Accepted (21 page)

"I agree," Joyce said. "I've heard he's totally stuck-up. People talk to him and he just walks by as though he thinks he's too good to bother with them. Like he did now. Just because he's an outstanding athlete and a top student, he's got no right to act as if he's better than the rest of us."

"No one has a right to be inconsiderate no matter how great he thinks he is. I feel like telling him that," I agreed, my indignation growing.

“Right," Joyce said. "I'm boycotting the football games this season, not that I went very often anyway."

I shrugged. Sports meant little to me. In fact, neither Joyce nor I were much into athletics. Joyce was into science and I was into art. My stepfather watched football. My mom said he played in high school. He remained a big fan. Mom would pop corn and sit down to watch college and pro games with him on the weekends when she wasn’t working. I never did.

After I signed up for tutoring, Joyce and I took the bus to her house. I had the window seat and watched the landscape kaleidoscope by as my mind rambled. Wilson Township where we live is nestled in South Central New Jersey. It's large in area and a lot of it is still undeveloped. Thirty years ago, Mom says, it was hardly more than farmland. The old sections have place names that date clear back to before the American Revolution. Sometimes I think our house is that old, but Mom says it was built about sixty years ago when people thought the shore area of our town could be something of a resort. Erosion ended that idea long ago.

Our house is really not much more than a cottage. Joyce's house isn't as old as ours and it's a lot nicer. Her father is a police detective in Wilson. He had the house custom built, doing a lot of the work himself. I like their house because it has a sense of identity and individuality, not like the luxury condos and townhouses that are being thrown up all around our township for commuters from New York City. We seem to have been getting a lot of New Yorkers moving in.

I don't mind the wide mix at the high school, but I feel awkward with some of these rich city kids who dress so well and have a lot of money to throw around. With my family, money is always tight. My mom is frugal; she has to be. I can't remember a time when she didn't work hard to supplement my stepdad’s disability payments.

Still, Mom won't let me work until I'm sixteen. I try to help by not asking for things that I know we can't afford. It's not so hard, because after awhile, doing without becomes a way of life. Mom has always made it like a game, managing to live decently on their combined income. We always look for bargains and sales in the supermarkets and at clothing stores.

I've seen Mom work long hours for minimum wage ever since I was very little. Every Sunday, I help her clip coupons for the supermarket from the newspaper. And Mom is the family barber. She says she wouldn't go to a beauty parlor, because the beauticians call everybody "honey," and once Mom passed thirty, she found it annoying. But I think the real reason is that she considers it an unnecessary expense. Not that I wouldn’t mind having my hair done professionally once in a while!

Still, we don't live badly. There's always food in the house. Mom says there’s plenty of people poorer than us. She considers herself lucky to have a job, what with so many folks unemployed. As for me, I've decided I'm going to get an education so I can find a better paying job. I haven't discussed my plan to go to college with Mom because I know that would only worry her. Finding the money to pay for college, even a state school, wouldn’t be easy. I’d have to earn a scholarship. I wish I was smart like Joyce!

I have dreams of becoming a commercial artist and going to work in advertising. I'm not really sure right now. All I know is I want to go to a good art school. My art teacher says she thinks I have talent, but having money for tuition would help too. I'm trying to keep my grades up so I'll qualify for a scholarship, except sometimes I think it's just a wild dream that will never come true. I get this awful fear that I will spend my entire life ringing up milk and newspapers in a convenience store just like my mother.

The landscape flickered by like the frames of a silent movie. And then Joyce started nudging me.

"Come on, Dani! Stop daydreaming. It's our stop." I rushed off the bus behind Joyce, and the mud-splattered, yellow bus moved on. "You're awfully quiet. Are you thinking about Gar Hansen?" For a moment, the image of his strong, muscular body and handsome face popped into my mind and I felt my heart skip a beat.

"No way, not my type." But then who was? I wasn't exactly deluged with admirers. That was something else Joyce and I shared, lack of boyfriends. I wasn't likely to be asked out by Gar Hansen or anyone like him. I wasn’t Miss Popularity and wasn’t going to be.

Both Joyce's mother and her little brother were home. Mrs. Winslow called to us from the kitchen.

