Reluctantly Alice (11 page)

“
Had
they every really done it?” I asked her.

“Everybody
said
they had, but I never met anyone who
had actually seen it happen. But Alice, I was so shy and scared that I always dressed and undressed in a curtain.”

“A
curtain
?”

Aunt Sally gave an embarrassed laugh. “The dressing room was divided into tiny cubicles, and each cubicle had a heavy white curtain in front of it. I would always wrap the curtain around me, sort of hold it closed with my chin, and take off my clothes inside it, so that if the eighth-grade boys came running through, I could hold the curtain tight and they wouldn't see anything.”

I think I understood Aunt Sally a little better after that.

We were soon going to be tested on the four exercises in P.E., though. The teacher had already told us that in order to get a C for the grading period, each girl had to pass three out of the four. Elizabeth, Pamela, and I were really scared we might not make that C. We'd mastered the ring swing and the rope climb, but we'd given up completely on the wall kick. That left only the frog stand to see us through.

I invited the girls over one afternoon to practice. We pushed the folding table against the wall in the dining room, and then, one at a time, squatted down and tried balancing on our hands while the other two girls gave pointers.

Surprisingly, I was the one who got it first. It's sort of like learning to ride a bike, I guess. First you tip too far one way, and then you tip too far the other, and finally you learn what you have to do to be perfectly balanced, and after you get the feel of it, it's not so hard.

“Croak!” I said, squatting there with my rear end and heels off the floor.

Pamela got it next. She teetered back and forth a couple of times, and then, there she was, heels up, her weight resting on her hands. “Croak, croak!” said Pamela.

But Elizabeth just couldn't get it. She was either tipping forward, landing on her head, or tipping backward, landing on her rear. Even when Pamela and I steadied her from either side, like training wheels, Elizabeth went down the minute we let go. She collapsed in tears.

“I just can't
do
it!” she sobbed.

“Elizabeth, relax,” I said. “Maybe you're trying too hard.”

“I'm going to fail gym!” she wailed. “They can keep me in every day after school for a year, but I'll never be able to do it. My body's unbalanced or something.”

We tried explaining to her that everybody has a different center of gravity, and that one way or another, she'd find what was right for her. Elizabeth went on bawling.

“W-when you go on to high school and I'm still back in seventh grade, will you come visit me?” she wept.

“Blow your nose, Elizabeth, and try it some more,” I said. “Remember when you first learned to ride a bike or skate? Once you got it, you got it. It'll happen.”

And it did, about fifteen minutes later. Just after Pamela had mastered the art of not only balancing but of taking a few steps on her hands, Elizabeth shrieked that she had done it, only to fall over on her nose. But she tried again, balanced again, and once she knew what it felt like, she did it a third time and a fourth.

“Croak!” said Elizabeth happily.

“Croak! Croak!” I said, balancing beside her.

“Croak, croak, croak!” said Pamela, waddling around the dining room, her rear end bobbing up and down.

Suddenly we all froze, because there in the hallway was Lester, jacket in his hand.

“Don't tell me, let me guess,” he said, closing the door behind him.

Elizabeth promptly gave a little squeal that sounded like air going out of a tire, and fell over on her side. Pamela shrieked and fell backward.

“A handsome prince came by to kiss you, and this is what happened,” Lester said.

Before I could explain, Elizabeth and Pamela had rolled across the floor toward the kitchen, stumbled to their feet, and locked themselves in the pantry.

A pantry, I found out when we first moved into this house, is a little closet off the kitchen, where cooks used to store their food.

“We're practicing the frog stand for P.E.,” I told Lester, “and we finally got it.”

“Shall I open a bottle of champagne or something?” he said, and went right out to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” I asked, knowing that Elizabeth and Pamela wouldn't come out until he left.

“Making myself some lunch,” he said. “I had a one o'clock exam this afternoon and haven't had anything since breakfast.”

