Read Online The Unlikely Romance of Kate Bjorkman by Louise Plummer - Free Book Online
Authors: Louise Plummer
Ads: Link
wondered.
“Well, you’re nice. Too nice, maybe. You want her to feel good. You’re willing to overlook a lot And it’s helped that the two of you have absolutely nothing in common—you never had to compete over anything or anybody.” She paused. “Until last Christmas, that is. That’s when you saw her for what she really is—B-I-T-C-H.” When Shannon spelled, it meant her little brother was in the room.
Was that right? I tried to think.
“Are you working on your novel?” Shannon asked.
“Yes.”
“Maybe you ought to tell about that third-grade birthday party of Ashley’s—the one
without
the pony. You must have told me that story a dozen times when I first met you in middle school. It was your way of explaining why she had to eat lunch with us. I thought she was a case of strychnine myself.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Write it and see how it feels.” She was quoting Midgely.
So here goes nothing—the story of how Mr. Cooper left Ashley and Mrs. Cooper forever on Ashley’s ninth birthday: he left without eating any cake and it was his favorite kind, caramel with whipped marshmallow frosting—the shiny kind.
I was there along with a half dozen other girls from Falcon Heights Elementary School, standing on the porch looking for prizes that had been hidden earlier among the flowerpots and wicker furniture. We were also waiting for Mr. Cooper to arrive with the pony that was to be the event of the party. “Everyone can have a turn riding it,” Ashley had told us.
But Mr. Cooper arrived in his red Mustang convertible without the pony. He had Tom Cruise good looks: that same easy smile.
“Daddy, where’s the pony?” Ashley’s voice rose with an anxiety that made my own stomach knot up.
“Oh, Piglet, I forgot.” He patted her head, his smile bewildered as if he hadn’t heard of Planet Earth, let alone any pony. He seemed surprised to see us. “I’ve got to talk toMommy, Sweetums,” he said, jumping the stairs two at a time.
From the porch we heard Mr. and Mrs. Cooper shouting in the kitchen at the back of the house. Ugly shouting with name-calling and blaming. I hunted furiously for the prizes on the porch and found a ball and jacks. “Oh, this is great!” I said to Ashley.
I can’t hear your parents
was what I wanted to say.
“This is cool,” Ivy Joy Miles said, turning a yo-yo in her fingers. She too looked at Ashley as if to say
I can’t hear them. Honest
.
Ashley, a half-smile creasing her lips, was twitching behind her skin. “I chose the prizes myself,” she said.
Her father left in ten minutes. Ten minutes that seemed like three hours. He called Mrs. Cooper “one glorious bitch.” It is seared into my memory. Then he left. “See ya, kitten,” he said, his voice completely altered from the loud cursing of seconds before. “See ya, girls.” He even waved.
“What about the cake? It’s your favorite!” Ashley called to him.
“Later, Piglet.” He was already in his car, revving it. He spun out, spitting pebbles onto the sidewalk. Happy Birthday, Ashley.
T HIS WRITING BUSINESS can be depressing. I don’t want to think about Ashley and her motives for doing what she does. I don’t really want her to be a rounded character. I don’t want to think about her pathetic ninth-birthday party and thepain behind her eyes when her father left for good. I don’t want to take care of that pain any longer by being her friend. I don’t want readers taking pity on her for one second. I want to damn her to hell. Maybe I could have her murdered—in the novel, at least. It would be a wonderful catharsis for me to have her run over by a semi. I could write it in great detail. Spend paragraphs on it. She’d be flattened roadkill, her blood oozing into the street.
I thought I was finished emotionally with Ashley, but she’s come back like vomit. I can’t write another word.
When I returned home from shopping in Chapter Six , Fleur and Richard, both wearing aprons,
“Well, you’re nice. Too nice, maybe. You want her to feel good. You’re willing to overlook a lot And it’s helped that the two of you have absolutely nothing in common—you never had to compete over anything or anybody.” She paused. “Until last Christmas, that is. That’s when you saw her for what she really is—B-I-T-C-H.” When Shannon spelled, it meant her little brother was in the room.
Was that right? I tried to think.
“Are you working on your novel?” Shannon asked.
“Yes.”
“Maybe you ought to tell about that third-grade birthday party of Ashley’s—the one
without
the pony. You must have told me that story a dozen times when I first met you in middle school. It was your way of explaining why she had to eat lunch with us. I thought she was a case of strychnine myself.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Write it and see how it feels.” She was quoting Midgely.
So here goes nothing—the story of how Mr. Cooper left Ashley and Mrs. Cooper forever on Ashley’s ninth birthday: he left without eating any cake and it was his favorite kind, caramel with whipped marshmallow frosting—the shiny kind.
I was there along with a half dozen other girls from Falcon Heights Elementary School, standing on the porch looking for prizes that had been hidden earlier among the flowerpots and wicker furniture. We were also waiting for Mr. Cooper to arrive with the pony that was to be the event of the party. “Everyone can have a turn riding it,” Ashley had told us.
But Mr. Cooper arrived in his red Mustang convertible without the pony. He had Tom Cruise good looks: that same easy smile.
“Daddy, where’s the pony?” Ashley’s voice rose with an anxiety that made my own stomach knot up.
“Oh, Piglet, I forgot.” He patted her head, his smile bewildered as if he hadn’t heard of Planet Earth, let alone any pony. He seemed surprised to see us. “I’ve got to talk toMommy, Sweetums,” he said, jumping the stairs two at a time.
From the porch we heard Mr. and Mrs. Cooper shouting in the kitchen at the back of the house. Ugly shouting with name-calling and blaming. I hunted furiously for the prizes on the porch and found a ball and jacks. “Oh, this is great!” I said to Ashley.
I can’t hear your parents
was what I wanted to say.
“This is cool,” Ivy Joy Miles said, turning a yo-yo in her fingers. She too looked at Ashley as if to say
I can’t hear them. Honest
.
Ashley, a half-smile creasing her lips, was twitching behind her skin. “I chose the prizes myself,” she said.
Her father left in ten minutes. Ten minutes that seemed like three hours. He called Mrs. Cooper “one glorious bitch.” It is seared into my memory. Then he left. “See ya, kitten,” he said, his voice completely altered from the loud cursing of seconds before. “See ya, girls.” He even waved.
“What about the cake? It’s your favorite!” Ashley called to him.
“Later, Piglet.” He was already in his car, revving it. He spun out, spitting pebbles onto the sidewalk. Happy Birthday, Ashley.
T HIS WRITING BUSINESS can be depressing. I don’t want to think about Ashley and her motives for doing what she does. I don’t really want her to be a rounded character. I don’t want to think about her pathetic ninth-birthday party and thepain behind her eyes when her father left for good. I don’t want to take care of that pain any longer by being her friend. I don’t want readers taking pity on her for one second. I want to damn her to hell. Maybe I could have her murdered—in the novel, at least. It would be a wonderful catharsis for me to have her run over by a semi. I could write it in great detail. Spend paragraphs on it. She’d be flattened roadkill, her blood oozing into the street.
I thought I was finished emotionally with Ashley, but she’s come back like vomit. I can’t write another word.
When I returned home from shopping in Chapter Six , Fleur and Richard, both wearing aprons,
Similar Books
