to the sun. She could hear the sound of Paul’s trumpet wafting out from his bedroom window, quivering in the air above her. He was playing a jazzed-up version of “My Favorite Things,” and she let herself imagine that he was watching her from his window, including her among the raindrops and roses and brown-paper packages.
Even at that age—especially at that age—Ruth wasn’t in the habitof thinking of herself as beautiful. At best, she figured, she was a 6 on the 1-10 scale that lots of ugly, obnoxious boys were happy to use on girls, but wouldn’t have dreamed of applying to themselves. She believed that she deserved an above-average score due to the fact that there was nothing obviously wrong with her—she had a decent body and an okay face, no weird moles or facial hair or skin problems, nothing disfigured or bizarrely out of proportion. On the other hand, she lacked any of the truly outstanding features that would have qualified for the top group—her boobs were little, her face “cute” rather than “pretty,” her hair mousy and a bit limp. You developed a fairly realistic assessment of yourself growing up in the shadow of an older sister who’d been turning the heads of grown men since she was twelve. If Mandy had been out here in her string bikini—she was a devoted sun worshipper, always happy for an excuse to show some skin—Ruth would’ve made sure to stay far away, out of range of unkind comparisons. But today she was alone, without a doubt the prettiest girl in the yard, and she wished she’d been brave enough to wear a bathing suit or at least a tube top, to allow her body to be appreciated on its own modest terms.
She picked up the copy of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues that she’d checked out of the library on Paul’s recommendation, and tried to get started. But it was hard to coax her mind into visualizing an imaginary reality when the one right in front of her was so vividly and insistently alive—the marshmallow clouds drifting overhead, the garden ducks pinwheeling their wooden wings in the breeze, the inchworm making its ticklish journey up her shin. At some point she realized that the music had stopped, and couldn’t keep herself from casting an anxious glance at Paul’s bedroom window. But all she saw was the sunlight reflecting off the glass, a blinding glare where his face would’ve been.
THE NEXT day they were careful with each other on the way home from school, less talkative than usual. They had already turned ontotheir block by the time Paul asked her if she was enjoying the Tom Robbins novel.
“I’m not really sure,” she said. “I tried to read it yesterday, but I couldn’t concentrate.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess my mind was on other things.”
“That’s weird,” he said. “I was trying to practice my trumpet and the same thing happened to me. Couldn’t keep my mind on the music.”
“Spring fever.”
“Must be.”
Her heart felt big and jumpy as she followed him into the kitchen, certain that they’d crossed a point of no return. She set his stuff on the table and turned to him with a solemn expression.
“So,” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
She didn’t really know where to go from here, how you got from the talking to the rest of it, and he seemed just as baffled as she was, though he had less excuse, being older and more experienced. They stared at each other until the silence got embarrassing. She addressed her next question to the floor.
“I guess you have to practice, huh?”
“An hour a day.”
“You’re really disciplined.”
“What about you?” he asked. “Will you be out in the yard?”
“Probably.” She hesitated for a moment, giving him one more chance to save her. “I guess I better go, huh?”
All he had to do was say, No, don’t go. Stay here with me for a while . But he didn’t say anything, didn’t make the smallest gesture to stop her, which made it impossible for her to do anything but
Even at that age—especially at that age—Ruth wasn’t in the habitof thinking of herself as beautiful. At best, she figured, she was a 6 on the 1-10 scale that lots of ugly, obnoxious boys were happy to use on girls, but wouldn’t have dreamed of applying to themselves. She believed that she deserved an above-average score due to the fact that there was nothing obviously wrong with her—she had a decent body and an okay face, no weird moles or facial hair or skin problems, nothing disfigured or bizarrely out of proportion. On the other hand, she lacked any of the truly outstanding features that would have qualified for the top group—her boobs were little, her face “cute” rather than “pretty,” her hair mousy and a bit limp. You developed a fairly realistic assessment of yourself growing up in the shadow of an older sister who’d been turning the heads of grown men since she was twelve. If Mandy had been out here in her string bikini—she was a devoted sun worshipper, always happy for an excuse to show some skin—Ruth would’ve made sure to stay far away, out of range of unkind comparisons. But today she was alone, without a doubt the prettiest girl in the yard, and she wished she’d been brave enough to wear a bathing suit or at least a tube top, to allow her body to be appreciated on its own modest terms.
She picked up the copy of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues that she’d checked out of the library on Paul’s recommendation, and tried to get started. But it was hard to coax her mind into visualizing an imaginary reality when the one right in front of her was so vividly and insistently alive—the marshmallow clouds drifting overhead, the garden ducks pinwheeling their wooden wings in the breeze, the inchworm making its ticklish journey up her shin. At some point she realized that the music had stopped, and couldn’t keep herself from casting an anxious glance at Paul’s bedroom window. But all she saw was the sunlight reflecting off the glass, a blinding glare where his face would’ve been.
THE NEXT day they were careful with each other on the way home from school, less talkative than usual. They had already turned ontotheir block by the time Paul asked her if she was enjoying the Tom Robbins novel.
“I’m not really sure,” she said. “I tried to read it yesterday, but I couldn’t concentrate.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess my mind was on other things.”
“That’s weird,” he said. “I was trying to practice my trumpet and the same thing happened to me. Couldn’t keep my mind on the music.”
“Spring fever.”
“Must be.”
Her heart felt big and jumpy as she followed him into the kitchen, certain that they’d crossed a point of no return. She set his stuff on the table and turned to him with a solemn expression.
“So,” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
She didn’t really know where to go from here, how you got from the talking to the rest of it, and he seemed just as baffled as she was, though he had less excuse, being older and more experienced. They stared at each other until the silence got embarrassing. She addressed her next question to the floor.
“I guess you have to practice, huh?”
“An hour a day.”
“You’re really disciplined.”
“What about you?” he asked. “Will you be out in the yard?”
“Probably.” She hesitated for a moment, giving him one more chance to save her. “I guess I better go, huh?”
All he had to do was say, No, don’t go. Stay here with me for a while . But he didn’t say anything, didn’t make the smallest gesture to stop her, which made it impossible for her to do anything but
Similar Books
