Read Online True To Form by Elizabeth Berg - Free Book Online

still mad at you, because I am still mad at you.
    He pulls out my desk chair and turns on my desk light.
    I hold my hands up over my eyes, and he moves the lamp so it’s behind his back and not so bright.
    â€œI have changed my mind about your going to Texas,” he says.
    I don’t move one muscle.
    â€œAll right?”
    I nod. “Yes, sir.” Very, very quietly, I clear my throat.
    â€œYou go ahead and go back to sleep; tomorrow we’ll make all the arrangements. You can stay for two days, and two days only.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œAll right?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAll right.”
    He snaps off the light, comes over to stand beside me. He is so tall. “Good night,” he says.
    He goes out the door and closes the door behind him. I squeeze my pillow really tight, but that is not enough so I happy-punch it a fewtimes. I think of myself getting on the airplane and waving good-bye and I have to leap up and do the quietest happiness dance, just a few steps like the Pony, and inside me there is an open mouth shouting yahoo! Then I lie back down, but I am way too excited to sleep. I get up and go to my desk and start my list of things to bring. “Present for Belle” is the first thing I write, because she is the main hostess. Hankies or bubble bath. I know why I can only stay two days. Benjamin Franklin said, “Fish and visitors smell in three days.” We had that in junior high English. I was having a bad day that day because when the teacher called on me to explain what it meant, I thought it meant they didn’t wash. Although I didn’t say that. I just said, “Well, I think it’s sort of self-explanatory.” But then another girl raised her hand and said, all smug, “Don’t overstay your welcome.” The idea is you might be really happy to see someone, but then they get on your nerves because you’re sick of them and you just want your normal life back. But if they leave before three days, you might even kind of miss them.
    â€œUnderwear,” I write next, which is pretty obvious, but you might as well write it down because what if you did forget. There you would be the next day, staring at your open suitcase and thinking, Uh oh. “Bathing suit,” I write. “Nice dress for going out,” because we might. I start thinking of going out with Cherylanne and a funny thing happens: I think of Cynthia instead. How I will miss her. How I might send her a postcard.
    I guess it has become home here, now. There are reasons for coming back. I have the responsibility of my jobs, and there is the interesting dilemma of how to save Cynthia from a mother gone berserk. It’s so amazing how that happens, place after place. When your dad is in the army, it’s like you’re always saying, “Okay, this is home.” And then, “No. This is home.” And so on and so on forever. But the joke is that you are never home except inside yourself. That is where you have to make the place with the light always on, a chair always waiting, sit down. It is always the same light, and it is always the same chair, turned just so and never moving one inch.

M ONDAY EVENING AFTER DINNER, I am allowed to call Cherylanne. My father has spoken with the radio station, and TWA will send me tickets for whenever I want. The kitchen timer is set for Cherylanne and me to talk three minutes; then my father will take over and talk to Belle. I go into the hall and dial her number, then slide down onto the floor, my back against the wall, get ready. The phone rings and right away a boy answers. “Bubba?” I say. I can feel my heart beating so fast in my chest.
    A pause. A burp. Then, “Yeah?”
    Well, Bubba has not changed. “This is Katie!”
    Nothing.
    â€œI used to live next door to you?”
    Nothing.
    â€œHello?” I say.
    â€œOh yeah,” he says, his voice lazy like he just woke up. “I