"Milk and cookies are on the table. Help yourselves." Mrs. Winslow smiled at us. She's a nice person and really attractive for a woman her age. She's trimmer than my mom. I often wonder if I'll be heavy when I get older. I refused the cookies and settled for milk.

"When will Dad be coming home?" Joyce's brother asked.

"Hard to tell," Mrs. Winslow answered. "By dinnertime, I hope."

"Think he'll come to my soccer game on Saturday?"

"We'll have to wait and see."

Bobby looked dejected, wrinkling his freckled pug nose. "He's always working."

"You're always complaining," Joyce told him.

"Am not!"

“Are too!”

The argument, which seemed silly to me, escalated and had to be settled by Mrs. Winslow. It was amazing how alike Joyce and her brother looked, both copper-haired and cute, both freckled. But Bobby didn't wear glasses, at least not yet, and he was built much sturdier than Joyce although he was only eleven years old.

"Dani and I are going to study in my room," Joyce said. She sniffed the air in her brother’s direction and wrinkled her nose as if she smelled rotten fruit. "I'd appreciate it if you kept this creature from disturbing us." With a regal gesture, worthy of the queen of England, she motioned me to follow her.

"I think you're so lucky to have a brother. I can't tell you how lonely it is being an only child."

"Anytime you're willing to adopt him, let me know. He's such a pain."

We settled into Joyce's sunny bedroom. Joyce opened her chemistry book and I opened my biology. We studied for several hours until her father came home. Then Mrs. Winslow invited me to dinner and I was happy to stay. I felt very much at home in their large, cheerful kitchen. Later, Mr. Winslow insisted on driving me home and, of course, Joyce came along.

"How's school?" he asked us.

Joyce's father is tall with graying hair at the temples which gives him a distinguished air. There are crinkly lines at the corners of his eyes and his nose looks as if it had once been broken and never reset quite right. It makes him look like a prizefighter.

"I got an A on my French test," Joyce ventured.

Her dad smiled his approval. "That's my girl! How's school for you, Danna?"

"Fine, but since I'm not as smart as Joyce, I only got a B minus on my last language test. My favorite subject is still art."

"You have a lot of talent," he said in his deep, resonant voice. "My wife loves that portrait you did of Joyce."

I thanked him for the compliment. He always said nice things to Joyce and me, not like my stepfather.

"How's everything going for you, Dad? Catch any criminals today?"

"Not a one. But I did take statements at an accident. I just happened to be near the scene. Nasty business not far from the mall on the highway. It involved some kids from your school."

Joyce wanted to know all the details. She loved hearing about her dad’s work, but I kind of tuned it out.

As we pulled up to my house, I thanked Mr. Winslow for the ride.

"Give my regards to your father," he said as I got out of the car. "How's he getting along?"

"All right, I guess." My mom says never to complain about things, so I don't. I think she's right. I mean who wants to hear bad things? But I know that Joyce's father does care about my stepdad because he served in the military too.

My stepdad was asleep in his wheelchair in front of the television set in the living room. I moved around quietly so as not to disturb him. I watched his face as he slept. It looked almost handsome in repose. I liked him best at times like this when his guard was down. He was so different from Mr. Winslow. Joyce's father always struck me as having strength of character and great vitality. Being a policeman had to be a tough job. But he always seemed upbeat. His voice boomed through the house as he entered a room. I couldn't help envying Joyce just a little.

My stepdad was sullen and moody most of the time. I didn’t like spending time with him. When he woke up, it wasn’t any different than usual. I was glad when Mom came home, because things brightened. I told her about my day and she told me about hers. My stepdad just listened. Every now and then he coughed. Although he never smoked, there were problems with his lungs.

“How are you feeling?" Mom asked him, her forehead wrinkling.

"All right. I took a pain killer a while ago. It's kicking in." I thought it might be the need for drugs that made Dad surly and silent, but I was never sure.

Mom began fixing dinner in the kitchen and I gave her a hand.

"We're sculpting for this marking period in art class. I think I'm going to try to do you. Is that okay?"

"Why, Danna, that would be very nice. I’m flattered, but couldn’t you find a better subject?"

