L'America by Martha McPhee Page B

passed without a word from Beth. Sylvia danced around trying on dresses. She wanted to tell Beth about the kiss, but was afraid. She had only a vague understanding of that fear; she simply understood that it would be better if she didn't mention kissing Chas. All that was on her mind was seeing Chas again, kissing Chas again. She had even liked the smell of his breath. It was as if she were still inside that kiss, a bubble surrounding just the two of them. She imagined she could sneak out for a midnight walk once Beth was asleep. Seeing him again was an urgent need. She wanted to be free of Beth. She wanted to know everything about Chas, to reexperience that wonderful jetting sensation.
    "What's wrong?" Beth snapped, mocking Sylvia's question. Sylvia looked at Beth, holding her with her eyes to make sure. Beth's face revealed everything, though she tried to pretend it did not.
    "It doesn't mean anything," Sylvia said.
    "What doesn't mean anything?" Beth persisted. She wanted to be cruel, wanted to make Sylvia tell her everything, admit to the kiss as if there were something fatally wrong in it.
    "You know what I'm talking about," Sylvia said.
    "I do?" They studied each other for a long time and then Beth conceded. "He's a fake," she said.
    "Are you going to try to convince me he's awful when just a few hours ago you adored him, too?" Rarely did Beth see Sylvia mad. Then Beth decided she wanted to see Sylvia really mad. Beth wanted to be mighty and evil and say wicked things.
    "He'll eat dog in China, get an awful disease in India, come home and brag about it for the rest of his life and think he's somehow more enlightened for it. And meanwhile he'll dump you when something better comes along." She'd heard her father talk about this sort of fake. She knew the mantra.
    "This is more than one kiss deserves."
    "I'm leaving," Beth said. "I'll go to Italy," she said, wanting to make Sylvia feel the way she felt now—choked, abandoned. She knew she was being irrational, but she couldn't stop herself. She was prone to slamming doors and bursting into flames. A temper, her grandmother called it. "To Beatrice and we'll—"
    "And you'll what?" Sylvia said, her green eyes turning angry even though she knew Beth was bluffing, that Beatrice was in Italy studying for her final exams. But the truth didn't matter. The mention of Bea's name now was enough to get them fighting. Beatrice Nuova was Beth's other best friend and Beth had tried to make them a trio in the summers when Bea was in America. But it never quite worked. Beth always remained in the middle with Sylvia and Bea vying for a greater share of her. At Claire, Sylvia would lord her knowledge of the place over Bea, showing Bea where everything belonged, introducing her to the people, making knowing comments to Beth that Bea wouldn't understand. Then Bea would make a suggestion that actually, coming from her, was more like a command: "I would like to go to New York." She would say the words slowly in her accented English. Each word enunciated, each word saying to Sylvia: To Get Away From You. When Beth went to Italy, Sylvia was left behind, envious of her friend's experience, as if it were some sort of tryst that necessarily excluded her.
    Sylvia and Beth fought hard now, as if fighting could release the grip. They fought about Sylvia's annoying plans and constant suspicions of everyone, all her gypsies. They fought about all Beth's impractical schemes. They fought about anything and everything, including the shoes of Sylvia's that Beth wore without asking. They fought until they started crying, and then they lay down on the bed and sobbed. They were eighteen years old, overwhelmed by a new and inexplicable longing. Something grand was about to happen to them that they didn't fully understand. For the first time in twelve years they would be separated for more than a few months. They were on the threshold of life and though they would never have been able to articulate it in so