any beating she chose to give them, and she very graciously allowed Tim to carry the new chair out to her car for her.
When Tim came back in, I looked at him and he looked at me and both of us exploded with laughter. We draped ourselves over the checkout counter and laughed until we cried. I told Tim I forgave him and he said it was time to trust him, really, because honestly, truly, really, he did not do that kind of thing any more.
The three of us rode home together, with me sitting gingerly on the front seat because of my bruised rear end. Tim was in back, spreading himself generously out over the entire three passenger space, where I couldn’t even look at him, let alone touch him.
Stop it, I told myself, stop it, stop it, stop it! Crushes on Timothy Lansberry are a waste of time. He thinks you’re a bookmark. At best, a fellow clerk in a neighbor’s store.
“What a day,” said my mother, sighing in exhaustion. For the rest of the block nothing was heard but the sighs of agreement from Tim and me that it definitely had been a long, hard day.
We turned left at the Savings Bank and I looked at the cubbyhole next door where Second Time Around was. Mr. Hartley was long gone, but by the fading light of a late summer evening, I noticed something about the swinging, creaking sign. One of the little metal letters had fallen off. Instead of reading Second Time Around, it now said Second Tim Around.
Second Tim Around, I thought.
It gave me a little shiver.
All the way home I thought about Tim. My crush no longer felt like a thundercloud. Instead it had a sort of misty feel, as though maybe the bad weather would clear and I’d find a rainbow after all.
But the next morning when Tim came crashing into the kitchen to see if my mother was ready to leave yet, I forced myself to stay in my room instead of going to feast my eyes upon the Second Tim.
A crush on Timothy Lansberry was not suitable, would not work, and was a waste of time. I was going to give it up cold turkey. Like smoking.
When Tim appeared on the scene, I was not going to rush up to him for the privilege of admiring him. I was going to lie here and not notice he even existed.
Or, more accurately, lie here and pretend not to notice.
I went to the beach instead.
Margaret was there, celebrating her one-hour break between crafts groups. “How’s it going?” I asked.
“Oh, I still have shreds of sanity left. Although if I help one more ten-year-old string beads on one more leather belt, I shall lose the remainder.”
She had a beautiful tan. She certainly didn’t sound at the end of her rope. She sounded—and looked—perfect.
I wondered what sort of fantasies a rich, handsome, athletic summer boy would have. Margaret fantasies? Certainly more likely to have Margaret fantasies than Sunny fantasies.
“I have learned one thing, though,” said Margaret.
“What’s that?”
“A good joke. From a ten-year-old. Bet you can’t tell me how to measure the size of a sneeze, can you?”
“How to measure the size of a sneeze,” I said thoughtfully. I gave the problem my full attention and decided I did not know.
“By its gesund height, of course,” said Margaret. She buried her face in the sand and laughed crazily. I retracted my previous judgment. She was only half there after all.
I lay half on my towel and half in the sand. I dug little furrows with my heels and got my legs completely covered with sand. I love sand. Above me the clouds scudded by, white and fluffy and free.
One of them was definitely a profile of Timothy Lansberry.
Go, crush, go! I told it. Unfortunately the crush just got larger. “I’m dying,” I told Margaret.
“Me, too. Of boredom.”
We flopped over and toasted our backs. I was finally getting a faint beige tinge to replace my white porcelain. I had an idea the white porcelain may have been more attractive, but it was too late now.
“Sunny?” said Margaret lazily.
“Mmmm?”
“Would you be an angel and
When Tim came back in, I looked at him and he looked at me and both of us exploded with laughter. We draped ourselves over the checkout counter and laughed until we cried. I told Tim I forgave him and he said it was time to trust him, really, because honestly, truly, really, he did not do that kind of thing any more.
The three of us rode home together, with me sitting gingerly on the front seat because of my bruised rear end. Tim was in back, spreading himself generously out over the entire three passenger space, where I couldn’t even look at him, let alone touch him.
Stop it, I told myself, stop it, stop it, stop it! Crushes on Timothy Lansberry are a waste of time. He thinks you’re a bookmark. At best, a fellow clerk in a neighbor’s store.
“What a day,” said my mother, sighing in exhaustion. For the rest of the block nothing was heard but the sighs of agreement from Tim and me that it definitely had been a long, hard day.
We turned left at the Savings Bank and I looked at the cubbyhole next door where Second Time Around was. Mr. Hartley was long gone, but by the fading light of a late summer evening, I noticed something about the swinging, creaking sign. One of the little metal letters had fallen off. Instead of reading Second Time Around, it now said Second Tim Around.
Second Tim Around, I thought.
It gave me a little shiver.
All the way home I thought about Tim. My crush no longer felt like a thundercloud. Instead it had a sort of misty feel, as though maybe the bad weather would clear and I’d find a rainbow after all.
But the next morning when Tim came crashing into the kitchen to see if my mother was ready to leave yet, I forced myself to stay in my room instead of going to feast my eyes upon the Second Tim.
A crush on Timothy Lansberry was not suitable, would not work, and was a waste of time. I was going to give it up cold turkey. Like smoking.
When Tim appeared on the scene, I was not going to rush up to him for the privilege of admiring him. I was going to lie here and not notice he even existed.
Or, more accurately, lie here and pretend not to notice.
I went to the beach instead.
Margaret was there, celebrating her one-hour break between crafts groups. “How’s it going?” I asked.
“Oh, I still have shreds of sanity left. Although if I help one more ten-year-old string beads on one more leather belt, I shall lose the remainder.”
She had a beautiful tan. She certainly didn’t sound at the end of her rope. She sounded—and looked—perfect.
I wondered what sort of fantasies a rich, handsome, athletic summer boy would have. Margaret fantasies? Certainly more likely to have Margaret fantasies than Sunny fantasies.
“I have learned one thing, though,” said Margaret.
“What’s that?”
“A good joke. From a ten-year-old. Bet you can’t tell me how to measure the size of a sneeze, can you?”
“How to measure the size of a sneeze,” I said thoughtfully. I gave the problem my full attention and decided I did not know.
“By its gesund height, of course,” said Margaret. She buried her face in the sand and laughed crazily. I retracted my previous judgment. She was only half there after all.
I lay half on my towel and half in the sand. I dug little furrows with my heels and got my legs completely covered with sand. I love sand. Above me the clouds scudded by, white and fluffy and free.
One of them was definitely a profile of Timothy Lansberry.
Go, crush, go! I told it. Unfortunately the crush just got larger. “I’m dying,” I told Margaret.
“Me, too. Of boredom.”
We flopped over and toasted our backs. I was finally getting a faint beige tinge to replace my white porcelain. I had an idea the white porcelain may have been more attractive, but it was too late now.
“Sunny?” said Margaret lazily.
“Mmmm?”
“Would you be an angel and
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