them turn their heads at the metallic ping of the latch. I expect H. J.’s face to look penitent. But it doesn’t, only calm and composed.
“Hi, Mr. Burdick,” I say, though in my head I call him by his first name. Before H. J. has a chance to answer, Mr. Tynan grabs him by the shoulder and propels him inside his classroom, looking back over his shoulder, still frowning—as if he means to protect me.
* * *
A couple nights a week I can get away with eating at my grandparents’ house. The rest of the time, unless Mom and Paul go out (and my mother is still too committed to keeping a close eye on me to go out very often), I have to conform to this temporary family unit—Paul, my mother, me—at least until the baby comes, and I leave, and the future finally takes the shape Paul always dreamed of.
In my stepfather’s house, upstairs on the third floor, my room retains something of the spirit of our old life, my mom’s and mine. The eaves slant, the floorboards sway a bit. My maps are tacked onto the walls, and the furniture is a hodgepodge of relics from my grandparents’. I still use the old farm quilt I’ve been hauling around since we first came back to visit. I think that Francine may have actually given it to me, back when I was just a little kid and she hadn’t quite admitted my mother was a threat. My upstairs room is not fancy but frayed and worn in a cozy and familiar way.
Downstairs, on the other hand. The downstairs at Paul’s is modern and luxurious. It’s not ostentatious unless you know how much they spent on that sideboard in the dining room, or the brand-new energy efficient washer-dryer in the laundry room. When I was a kid, my mother used to haul our laundry around in old pillowcases. I have seen her stand on the street in front of Laundromats, begging strangers for quarters. Now she shuffles her pregnant self with surprising grace around a state-of-the-art kitchen. She bastes a roast chicken. Biscuits made from scratch wait patiently in the warming oven. Paul walks in and starts setting the table, and Mom asks me to toss the already prepared salad. I watch Paul lay out three wineglasses, and wonder if he will pour me a glass or if that third is just a nod to symmetry.
Paul tries to smile at me as he pulls a bottle of whitewine from the refrigerator and I pick up the wooden salad spoons. “This is a perfect winter dinner,” he says to my mother, or me, or both of us. The last, I think. Paul rarely says anything directly to me. It is not just since Luke and I fell in love that things have been awkward between us, and it is not just since Luke died. Ever since Paul first discovered my existence, I have been his chief competition and an unavoidable remnant of my mother’s escape. If it weren’t for me, he could pretend that she had always lived here with him, playing Barbie to his Ken in their mountain Dreamhouse.
It may seem like I hate Paul, but I don’t, not exactly. I respect the love that he and my mother have. Although I don’t see much of Luke in him (in looks and mannerisms Luke seems almost entirely Francine’s), I recognize pieces of Luke and me in Paul and my mother. There is something about their rapport that indicates a long, intense, and destined-to-be-repeated history.
My theory about Paul is that his good looks have ruined him. Born beautiful and athletic, he never had to develop much of a personality or make an effort to charm anyone. I guess the same could be said of my mother if it weren’t for all that nervous energy. Mom is too self-conscious to be believable as Barbie. She’s too fluttery and—in her heart at least—too much of a flake.
Paul, on the other hand, fits Ken perfectly. Like a plastic doll, he barely feels the need to speak at all. He just pulls his good-looking sweaters over his good-lookinghead and lets them hang from his good-looking shoulders. His good-looking face has weathered in a good-looking way, and there is good-looking gray at
“Hi, Mr. Burdick,” I say, though in my head I call him by his first name. Before H. J. has a chance to answer, Mr. Tynan grabs him by the shoulder and propels him inside his classroom, looking back over his shoulder, still frowning—as if he means to protect me.
* * *
A couple nights a week I can get away with eating at my grandparents’ house. The rest of the time, unless Mom and Paul go out (and my mother is still too committed to keeping a close eye on me to go out very often), I have to conform to this temporary family unit—Paul, my mother, me—at least until the baby comes, and I leave, and the future finally takes the shape Paul always dreamed of.
In my stepfather’s house, upstairs on the third floor, my room retains something of the spirit of our old life, my mom’s and mine. The eaves slant, the floorboards sway a bit. My maps are tacked onto the walls, and the furniture is a hodgepodge of relics from my grandparents’. I still use the old farm quilt I’ve been hauling around since we first came back to visit. I think that Francine may have actually given it to me, back when I was just a little kid and she hadn’t quite admitted my mother was a threat. My upstairs room is not fancy but frayed and worn in a cozy and familiar way.
Downstairs, on the other hand. The downstairs at Paul’s is modern and luxurious. It’s not ostentatious unless you know how much they spent on that sideboard in the dining room, or the brand-new energy efficient washer-dryer in the laundry room. When I was a kid, my mother used to haul our laundry around in old pillowcases. I have seen her stand on the street in front of Laundromats, begging strangers for quarters. Now she shuffles her pregnant self with surprising grace around a state-of-the-art kitchen. She bastes a roast chicken. Biscuits made from scratch wait patiently in the warming oven. Paul walks in and starts setting the table, and Mom asks me to toss the already prepared salad. I watch Paul lay out three wineglasses, and wonder if he will pour me a glass or if that third is just a nod to symmetry.
Paul tries to smile at me as he pulls a bottle of whitewine from the refrigerator and I pick up the wooden salad spoons. “This is a perfect winter dinner,” he says to my mother, or me, or both of us. The last, I think. Paul rarely says anything directly to me. It is not just since Luke and I fell in love that things have been awkward between us, and it is not just since Luke died. Ever since Paul first discovered my existence, I have been his chief competition and an unavoidable remnant of my mother’s escape. If it weren’t for me, he could pretend that she had always lived here with him, playing Barbie to his Ken in their mountain Dreamhouse.
It may seem like I hate Paul, but I don’t, not exactly. I respect the love that he and my mother have. Although I don’t see much of Luke in him (in looks and mannerisms Luke seems almost entirely Francine’s), I recognize pieces of Luke and me in Paul and my mother. There is something about their rapport that indicates a long, intense, and destined-to-be-repeated history.
My theory about Paul is that his good looks have ruined him. Born beautiful and athletic, he never had to develop much of a personality or make an effort to charm anyone. I guess the same could be said of my mother if it weren’t for all that nervous energy. Mom is too self-conscious to be believable as Barbie. She’s too fluttery and—in her heart at least—too much of a flake.
Paul, on the other hand, fits Ken perfectly. Like a plastic doll, he barely feels the need to speak at all. He just pulls his good-looking sweaters over his good-lookinghead and lets them hang from his good-looking shoulders. His good-looking face has weathered in a good-looking way, and there is good-looking gray at
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