Read Online Unbecoming by Rebecca Scherm - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Scherm
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Riley home for dinner once a week, and she sometimes visited on her own, too.
“Whose opinion are you worried about,Mother?” Grace asked with airy chill.
In the house on Orange Street, Greg ambled around stoned in his shorts, not even bothering to hide his morning Kimbroner. Alls left his pipe on the kitchen table and made out with Jenna from Ginny’s Ice Cream on the sofa, not caring who saw them. Riley and Grace were as loud as they pleased. For the past four years they had been sneaking around together, and now there was no sneaking to do.
Grace planned to start at Garland College the next year. She was graduating second in her class and she’d scored very well on the SAT, and she was confident that she would get a scholarship. She would major in art history, a complement to Riley’s talent. After college, they would get married. That was the plan.
At night she looked through Riley’s coursework, greedy to learn something, anything. With the boys graduated, there was nothing left for Grace in high school. She’d already read Beowulf and 1984 ; she’d read them last year, when Riley had, and now she had to listen to her peers’ slow-motion jawing—“it’s like our world, but not ” — as if they were underwater. She should have petitioned to graduate early, she knew, but she hadn’t, and now there was nothing to do but stare at the horizon and wait, both for graduation and for the three o’clock bell.
• • •
In December, Grace came back to the house one day after school, wheeled her bicycle into the shed, and went inside thinking that no one was home. She took a can of High Life from the refrigerator and flopped down on the green plaid couch in front of the picture window with Macbeth and a highlighter. She unzipped her jeans to get comfortable and flexed and pointed her bare feet in the sun. It was warm for December, warmer on the sun-soaked couch, and she drifted off with her highlighter in her hand. She woke suddenly, and she didn’t know why until she saw, through the doorway, Alls in the kitchen on the floor, cleaning up the aftermath of a dropped take-out container. Sticky brown food was strewn across the vinyl.
“I was trying to be quiet,” he said. “I spilled some on your book.”
Macbeth was still resting on her stomach. Now she moved it to cover her undone fly. “What book?”
“Uh, What Work Is ?” he asked, if it were a question. He nodded toward the paperback. “I don’t know; it was on the microwave.”
“It was?” She thought it had been on the floor at the top of the stairs. “Do you like it?”
“It’s all right,” he said. He came in and dropped the book on the couch next to her. “I didn’t realize it was going to be poetry.” But they were both looking at the cover as he said this. What Work Is , it read. Philip Levine. Poems.
“It’s fine to read poetry on purpose,” she teased him. “I won’t tell on you.”
He rolled his eyes. “I just read whatever’s laying around.”
“So, lots of poetry,” she said. “Because all the books are mine.”
She thought he would laugh then, but he didn’t, and she felt that she had made a misstep. “I shouldn’t be sleeping right now,” Grace yawned, trying to help him. “How was work?”
“Fine. Smelly. Found a bat in a bakery oven,” he said on his way back to the mess on the kitchen floor.
Alls helped two men out of Pitchfield repair commercial bakery equipment. He’d had the job since he’d gotten his driver’s license.
“Gross! How long had it been there?”
“No eyeballs.”
“Yikes,” she said, but then she must have drifted off again, because when she awoke to a wet thumb wiping at her cheek, she thought at first that it belonged to Alls.
“You have a pink stripe here,” Riley said. “Like a neon scar.” She stretched out her arms and he groaned, happy to collapse in the sun with her. “You smell like sleep,” he said, and she closed her eyes again.
That night,
“Whose opinion are you worried about,Mother?” Grace asked with airy chill.
In the house on Orange Street, Greg ambled around stoned in his shorts, not even bothering to hide his morning Kimbroner. Alls left his pipe on the kitchen table and made out with Jenna from Ginny’s Ice Cream on the sofa, not caring who saw them. Riley and Grace were as loud as they pleased. For the past four years they had been sneaking around together, and now there was no sneaking to do.
Grace planned to start at Garland College the next year. She was graduating second in her class and she’d scored very well on the SAT, and she was confident that she would get a scholarship. She would major in art history, a complement to Riley’s talent. After college, they would get married. That was the plan.
At night she looked through Riley’s coursework, greedy to learn something, anything. With the boys graduated, there was nothing left for Grace in high school. She’d already read Beowulf and 1984 ; she’d read them last year, when Riley had, and now she had to listen to her peers’ slow-motion jawing—“it’s like our world, but not ” — as if they were underwater. She should have petitioned to graduate early, she knew, but she hadn’t, and now there was nothing to do but stare at the horizon and wait, both for graduation and for the three o’clock bell.
• • •
In December, Grace came back to the house one day after school, wheeled her bicycle into the shed, and went inside thinking that no one was home. She took a can of High Life from the refrigerator and flopped down on the green plaid couch in front of the picture window with Macbeth and a highlighter. She unzipped her jeans to get comfortable and flexed and pointed her bare feet in the sun. It was warm for December, warmer on the sun-soaked couch, and she drifted off with her highlighter in her hand. She woke suddenly, and she didn’t know why until she saw, through the doorway, Alls in the kitchen on the floor, cleaning up the aftermath of a dropped take-out container. Sticky brown food was strewn across the vinyl.
“I was trying to be quiet,” he said. “I spilled some on your book.”
Macbeth was still resting on her stomach. Now she moved it to cover her undone fly. “What book?”
“Uh, What Work Is ?” he asked, if it were a question. He nodded toward the paperback. “I don’t know; it was on the microwave.”
“It was?” She thought it had been on the floor at the top of the stairs. “Do you like it?”
“It’s all right,” he said. He came in and dropped the book on the couch next to her. “I didn’t realize it was going to be poetry.” But they were both looking at the cover as he said this. What Work Is , it read. Philip Levine. Poems.
“It’s fine to read poetry on purpose,” she teased him. “I won’t tell on you.”
He rolled his eyes. “I just read whatever’s laying around.”
“So, lots of poetry,” she said. “Because all the books are mine.”
She thought he would laugh then, but he didn’t, and she felt that she had made a misstep. “I shouldn’t be sleeping right now,” Grace yawned, trying to help him. “How was work?”
“Fine. Smelly. Found a bat in a bakery oven,” he said on his way back to the mess on the kitchen floor.
Alls helped two men out of Pitchfield repair commercial bakery equipment. He’d had the job since he’d gotten his driver’s license.
“Gross! How long had it been there?”
“No eyeballs.”
“Yikes,” she said, but then she must have drifted off again, because when she awoke to a wet thumb wiping at her cheek, she thought at first that it belonged to Alls.
“You have a pink stripe here,” Riley said. “Like a neon scar.” She stretched out her arms and he groaned, happy to collapse in the sun with her. “You smell like sleep,” he said, and she closed her eyes again.
That night,
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