It was like a huge tent. There was a roof but no floors yet, neither upstairs nor down, waiting for the old walls to be torn down before flooring could be seamlessly added. There were only a few planks to walk on leading from front to back and side to side. Gingerly, we walked along one of the bottom boards.
“I’ll bet this is where the new fireplace will be,” Sylvia said, pointing to a large cement base.
“And I can see the layout of the closets—those little sections there and there,” I said, walking a little farther. “This part’s the family room, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And over there’s the study,” Sylvia said. We turned slowly around, looking in all directions. “I suppose it will take some getting used to—all these changes.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said. “Having the old bathroom all to myself won’t take any getting used to at all!” I grinned.
“In the meantime,” said Sylvia as we walked back to the front of the house, “we’re going to be very crowded. We’ll practically be eating off each other’s laps and sitting with our knees up to our chins.”
“I’ll probably spend a lot of time in my room,” I said.
“Good thinking,” said Sylvia. “But it will all be over in a couple of months, and then we’re going to love it! Hope so, anyway.”
As though a white Christmas weren’t enough, Mother Nature gave us an encore. Two days after Christmas, we found not four, not six, not eight, but eleven inches of snow blanketing the area, with more to come.
“The weatherman’s predicting thirteen inches,” said Dad. “A good day to stay inside, I think. I’m not even going to open the store. Marilyn’s already called to say she can’t get her car out, the side streets are unplowed, and David’s still out of town visiting his parents.”
I didn’t mind at all holing up with a good book—The Color Purple—and a cup of mint chocolate cocoa. Annabelle waited for me to finish the cup, then delicately licked the inside of it, and after that, she helped herself to my lap.
By afternoon we could hear snowplows in all directions, and by the following morning, roads at least were plowed and lawns were heaped with the sparkling white stuff, like meringue topping. I was debating whether to finish my book or drive to the mall and look for bargains when there was a loud thunk as something hit the storm door.
“What in the world was that?” said Sylvia.
“UPS maybe?” I guessed. Before I could even get out of my chair, there it was again: thunk. I went to the door and opened it.
“Roz!” I shrieked delightedly at my wonderful friend from grade school, who used to live near us in Takoma Park. “What the heck are you doing over here?” I walked to the porch railing.
“Come on out!” she yelled, packing another snowball and hurling it toward me. It hit a post and exploded, showering me with snow crystals. I yelped.
“Come on! Let’s build something!” Rosalind called.
“Yeah? Remember what happened the last time we built something? Remember that snow cave that fell in on me when you kicked it?” I reminded her, laughing.
Another snowball hit my shoulder.
“Okay, okay, let me get some boots and stuff on,” I said, and went back indoors.
I traded my flannel bottoms for heavy jeans, and by the time I got outside, Rosalind was already turning the Porta-John into an igloo.
It was one of the best ideas she’d ever had, and Roz was the original Idea Girl. We set to work rolling large orbs of snow up against the sides of the Porta-John, then medium-sized balls on top of them, and smaller balls on top of the medium. We filled all the spaces in between, packing it down well, until three sides of the blue metal structure were encased in snow. I got a stepladder, and we packed snow onto the roof. It was entirely covered now, all but the door, which still sported the wreath I had hung there at Christmas.
Neighbors driving by slowed and stared, then broke into smiles. Dad and Sylvia came out to admire it, and Sylvia even took a picture with the new digital camera Les had given them. Then Rosalind and I sat on the front steps, drinking hot tea, and I thought how wonderful it was that when everything else seemed to be changing, we had a friendship that went right on being the same.
• • •
I decided I wouldn’t go out on New Year’s Eve. Gwen’s family was having a sort of open house, but it would be mostly family I didn’t know, and Mark had planned to have a party, but it seems Brian was the only one who could come for sure, so Mark’s parents scrapped the idea. Pamela had to help out at a party her dad was giving, and Liz was babysitting her brother. I could have invited myself to any one of their houses, but when I thought about what I really wanted to do, the answer was to stay home in my old scruffies and watch a movie on TV. I didn’t really want to party. I didn’t even want to watch the stupid silver ball descend at Times Square. Was I growing up, I wondered, when I could admit I was content being very un-New-Year’s-Evish, and could even reply, if friends asked how I’d spent the evening, that I’d stayed home and watched a movie? Read a book?
That afternoon, however, something hugely embarrassing happened. The toilet stopped up, and though both Sylvia and I used the plunger, we couldn’t get it unstuck. Dad was at work, so Sylvia had to call an emergency plumbing service to come out.
We stood by as the plumber tried his luck with the plunger. Then he went down in the basement with his machine and tools to shut off the water and open up the sewer pipe.
“Ma’am?” he called up to us later.
Sylvia went back downstairs, and I followed. We were afraid he’d tell us that he had to get a new part and that we’d have to go out in the yard in front of all the neighbors and use the Porta-John.
“Found the trouble,” he said. “Now, I don’t want to embarrass anyone, but I’m going to have to remind you that sanitary things can’t go down your toilet. A little two-inch item like that can cause a big problem.” For one hundredth of a second he held up a pink plastic tampon applicator before dropping it in a bucket at his feet.