I figure he'd put a pizza in the microwave, take it upstairs, and turn on his stereo. Instead, he opened the refrigerator door and stood there, talking out loud to himself. “Shall I make eggs Benedict,” he said, “or boil some pasta? The pasta's quickest, but . . . naw. Why don't I go all out and make pancakes from scratch? Blueberry pancakes. I'll have to thaw the blueberries in hot water, but I could get the griddle going, and—”

Suddenly the door to the pantry flew open and, like
marathon runners, Elizabeth and Pamela bolted to the front hall, their faces red as Santa's britches. I ran after them as far as the porch.

“Tell Lester I will never forgive him as long as I live,” said Pamela. “He just did that on purpose.”

I went back inside. “Pamela says she will never forgive you as long as she lives,” I repeated.

“Good,” said Lester.

On the day of the test, the P.E. instructor walked along the girls seated on the floor, drawing imaginary lines between groups and naming each one: “Group A here, Group B, Group C over here, and Group D.”

She took four clipboards and handed one to each group. “I want you to grade yourselves on the four exercises we've been learning. Each girl, for each exercise, should receive either a pass or fail, and after class, I want to see each girl who did not pass at least three.”

I was glad I hadn't happened to be sitting next to Denise Whitlock and two of her friends. They were all in the same group, though, and I knew right off they'd pass one another whether they could do the exercises or not. It wasn't fair.

I didn't know any of the girls in my group except Elizabeth. I think most of them were eighth and ninth
graders, and one of them had done the wall kick perfectly the first time she tried it. I felt like an elephant in a field with deer. But I passed the three I expected to, and then, when our group finished early, we sat watching the girls in the other groups.

It really made me angry the way Denise and her friends were passing one another. Denise only made it halfway up the rope climb, but her friends wrote “pass” beside her name. She couldn't do the frog stand, either, not for more than half a second, but they passed her on that, too. When she sent to do the wall kick, she went lumbering toward the cinderblock wall, got one foot only inches up, stumbled over it with her other foot, and landed on her stomach with a loud “Oof!”

I saw a number of girls smile, but I was the only one who laughed. I couldn't help it. It wasn't a loud laugh, not a long laugh, but a quick chortle of pure delight.

Every dog has its day
, a line came to me. Now where had I heard that before? From Aunt Sally? Something my own mother used to say?

When Denise got her breath back, she sat down and wouldn't try it again. The instructor came over to be sure she was okay. I pressed my lips together to stop the smiling. It was worth the ring swing, the rope climb, the wall
kick, and the frog stand just to see Denise fall flat on her stomach. It was worth all the torture of the past few weeks just to hear that “Oof” when she landed.

When I was in the shower later, though, I didn't feel that good about it anymore, because the feud with Denise Whitlock stood in the way of my goal for seventh grade. So far I got along with all my teachers, even Mr. Hensley. I hadn't had any quarrels with Pamela or Elizabeth, and Patrick and I were still good friends. I could honestly say that I was on good terms with everyone in junior high school except for Denise Whitlock and her gang.

I wished that whatever problems you had could be washed away in a hot shower. Too fat? Too skinny? Too tall? Too short? Too loud? Too shy? Just step in the magic shower, turn on the water, and you'd come out perfect.

I'd been in there longer than I should have, so I quickly turned the water off and reached for my towel. My fingers felt along the shower rod but didn't find it. I moved the curtain aside to see if it had fallen on the floor. It wasn't there. I knew without asking that Denise and her friends had come by while I was in there and made off with my towel.

I was late already, but I had to come out of the shower naked, go out into the dressing area in front of all the other
girls who were standing outside their cubicles now, pulling on their jeans and tying their sneakers. I had to go back up to the towel desk and ask for another.

A piercing wolf whistle rattled the windows of the dressing area, and I heard some girls laugh. I knew it wasn't eighth-grade boys coming in for a raid, but I almost wished it was. I'd simply roll myself up in a dressing room curtain the way Aunt Sally used to do and let them come. But there was nothing to roll up in to protect myself from Denise, and the war went on and on.

