The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg by Deborah Eisenberg

the music loud. And suddenly Chris said, “I’d really like to see you a lot more. It’s too bad you can’t come into the city more often.” I didn’t know what to say, but I gathered that he didn’t expect me to say anything.
    We parked in a part of the city where the buildings were huge and squat. Chris rang a bell and we ran up flights of wooden stairs to where a man in white slacks and an unbuttoned shirt was waiting.
    “Joel, this is Laurel,” Chris said.
    “Hello, Laurel,” Joel said. He seemed to think there was something funny about my name, and he looked at me the way I’ve noticed grown men often do, as if I couldn’t see them back perfectly well.
    Inside, Chris and Joel went through a door, leaving me in an enormous room with white sofas and floating mobiles. The room was immaculate except for a silky purple-and-gold kimono lying on the floor. I picked up the kimono and rubbed it against my cheek and put it on over my clothes. Then I went and looked out the window at the city stretching on and on. In a building across the street, figures moved slowly behind dirty glass. They were making things, I suppose.
    After a while Chris and Joel burst back into the room. Chris’s eyes were shiny, and he was grinning like crazy.
    “Hey,” Joel said, grabbing the edges of the kimono I was wearing. “That thing looks better on her than on me.”
    “What wouldn’t?” Chris said. Joel stepped back as Chris put his arms around me from behind again.
    “I resent that, I resent that! But I don’t deny it!” Joel said. Chris was kissing my neck and my ears, and both he and Joel were giggling.
    I wondered what would happen if Chris and I were late and Mother saw me drive up in Chris’s car, but we darted around in the traffic and shot along the avenues and pulled up near Penelope’s dancing school with ten minutes to spare. Then, instead of saying anything, Chris just sat there with one hand still on the wheel and the other on the shift, and he didn’t even look at me. When I just experimentally touched his sleeve and he still didn’t move, I more or less flung myself on top of him and started crying into his shirt. I was in his lap, all tangled up, and I was kissing him and kissing him, and my hands were moving by themselves.
    Suddenly I thought of all the people outside the car walking their bouncy little dogs, and I thought how my mother might pull up at any second, and I sat up fast and opened my eyes. Everything looked slightly different from the way it had been looking inside my head—a bit smaller and farther away—and I realized that Chris had been sitting absolutely still, and he was staring straight ahead.
    “Goodbye,” I said, but Chris still didn’t move or even look at me. I couldn’t understand what had happened to Chris.
    “Wait,” Chris said, still without looking at me. “Here’s my phone number.” He shook himself and wrote it out slowly.
    At the corner I looked back and saw that Chris was still there, leaning back and staring out the windshield.
     
     
    “Why did he give me his phone number, do you think?” I asked Maureen. We were at a party in Peter Klingeman’s basement.
    “I guess he wants you to call him,” Maureen said. I know she didn’t really feel like talking. Kevin was standing there, with his hand under her shirt, and she was sort of jumpy. “Frankly, Laurel, he sounds a bit weird to me, if you don’t mind my saying,” Maureen said. I felt ashamed again. I wanted to talk to Maureen more, but Kevin was pulling her off to the Klingemans’ TV room.
    Then Dougie Pfeiffer sat down next to me. “I think Maureen and Kevin have a really good relationship,” he said.
    I was wondering how I ever could have had a crush on him in eighth grade when I realized it was my turn to say something. “Did you ever notice,” I said, “how some people say ‘in eighth grade’ and other people say ‘in the eighth grade’?”
    “Laurel,” Dougie said, and he grabbed me,