I could have died on the spot. I knew that, and I’m not sure why I’d been so careless with my tampon, but before I could even think, I heard Sylvia saying, “I’ll certainly be more careful from now on.”
The plumber went on lecturing us about what should and should not be flushed down the toilet, but all the while I stood there staring at the back of Sylvia’s head. If ever I felt she loved me, it was then.
When the man had gone, I said, “I’m so embarrassed! You didn’t have to take the rap for me, Sylvia. I should have fessed up.”
And Sylvia said, “Well, I wouldn’t want him to think I was past menstruating, now, would I?” And we laughed.
• • •
Dad built a fire that evening—the last chance we’d have to enjoy our living room as it was, and I sat on the floor as close to it as I could, Annabelle on my lap. She sat facing the flames, her eyes closing. Every so often a log snapped or popped, and her cat eyes opened momentarily, her ears twitched, and then she drifted off to sleep again.
“Her fur’s getting warm,” I said to Sylvia. “You don’t think she’d self-ignite, do you?”
“Better scoot away before your socks catch fire,” Dad said. He and Sylvia were on the couch, his arm around her shoulders.
“When we get the new addition, we’ll have two fireplaces,” said Sylvia. “I tried to persuade Ben to let me have one in our bedroom, too, but he put his foot down.”
Dad just jostled her shoulder and grinned.
I sat watching the flames dance along the top of the log. “I could probably fit the whole gang in that new family room when it’s done,” I said. “It’ll be a great place for parties.”
“You can use it as often as you like,” Sylvia told me.
More pops and crackles from the fire. Annabelle startled momentarily, extending her claws to keep her balance, then closed her eyes once again.
“She’s like a hot water bottle on the legs,” I said. “Too hot for me. Here.
” I handed her to Dad. “You wanted a cat on your legs in the winter, you got it.”
“What more could a man ask?” said Dad, taking Annabelle. “A wife by his side, a daughter at his feet, and a cat on his lap. This is contentment.”
New Year’s Day was gray and cold and bleak. It was too cold to go outside and fool around, and there was school to get ready for the next day. The whole revolving wheel of life—school, supper, sleep … school, supper, sleep—would begin all over again.
But even the cycle seemed new somehow. Different, anyway. Like it was the new side of the old me. Like I was letting more of my real self show through.
I called Molly and wished her a happier new year; told her that when she felt up to it, I’d bring over a board game and beat the pants off her. I gathered all my papers and books and stuff for school and cleaned out my backpack. Did a load of wash so that my gym clothes and jeans would be fresh for a new semester.
The phone rang in the hall. Most of my friends call on my cell phone, so if the house phone rings, I let someone else answer. But Dad and Sylvia had gone next door to have drinks with a neighbor, so I padded out into the hall and picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Happy New Year,” said Patrick.
“Hey! You’re back!” I said. “Have a good time?”
“Yeah, we did. Snow was a little too soft, but I had some pretty good runs. How about you?”
“Well, I don’t have the runs, if that’s what you’re asking,” I joked, and he laughed.
“Anything exciting happen while I was away?” he wanted to know.
What I wanted to say was, Patrick, a lot of things happen all the time that you never know about because you’re always away. You’re missing out on a lot of good times with the old gang. But I didn’t, because not all the stuff with the old gang is “good times.” It’s not even the same old gang anymore.
“Well,” I said, “workmen are coming tomorrow to tear down the back walls of our house to build a new addition. And Rosalind came over a few days ago, and we turned the Porta-John into an igloo. I can’t wait to see the men’s faces when they come tomorrow.”
He laughed. “Now, that sounds like it was fun.”
“It was.” I brought the phone into my bedroom, Annabelle jumping after the cord as it dragged on the floor. When I climbed up on my bed, she jumped up too and began kneading my legs, my thighs, looking for a place to burrow down.
“So what’s up with you?” I asked.
“Well, I made a decision and applied for early acceptance at the University of Chicago,” he said.
“Hey! Good luck!” I told him. “What all did that involve?”
“For one thing, I did the Uncommon Application. It’s online, and I had to answer the question ‘If you could bridge a gap in the space-time continuum, what would you do?’”
“What?” I said. “I don’t even understand the question.”
He laughed. “It’s just something to make you think. To get the creative juices flowing—give them a taste of how your mind works.”
I knew right then I’d never apply to the University of Chicago. “Why did you choose that school?” I asked.
“Terrific political science program. Since I’m not sure of what I want to do later, I figured that might be better than international relations. Too much like my dad’s field.”
“Well, I hope you get in,” I told him. “If you do, maybe I could see you sometime when I’m in Chicago visiting Aunt Sally and Uncle Milt.”
“That’d be great!” said Patrick. “Actually, though, I’m calling to ask you to the prom.”
I stared openmouthed at the wall. “The prom?” I said. “Patrick, that’s six months away!”
“Five,” he said. “It’s in May. I figured I’d better ask before someone else snapped you up.”
“I’d say five months is pretty early,” I told him, still dazed. And then I realized I hadn’t given him an answer. “I’d love to go with you, Patrick,” I said. “I’ll look forward to it all spring.”
“I’ve been looking forward to it all year,” he told me. “But I figured September might be a little too early to ask. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Tomorrow,” I said, and gently, still smiling, put down the phone.
Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, Dangerously Alice
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