“Are you always this romantic?”
“Now, don’t ask me to give my techniques away.”
I didn’t just smile. I also felt an exciting tingle run through me. The possibility of going out with him didn’t really begin until shortly before Willie’s death. I never had the chance to fantasize about what it would be like, but now, having his voice slip softly into my mind, I knew tonight was the night when I would dream about us. I was more eager than ever to get to sleep. “Got to get back to my homework,” I said.
“Homework? Is that what this is on my desk? I thought someone left it as a joke.”
“The joke will be on you if you don’t do it,” I told him. “Don’t be late. I’m never late for school, and my grandfather would consider it a capital offense.”
“Aye-aye, ma’am,” he said.
I sat by the phone, thinking about Aaron for a while before turning to my homework, which was all that stood between me and my dreams. At least, that’s all I thought was in the way. But after I washed up and brushed my teeth, got into my pajamas, and started to crawl into bed, I heard some commotion out in the hallway and went to see what it was all about. My grandfather had come up the stairs with a doctor carrying his bag, and Mrs. Camden was standing outside Willie’s room waiting for them.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
Mrs. Camden glanced at me, but no one answered. Grandpa Arnold and the doctor went into the room, Mrs. Camden following. I stood there listening, but I couldn’t really hear anything, so I approached and stood just outside the door. I picked up some words here and there: “panic attack,” “hyperventilation,” “no heart trouble.” I heard the doctor talking softly to the boy and Mrs. Camden adding words of reassurance. Apparently, there had been some concern that his rapid breathing was from some pain or a lung problem, but the doctor was assuring my grandfather that was not the case. Their voices got lower. I returned to my room and closed the door softly.
A flood of selfish thoughts began. Why did we need all this, especially now? The boy didn’t belong here; he belonged in some sort of hospital or mental clinic. This proved it. What had happened to Willie wasn’t enough to turn this house upside down? Go contribute thousands to some children’s charity, Grandpa. Or pay for whatever the boy needs outside of our home. Do anything but this.
But then the image returned of him tiny and helpless in Willie’s bed, his head sinking into the big pillow, and I turned over to close my eyes hard and squeeze out the negative thoughts. I didn’t like being so mean and hateful. I knew that half of my reaction to him was probably out of jealousy. I wanted all of my grandfather’s attention now. I needed it, too. But it was difficult to deny that the poiso
ned boy needed so much more.
I thought I would fall asleep quickly, but there was a knock on my door that I knew could only be Grandpa Arnold. He didn’t knock softly when he wanted my attention, that was for sure. I sat up just as he opened the door. He stood silhouetted in the hall light.
“This business with the name Mickey,” he said. “Don’t you mention it to him again.”
“I thought you wanted to find out who he really is.”
“I don’t want you going in there and speaking to him until you speak to Dr. Patrick.”
“Dr. Patrick? The psychiatrist?”
“She’ll be here tomorrow in the afternoon when you return from school. Come directly home,” he ordered. “Call if you want Bill to bring you.”
“Well, what just happened?” I demanded.
“There are things that can stimulate very bad memories for him and cause what Mrs. Camden calls hyperventilation, a fit of rapid breathing. It can be terrifying. It’s usually because of panic, but it looks like a few bad things could be happening. He’ll be fine now,” he added. “Remember what I said.” He closed the door. I sat there in the darkness.
Now he wanted me to see the psychiatrist? What happened was my fault?
What was I supposed to do next, tiptoe past Willie’s room?
Don’t mention Mickey? I’ll be damned if I’ll ever speak to that boy again, I thought, and slammed myself back on my pillows. I looked up at the vaguely starlit ceiling. Maybe I would just ask Aaron to drive up to Butler Heights tomorrow and leave that psychiatrist talking to herself.
My body felt like a rubber band stretched too far. I was so tense I might just snap. My bed felt like a rowboat caught in a hurricane as I tossed and turned before finally falling asleep. Usually, I woke before my alarm sounded, but that morning, it thundered, and I snapped my eyes open. I had planned on looking especially good this morning for Aaron and for my friends when he and I entered the school building. Other girls, especially the older ones in our school, seemed to bloom when they were in happy romantic relationships. I could feel and see the envy in the ones who didn’t have boyfriends. The happier girls had voices full of excitement. They were far more animated, and their eyes sparkled as if they lived in a world where every day was Christmas or their birthdays.
In minutes, I would go from someone to be pitied and treated gently, as if I were made of thin china, to someone who was the object of jealousy. And no matter what any of my girlfriends claimed, they all wanted other girls to be jealous of them. They competed constantly for that trophy, wearing the most exciting clothes they could find, having their hair cut and styled to resemble the hairdo of some young actress, showing off their latest jewelry and bragging about the phone calls they received from a boy. To be modest was to be forgotten.
Now I regretted not having spent more time last night choosing what to wear. Some of my friends were wearing knee-length skirts, taking some risk. The school’s unwritten rule for skirts was that if you knelt and your skirt didn’t touch the ground, you could be sent home. I wished I had one that didn’t touch the ground, but unfortunately, all of mine did. The newest outfit I had was a light green Bermuda-collared shirt with an A-line plaid wool skirt. I had a cable-stitched dark green sweater to wear over my shirt, instead of the jacket I always wore. I put on a pair of cable-stitched kneesocks the color of my sweater and slipped on a pair of red oxford tied shoes and inspected myself in the full-length mirror on my closet door. My cheeks did look rosier than they had in the past dreadful days. I turned this way and that, imagining being looked at from different angles.
When Grandpa had told me that my grandmother had warned him that I would turn into a young lady practically overnight, I was reminded of how suddenly my body had begun to develop curves and sweep me into adolescence. The boyish figure I had begun to hate seemed to sink beneath my budding breasts and tighter waist. I would stand in front of a mirror and admire the way my rear end was filling out. My legs were more shapely with each passing month, it seemed. I smiled to myself, recalling how shocked Willie had been when he had first realized my maturity.
“You look more like Mommy,” he once said.
Running through my memory and sifting through our family albums, I constantly looked for the resemblances. Uncle Bobby was right when he had said it: I was looking more and more like my mother. Did I dare think it? I would be as beautiful as she was.
This morning, I’d wear more lipstick, I thought, but I wouldn’t put it on until I got into Aaron’s car.