He just has some issues he’s working through, that’s all….”
ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
“Issues”? Issues! This had definitely become the most vague and yet one of the most frequently used terms of my generation.
“Besides,” Paul added, “a bunch of us were talking about going to the movies tonight. You interested?”
I shrugged. I figured The Girlfriend would surely be there, and the thought of going to the movies with perfect, porcelain Susannah was almost as appealing as looking for extraterrestrial life-forms with Chuck Healey.
As if he weren’t thinking about it, Paul put his hand on my forearm. With the too-bright sun pouring in through the carwindows and his fingers on my skin, I felt time slow down. He was touching my arm, and his hand was radiant with warmth like a miniature sun. He crinkled his crinkly brown eyes at me. Kind eyes. He worried about me! And I loved his hand on my arm.
ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
There is an interesting tradition of belief in the power of the “healing touch.” It involves various energies that I don’t really understand. I’d previously thought this idea sounded funny and quaint, but whatever was radiating from Paul’s hand, I was becoming a believer.
Then he took his hand away. The elastic stretch of the moment snapped back, and we were back in the sickly coffee-smelling car, and the stoplight was changing, and there was no more touching, and — oh, God — I realized why his hand had jerked back — oh, God — repulsed.
The Mutant Hair.
There, in the unforgiving natural light, I saw it. The Mutant Hair spiraled annoyingly out of one juicy brown mole on my left arm. It was glistening and dark, whereas the rest of my arm was downed lightly with blond. It was a man’s hair, a weird pubic sprout coiling from that cursed mole. Normally I kept track of The Mutant Hair and jerked it from its mole as soon as it was long enough, but I’d been forgetful. Now Paul had seen it and surely thought I was disgusting. Repulsive. A manly ogre. Only he was too polite to say so.
“Thanks, Paul. A movie sounds good, but I already talked about the party with Margo. Maybe next time?” I said it cheerily, as if nothing odd had happened, but my stomach sank like I’d gone down a huge roller coaster.
“Sure, next time,”
of course
happened to be an excellent dancer and singer, the universe having a wicked sense of humor).
“Hey, Paul,” I said when he showed up and I’d opened the car door. I smelled the faint mixture of his coconut shampoo and piney deodorant. My heart jumped up in my chest like it’d hit a speed bump. This did not ordinarily happen when I talked to Paul. It was just Paul.
“Hey, J. Ready to carbo-load?”
I nodded and hopped in beside him.
“So I have to admit it,” he said as we pulled away. “Your most recent mix CD was pretty excellent. You’ve set the bar even higher. I’m not sure what I’m going to find in response….”
“It’s hard to compete with early Afrobeat mixed with some of the greatest hits coming out of 1961 Detroit, I know….”
“I’ll triumph, though. You’re going to be dazzled, Janice. Oh, and I really liked the South African song you put on there.” He gestured to his CD player.
I inhaled the familiar scent of Paul’s car. It smelled like him — the shampoo and deodorant — plus coffee. There werepita chips and splashes of now-dried coffee seeped into the upholstery. Paul had a thing for eating while driving.
“So,” he said, “what’s the plan this evening?”
“Well, I think Margo and I might be going to that party that Jimmy Denton and some of the other senior drama guys are having.”
Paul kept his eyes forward and nodded, but I could see a frown deepening the crease in his forehead. “What,
Dad
, you don’t approve?”
He sighed, shaking his head. We were at a stoplight, so he turned to face me. “No, I think Jimmy’s fine, it’s just … I heard he’s been in a bad mood lately. He just has some issues he’s working through, that’s all….”
ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
“Issues”? Issues! This had definitely become the most vague and yet one of the most frequently used terms of my generation.
“Besides,” Paul added, “a bunch of us were talking about going to the movies tonight. You interested?”
I shrugged. I figured The Girlfriend would surely be there, and the thought of going to the movies with perfect, porcelain Susannah was almost as appealing as looking for extraterrestrial life-forms with Chuck Healey.
As if he weren’t thinking about it, Paul put his hand on my forearm. With the too-bright sun pouring in through the carwindows and his fingers on my skin, I felt time slow down. He was touching my arm, and his hand was radiant with warmth like a miniature sun. He crinkled his crinkly brown eyes at me. Kind eyes. He worried about me! And I loved his hand on my arm.
ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
There is an interesting tradition of belief in the power of the “healing touch.” It involves various energies that I don’t really understand. I’d previously thought this idea sounded funny and quaint, but whatever was radiating from Paul’s hand, I was becoming a believer.
Then he took his hand away. The elastic stretch of the moment snapped back, and we were back in the sickly coffee-smelling car, and the stoplight was changing, and there was no more touching, and — oh, God — I realized why his hand had jerked back — oh, God — repulsed.
The Mutant Hair.
There, in the unforgiving natural light, I saw it. The Mutant Hair spiraled annoyingly out of one juicy brown mole on my left arm. It was glistening and dark, whereas the rest of my arm was downed lightly with blond. It was a man’s hair, a weird pubic sprout coiling from that cursed mole. Normally I kept track of The Mutant Hair and jerked it from its mole as soon as it was long enough, but I’d been forgetful. Now Paul had seen it and surely thought I was disgusting. Repulsive. A manly ogre. Only he was too polite to say so.
“Thanks, Paul. A movie sounds good, but I already talked about the party with Margo. Maybe next time?” I said it cheerily, as if nothing odd had happened, but my stomach sank like I’d gone down a huge roller coaster.
“Sure, next time,”
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