"I want to do you. You’re beautiful."

She looked pleased. “I’d be honored, but I’m hardly beautiful.”

“You are, in my eyes.”

My stepdad wheeled himself into the kitchen. He picked up the newspaper he’d left on the table earlier in the day and began glancing through it. “I’m glad Reagan won the election for a second term.”

“Is he a good president?” I asked.

“The best,” my stepdad affirmed. “He’s brought stability and security to the country. He’s even got a decent foreign policy. The country is going to do better economically because of him.”

“I don’t know,” my mother said. “My parents believed that the Republicans were only out to benefit rich people. My folks always voted Democratic.”

“The Republicans ended the Vietnam War and brought our boys home. As for Ronald Reagan, I voted for him twice, and just about the entire country did the same. You’ve been outvoted.”

“Guess I have at that.” Mom didn’t seem troubled by the disagreement. She never took politics to heart the way my stepdad did.

I followed my mother’s example. For me, history was what happened while we ordinary folks lived our lives. I guess the only problem came when history affected our lives — like with the war in Vietnam.

****

Our house is little more than a bungalow with a small front room, kitchen, two bedrooms and an attic, but it's very homey, and best of all it's close to the ocean. On quiet nights, I imagine I can hear the sea, although Mom says we're really too far away. Yet I believe the rhythm of the sea puts me to sleep.

In my dreams that night, I saw a tall, handsome blond boy with dazzling blue eyes smiling at me. I heard him call my name and I reached for him. There was a beautiful golden halo around his head.

“Are you an angel?” I asked him, awed by his incandescence.

“Yes, I’m your angel,” he said.

Then I was being kissed by Gar Hansen. I woke up feeling foolish. Gar Hansen, an angel? How could I have dreamt such a thing? That stuck-up snob was never going to notice me. And who wanted him to anyway? Me, that’s who! I had to tell the truth to myself. I mean, who was I kidding? Of course, I wanted him to notice me. Still, I knew how foolish it was and unrealistic besides.

I started to tell Joyce about my weird dream the next day in the library, but thought better of it. I figured she’d probably laugh in my face. I didn’t want my friend to think less of me.

Joyce and I generally took our study hall in the library because it was quiet and we could really work there. I was concentrating on my geometry and praying that I'd be given a tutor soon when I felt someone's eyes on me. At first, I thought it was my imagination. But no, there was a boy across the room just sitting there staring at me. I didn't dare to look at him. I tried hard to ignore him and concentrate on my work, but I couldn't. Every time I looked up, there he was staring at me still. Joyce didn't notice; she was too caught up in her book.

I figured he was playing some dumb game at my expense. Finally, becoming angry, I stared back. Then I really looked at him and truly saw him. His wavy, black hair caught the light and his eyes were dark as coal. He smiled at me, bold and cocky. I blushed and turned away. Then I elbowed Joyce who mumbled something derogatory and continued her reading.

"There's some guy at that table over there staring at me," I whispered.

"What?" She surfaced from her book like a diver with the bends.

"Is there anything weirder than usual about my appearance? Do I have poppy seeds caught between my front teeth from my roll at lunch?"

"You look fine." She was clearly annoyed.

"Don't be obvious," I whispered. "He's two tables away and he keeps looking at me. I don’t recognize him, do you? Just check him out, okay?"

She discreetly looked around. "You're right," Joyce said, eyes widening behind her thick glasses. "There's a good-looking, dark-haired guy staring in our direction. I’ve never seen him before. I’m certain of it. Are you sure you don’t know him from somewhere?"

"No, never saw him before either. I would have remembered. It's kind of weird."

"Just ignore him," Joyce suggested. "He'll get the message. Obviously, he has nothing better to do, so he's decided to be a pain."

I forced myself to read my book, although I really couldn't absorb a word of it. Once more, I glanced up to find
him
looking directly at me. He smiled again and I couldn't help thinking he had the whitest teeth I'd ever seen. Jarred by the bell ringing at the end of the period, I gathered my things together. He seemed to be coming toward me. It struck me then: for the first time in my life, a boy was attempting to flirt with me, and a gorgeous one at that!