 

ON WEDNESDAY, LESTER WAS REALLY SICK.
I went over to Pamela's for a couple hours after school, and when I got home, Lester was lying on the couch, one arm dangling off the side, his fingers curled on the rug.

“You cooking tonight or am I?” I asked. When he didn't answer, I walked over to see if he was breathing.

“Pizza,” I said in his ear. “Hot pepperoni pizza dripping with cheese.”

His back was moving up and down, but he still didn't open his eyes.

“Ice cold Coca-Cola,” I said, six inches from his face.

He didn't budge.

“Marilyn in a bikini.”

When he gave no sign that he was even conscious, I put one hand on his forehead. It was warm as cocoa.

For the first time in my life, I was worried about Lester.
Really
worried, I mean. He wasn't sick very often, and then it was usually only a cold. I guess I figured that because he was eight years older than me, he could take care of himself. Now he couldn't even open his eyes.

I shook his arm. “Lester? You okay?”

“Unngghh,” he said finally, his mouth half buried in the couch cushion.

“Les,” I said, “you're burning up.”

He licked at his lips. I kept pestering him, shaking his arm until he finally opened one eye.

“Should I call Dad? You're really sick.”

He rolled over on his side and put one hand on his throat. “It's sore,” he said.

“You ought to be in bed,” I told him.

He tried to sit up, then fell back. “I've got a date with Marilyn. What time is it?”

“Time for you to see a doctor, Les. I'm worried. Feel your
head
!”

“I'm okay,” he said, but his voice was raspy. “Go call the cleaner's, will you, and see if my shirts came back?”

I went to the phone and called Dad. He said he'd be home in fifteen minutes, not to let Lester out of the house, and that he didn't have the brains of a cocker spaniel.

I imagined having to put my bicycle chain around one of Lester's ankles and padlock him to the sofa, but it wasn't necessary. When I came back in the room, he was on his stomach again, eyes closed, and didn't even speak.

When Dad came home, Lester's forehead felt even hotter.

“Help me get him on his feet and out to the car, Al,” Dad said. “I'm going to drive him to the emergency room at Holy Cross.”

We pulled Lester into a sitting position, then Dad knelt down and put one of Lester's arms around his neck, hoisting him up on his feet. I braced his other side. I felt like a sandbag holding back the Mississippi. We sort of dragged Les out the front door, down the steps, and plopped him in the backseat of the car.

Lester opened his eyes halfway. “You get my shirts, Al?” he asked.

“Les, you're going to the hospital,” Dad said. “Al, call Marilyn and tell her Lester's sick and can't possibly take her out. I'll call you from the emergency room as soon as we know what's what.”

I nodded, watched the car drive off, then went back inside and sat down on the couch, in the very spot where Lester had been lying. The cushions were still warm. I wondered what I'd do if anything happened to my brother. I didn't know how much I needed him until I thought of never having him around again. Why was it I had to wait till something like this happened to think of all the ways I'd been a horrible sister?

I remembered the time Dad bought a fancy cake for Lester's birthday. He put it on a platter, and all the while he was making supper, I was nibbling the frosting off the sides. If anyone should have eaten the icing off the sides, it was Les because it was his birthday.

Just when I decided I hadn't done anything more awful than that, I remembered how I'd taken one of his sweaters, without asking, to wear on a field trip and lost it. And as long as I'd been making supper, I'd given Lester the worst of everything. If there was mold on the bread when I made sandwiches, I'd pinch it off and give that slice to Lester.
I
certainly didn't want to eat it, and I wouldn't think of giving it to Dad. If there was wilted lettuce, it always went in Lester's salad bowl, not mine or Dad's. Once I even dropped a hamburger patty on the floor when I was taking it off the stove. I wiped it with my hand and put it on
Lester's bun. He never knew. It was as though he was a garbage disposal or something.

It wasn't until the phone rang that I remembered I was supposed to call Marilyn and tell her what had happened. It was probably Marilyn calling Lester, wondering where he was.