Read Online The Uncoupling by Meg Wolitzer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Meg Wolitzer
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ritualized event,” Willa said. Suddenly family dinner felt like the biggest injustice. “It’s like a goddamn Japanese tea ceremony or something,” she said. “I mean,” she added nervily, working herself up, “who are they to think it’s the most important thing in the world. To think that I have nothing better to do than sit there with them.” She pictured her father’s long and handsome but slightly faded face, and her mother’s pretty, rabbity features, and then she thought of all they had done for her, and she felt guilty. But not too guilty.
They walked in silence back to Tam o’ Shanter, entered their separate homes, said cursory hellos to parents—“Hey,” Willa said, uninflected, not waiting for them to reply—then she and Eli met up again on Farrest. Though other creatures were in their midst, it seemed as if nobody paid Eli and Willa much attention, and so they were able to be alone together. A hawk flew overhead; this was Marissa Clayborn. She often took the form of this graceful, commanding flying animal, and Willa looked up and watched her circle and dip. Luckily, Marissa didn’t seem to want to come in for a landing.
As the days passed and Eli and Willa grew closer, he continued to repeat the remark about wanting to see her with her shirt off. Would she, Willa Lang, a very undaring sophomore who behaved more like a seventh-grader in certain respects, actually take her shirt off for the new boy? Finally, as though an elaborate deal had been brokered between their representatives, it was established that, yes, she would.
One afternoon, when his mother would be staying late after school for some planning meeting about the play, Willa and Eli went to his house. It was there, they both understood, that the removal of the shirt would take place, for a start—the unveiling, the grand moment, the beginning. The living room of the Hellers’ house was fairly conventional, Willa was relieved to see when they went inside. The furniture was puffy and swollen and modern, and there were art prints on the walls, and an unflattering childhood photo of Eli in a shirt with a huge, winged collar. On the far wall of the living room hung the masks of tragedy and comedy, one red and one blue, both of them kiln-glazed and shining. “Those are neat,” Willa said, feeling so strongly that they were actually ugly and almost grotesque that she had automatically thought to say the opposite of what she felt.
“They sort of creep me out a little,” said Eli. “They were given to my mom by the theater department in Cobalt when she left.” He grabbed a gallon of milk and two glasses and a couple of packaged doughnuts. “Come on,” he instructed, and she followed him up the stairs. Only when they were inside the cool blue of his bedroom—a blue version of Farrest, she thought—did Willa Lang feel relief. They sat on his bed, which he had carefully made that morning. Eli was a neat boy, and a pair of pajamas lay folded on his pillow. In the blue light Eli and Willa faced each other, and he poured her a glass of milk and held it out. “My special concoction,” he said. “It’s called Shirt-Be-Gone.”
She drank, then bit into a doughnut, and he did the same, after which they put glasses and plates aside. Willa reached up with a tentative hand and unbuttoned the top button of her pale yellow blouse. She kept unbuttoning until she was done, and then she swiftly opened her bra, which was one of those front-clasp kinds. The two pieces of it just fell away; she had planned this, of course, had wanted the bra to break apart like the sections of an orange, and so it did.
Eli took in a hard breath. “You are so beautiful,” he said in a low, new voice; then, of course, he couldn’t help but kiss her and touch her shoulders, and finally, of course, one of her breasts, which all at once changed texture, and so did the other one. It was as though they were corresponding with each other in some secret, unknowable
They walked in silence back to Tam o’ Shanter, entered their separate homes, said cursory hellos to parents—“Hey,” Willa said, uninflected, not waiting for them to reply—then she and Eli met up again on Farrest. Though other creatures were in their midst, it seemed as if nobody paid Eli and Willa much attention, and so they were able to be alone together. A hawk flew overhead; this was Marissa Clayborn. She often took the form of this graceful, commanding flying animal, and Willa looked up and watched her circle and dip. Luckily, Marissa didn’t seem to want to come in for a landing.
As the days passed and Eli and Willa grew closer, he continued to repeat the remark about wanting to see her with her shirt off. Would she, Willa Lang, a very undaring sophomore who behaved more like a seventh-grader in certain respects, actually take her shirt off for the new boy? Finally, as though an elaborate deal had been brokered between their representatives, it was established that, yes, she would.
One afternoon, when his mother would be staying late after school for some planning meeting about the play, Willa and Eli went to his house. It was there, they both understood, that the removal of the shirt would take place, for a start—the unveiling, the grand moment, the beginning. The living room of the Hellers’ house was fairly conventional, Willa was relieved to see when they went inside. The furniture was puffy and swollen and modern, and there were art prints on the walls, and an unflattering childhood photo of Eli in a shirt with a huge, winged collar. On the far wall of the living room hung the masks of tragedy and comedy, one red and one blue, both of them kiln-glazed and shining. “Those are neat,” Willa said, feeling so strongly that they were actually ugly and almost grotesque that she had automatically thought to say the opposite of what she felt.
“They sort of creep me out a little,” said Eli. “They were given to my mom by the theater department in Cobalt when she left.” He grabbed a gallon of milk and two glasses and a couple of packaged doughnuts. “Come on,” he instructed, and she followed him up the stairs. Only when they were inside the cool blue of his bedroom—a blue version of Farrest, she thought—did Willa Lang feel relief. They sat on his bed, which he had carefully made that morning. Eli was a neat boy, and a pair of pajamas lay folded on his pillow. In the blue light Eli and Willa faced each other, and he poured her a glass of milk and held it out. “My special concoction,” he said. “It’s called Shirt-Be-Gone.”
She drank, then bit into a doughnut, and he did the same, after which they put glasses and plates aside. Willa reached up with a tentative hand and unbuttoned the top button of her pale yellow blouse. She kept unbuttoning until she was done, and then she swiftly opened her bra, which was one of those front-clasp kinds. The two pieces of it just fell away; she had planned this, of course, had wanted the bra to break apart like the sections of an orange, and so it did.
Eli took in a hard breath. “You are so beautiful,” he said in a low, new voice; then, of course, he couldn’t help but kiss her and touch her shoulders, and finally, of course, one of her breasts, which all at once changed texture, and so did the other one. It was as though they were corresponding with each other in some secret, unknowable
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