sincerity radiating off of her so nakedly he wanted to close his eyes, or throw a coat over her.
She was the All-American Girl.
Eventually, he’d had to take a step back.
“Y ou hate chicks, don’t you?” his best friend Teddy, his only real friend back in New Hampshire, had said to him in the high school cafeteria once—and then stuttered, “I-I-I mean, not like you’re a fag, you j-j-just—”
“I like chicks,” Craig had said. “Just not these chicks. Not here. ”
He’d meant Fredonia High, and he’d believed it to be true—that they were, all of them, a special breed of brainless, or bitch.
Except, he had to admit, he didn’t like the chicks at the Quaker camp he went to in Vermont every summer, either. And he didn’t particularly care for the tourist girls who passed through town with their parents. Or the girls his cousin in Philadelphia had introduced him to over winter break.
“Ah,” his father had said once when Craig tried to draw him out on the subject of females. “The war between the sexes. It’s as old as time.” He went on to tell Craig a story about a nurse he’d met in Vietnam. The Perfect Woman. She’d ended up marrying his buddy. “I set it all up,” his father said wearily. “I knew if I had anything to do with her, it would ruin her.”
“What happened to her? To them?” Craig asked.
His father shook his head. “Don’t know.”
When Craig’s little brother, Scar, turned thirteen and asked Craig for advice about girls, the only thing Craig could think of to say was, “Just forget it, man.”
“Thanks, man,” Scar had said, without irony, and wandered back to his own room, where, it seemed to Craig, the kid had proceeded to take the advice:
By the time Craig left for college, Scar was fifteen, and spent most of his time at the computer, blowing things up. Craig had been waiting for the last two years for one or both of his parents to say something to Scar about the “productive use of time,” or the “mind-numbing soul-sapping” nature of video games, but they never said a word. Maybe they’d used up all their parental energy on Craig.
Or maybe it was because, by the time Craig graduated from high school, they seemed to spend all of their time, too, in front of their computers. His father, Craig knew, was writing, or trying to write. His mother, he guessed, was doing something she also considered work, but wasn’t. She’d taken to answering her cell phone by saying, “This is Lynnette Rabbitt,” as if someone besides her friend Helen or her personal trainer might be calling. Occasionally Craig considered asking her what she was doing on the computer, but he always ended up following his father’s advice when it came to his mother:
Don’t ask, Don’t tell.
Still, he sometimes had a bad feeling—jealousy? apprehension?—when he heard her on the other side of Scar’s closed door, talking to his little brother in a tone that, even muffled by oak, sounded alarmingly like confession.
“S o, is she your love interest?” Craig had asked Perry as the door closed on Nicole Werner’s retreating form.
(Corn silk. That was the color and texture and general impression of the girl’s hair.)
Perry shook his head, and turned his back on Craig.
“Well, she seemed pretty anxious to find you,” Craig said.
“Superstitious.”
“Huh?”
“She’s superstitious ,” Perry said, louder, as if Craig hadn’t heard him. There was a bitter edge to his voice when it came to Nicole Werner—something Craig had noticed in the cafeteria when he’d first asked Perry who she was. Craig assumed it was the result of unrequited love, or at least unrequited lust.
“Care to elaborate?” Craig asked.
Perry sat down at his desk and opened his laptop. To his computer screen, he said, “We studied together in high school. She always thought that when we did she got A’s, and that when we didn’t, she didn’t.”
“ So ,” Craig said, “you’re the Magic
She was the All-American Girl.
Eventually, he’d had to take a step back.
“Y ou hate chicks, don’t you?” his best friend Teddy, his only real friend back in New Hampshire, had said to him in the high school cafeteria once—and then stuttered, “I-I-I mean, not like you’re a fag, you j-j-just—”
“I like chicks,” Craig had said. “Just not these chicks. Not here. ”
He’d meant Fredonia High, and he’d believed it to be true—that they were, all of them, a special breed of brainless, or bitch.
Except, he had to admit, he didn’t like the chicks at the Quaker camp he went to in Vermont every summer, either. And he didn’t particularly care for the tourist girls who passed through town with their parents. Or the girls his cousin in Philadelphia had introduced him to over winter break.
“Ah,” his father had said once when Craig tried to draw him out on the subject of females. “The war between the sexes. It’s as old as time.” He went on to tell Craig a story about a nurse he’d met in Vietnam. The Perfect Woman. She’d ended up marrying his buddy. “I set it all up,” his father said wearily. “I knew if I had anything to do with her, it would ruin her.”
“What happened to her? To them?” Craig asked.
His father shook his head. “Don’t know.”
When Craig’s little brother, Scar, turned thirteen and asked Craig for advice about girls, the only thing Craig could think of to say was, “Just forget it, man.”
“Thanks, man,” Scar had said, without irony, and wandered back to his own room, where, it seemed to Craig, the kid had proceeded to take the advice:
By the time Craig left for college, Scar was fifteen, and spent most of his time at the computer, blowing things up. Craig had been waiting for the last two years for one or both of his parents to say something to Scar about the “productive use of time,” or the “mind-numbing soul-sapping” nature of video games, but they never said a word. Maybe they’d used up all their parental energy on Craig.
Or maybe it was because, by the time Craig graduated from high school, they seemed to spend all of their time, too, in front of their computers. His father, Craig knew, was writing, or trying to write. His mother, he guessed, was doing something she also considered work, but wasn’t. She’d taken to answering her cell phone by saying, “This is Lynnette Rabbitt,” as if someone besides her friend Helen or her personal trainer might be calling. Occasionally Craig considered asking her what she was doing on the computer, but he always ended up following his father’s advice when it came to his mother:
Don’t ask, Don’t tell.
Still, he sometimes had a bad feeling—jealousy? apprehension?—when he heard her on the other side of Scar’s closed door, talking to his little brother in a tone that, even muffled by oak, sounded alarmingly like confession.
“S o, is she your love interest?” Craig had asked Perry as the door closed on Nicole Werner’s retreating form.
(Corn silk. That was the color and texture and general impression of the girl’s hair.)
Perry shook his head, and turned his back on Craig.
“Well, she seemed pretty anxious to find you,” Craig said.
“Superstitious.”
“Huh?”
“She’s superstitious ,” Perry said, louder, as if Craig hadn’t heard him. There was a bitter edge to his voice when it came to Nicole Werner—something Craig had noticed in the cafeteria when he’d first asked Perry who she was. Craig assumed it was the result of unrequited love, or at least unrequited lust.
“Care to elaborate?” Craig asked.
Perry sat down at his desk and opened his laptop. To his computer screen, he said, “We studied together in high school. She always thought that when we did she got A’s, and that when we didn’t, she didn’t.”
“ So ,” Craig said, “you’re the Magic
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