always get good grades, I will never take a drink, and I will never hit a woman.”
“Keep those promises and you can win a Boy Scout prize for virtue.”
“It’s not virtue.”
“What is it?”
“Control. I just want to control what I can. So much else just spins away that I would feel helpless if I didn’t believe I could control just those three things.”
Cory looked at her hands and had the insane thought that it was time to redo her nails. Maybe pink.
“A lot of people romanticize being Indian these days,” Mac continued. “The honest thing is that you always have this shadow right behind you. One wrong move in the white man’s world, and bam! The good life disappears. Things are okay for me now—really pretty nice, everything considered. I’m working hard to keep them that way.”
Cory curled her hands into fists. “I think you’re right. Things do spin out of control. Sometimes the only thing I feel I can control”—she unfurled her fingers and wiggled them—“is my nail color.”
He laughed. “I don’t have that option. Cory, I don’t want to be pushy, but if you’ve changed your mind about going out, I’d still like to.”
Cory looked at the house. A single light over the deck cast distorted shadows around the yard.
“I understand something about what you’re going through,” he said. “During those years with my brother, he was sick a lot from his drinking. I know how hard it is to take care of someone, and how nice it would be to have a little personal attention.”
Mac stared straight ahead when he spoke. She looked at him and recognized what she saw: a deep-set pain mixed with fear. Never apologize, he had said, and it was clear that with this guy there never would be a need for explanations or apologies for her unhappiness. Something inside turned around and opened. She could feel it.
He dropped his head a bit, and his glasses slid down. She reached out and pushed them up. He looked at her and smiled. “I’ll take them off when I kiss you good night.”
He did, and they did.
*
Once she had agreed to the change in their friendship, Cory fell hard and fell fast. She looked for Mac in the school hallways even when she knew he should be on the other side of the building, she watched the clock at night until he called, she savored their conversations for hours after they said good night. She was hooked.
“Why does one person ever like another?” She asked her mother as she gave her a shoulder rub. “Mac and I aren’t magazine-pretty people, so it’s not physical.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“So—why?”
“It’s one of the eternal mysteries, Cory. Something just twists around inside, and you feel connected.” She shifted and rolled onto her back. “That’s good enough.”
“More soup? You only had half a bowl.”
“I’m fine. Don’t clean up. Let’s just sit and talk.”
“I’ll get the fire first.” Small flames sputtered in the large fireplace on the wall opposite her mother’s bed. Cory carefully added two more logs and adjusted them with her foot. One log tipped over and rolled onto the hearth, trailing sparks.
“Use the poker and tongs,” her mother snapped. Cory looked at her. “Feeling better tonight, aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to have to run out of a burning house.”
Cory replaced the hot log. She picked up her tea mug and sat down next to the bed. They both stared at the renewed fire.
“Tell me about Mac.”
“You’ve met him. He’s been out here now maybe four times.” She frowned. “Were you so groggy you don’t remember?”
“Of course I remember. I just want to hear you describe the boy.”
Cory held the mug up to her face, and the steam moistened her upper lip. She wiped it with her sweater cuff. “He’s tall.”
Her mother laughed. “He certainly is not tall, Cory.
Well, okay—maybe to you and me, but he’s really no taller than five eight. For a man, that’s not tall.”
“Why don’t you
“Keep those promises and you can win a Boy Scout prize for virtue.”
“It’s not virtue.”
“What is it?”
“Control. I just want to control what I can. So much else just spins away that I would feel helpless if I didn’t believe I could control just those three things.”
Cory looked at her hands and had the insane thought that it was time to redo her nails. Maybe pink.
“A lot of people romanticize being Indian these days,” Mac continued. “The honest thing is that you always have this shadow right behind you. One wrong move in the white man’s world, and bam! The good life disappears. Things are okay for me now—really pretty nice, everything considered. I’m working hard to keep them that way.”
Cory curled her hands into fists. “I think you’re right. Things do spin out of control. Sometimes the only thing I feel I can control”—she unfurled her fingers and wiggled them—“is my nail color.”
He laughed. “I don’t have that option. Cory, I don’t want to be pushy, but if you’ve changed your mind about going out, I’d still like to.”
Cory looked at the house. A single light over the deck cast distorted shadows around the yard.
“I understand something about what you’re going through,” he said. “During those years with my brother, he was sick a lot from his drinking. I know how hard it is to take care of someone, and how nice it would be to have a little personal attention.”
Mac stared straight ahead when he spoke. She looked at him and recognized what she saw: a deep-set pain mixed with fear. Never apologize, he had said, and it was clear that with this guy there never would be a need for explanations or apologies for her unhappiness. Something inside turned around and opened. She could feel it.
He dropped his head a bit, and his glasses slid down. She reached out and pushed them up. He looked at her and smiled. “I’ll take them off when I kiss you good night.”
He did, and they did.
*
Once she had agreed to the change in their friendship, Cory fell hard and fell fast. She looked for Mac in the school hallways even when she knew he should be on the other side of the building, she watched the clock at night until he called, she savored their conversations for hours after they said good night. She was hooked.
“Why does one person ever like another?” She asked her mother as she gave her a shoulder rub. “Mac and I aren’t magazine-pretty people, so it’s not physical.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“So—why?”
“It’s one of the eternal mysteries, Cory. Something just twists around inside, and you feel connected.” She shifted and rolled onto her back. “That’s good enough.”
“More soup? You only had half a bowl.”
“I’m fine. Don’t clean up. Let’s just sit and talk.”
“I’ll get the fire first.” Small flames sputtered in the large fireplace on the wall opposite her mother’s bed. Cory carefully added two more logs and adjusted them with her foot. One log tipped over and rolled onto the hearth, trailing sparks.
“Use the poker and tongs,” her mother snapped. Cory looked at her. “Feeling better tonight, aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to have to run out of a burning house.”
Cory replaced the hot log. She picked up her tea mug and sat down next to the bed. They both stared at the renewed fire.
“Tell me about Mac.”
“You’ve met him. He’s been out here now maybe four times.” She frowned. “Were you so groggy you don’t remember?”
“Of course I remember. I just want to hear you describe the boy.”
Cory held the mug up to her face, and the steam moistened her upper lip. She wiped it with her sweater cuff. “He’s tall.”
Her mother laughed. “He certainly is not tall, Cory.
Well, okay—maybe to you and me, but he’s really no taller than five eight. For a man, that’s not tall.”
“Why don’t you
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