Delta Girls (26 page)

The doctor called it “honeymoon cystitis” and Karen felt a flush of excitement, as if it meant she and Nathan were practically married. She was given a shot of antibiotics, plus prescribed more to take during the week, and a vial of purple pills that
would turn her pee bright orange. The doctor also told them to take a break from intercourse for at least five days. Karen was relieved; intercourse wasn’t her favorite part of their intimacy—it was the part she tolerated, not the part she enjoyed. When he was inside her, she never experienced the same stunning rush he could give with his tongue.

“And good luck out on the ice,” the doctor said, winking as he handed them the prescription slip. Karen blushed and hoped her urinary condition wouldn’t wind up in the news.

THEY RECEIVED SIXTH
place in the competition. “Not bad for your first international event,” Deena had said. “Not bad at all.”

That didn’t feel like her biggest accomplishment, though. Over their “break,” Nathan taught her how to use her mouth, her hands. She gagged at first, but slowly got used to his taste, his movements, his release. It made her feel proud to know she was capable of such a grown-up skill, that she was capable of giving Nathan so much pleasure.

After the twinging lessened when she peed, they started up again, slowly, to avoid reaggravating her system. By the twenty-sixth time, she stopped counting. By the twenty-sixth time, she started to realize what all the fuss was about. She learned to not cringe, to not hold her breath when he pushed into her. To not care that the video camera was rolling. To not let her mind take her someplace else.

It was like skating, she realized, like skating without choreography, the exhilaration and the flow and the contortion of it. The heart-pounding, cheek-reddening splendor. It was like skating without her mom watching.

“I THINK WE
should fire Deena,” Nathan said as they jogged along the shore of Lake Geneva the day before the World Championships. The Alps rose in the distance, snowcapped, majestic.

Karen felt a blast of excitement and fear.

“We got us to Worlds, she didn’t,” he said.

“True,” said Karen, even though Deena had choreographed all their programs, sewn all their costumes, supervised all their workouts, gotten them to all their events. She felt a sudden rush of gratitude for her mother, for all that she had done for them.

“We know how we move best,” he said. “We know what works for our bodies. We don’t need a coach to tell us what to do.”

Maybe this would be better for Deena, thought Karen. Maybe it would release her to find a different life. Maybe it would stop her mom from looking at her the way she did sometimes when she thought Karen wasn’t looking, that gut-clutching mix of jealousy and pride.

Karen took a deep breath, her lungs sore from the jog. The air smelled different by the lake. Sweet, like sugared rose petals. It was almost overwhelming, the scent. It drowned out thoughts of her mother as Karen and Nathan kept running, stopping every once in a while to kiss and grope on benches, in parks, but when they got back to the hotel and found Deena waiting in the lobby, Karen could barely look at her.

“You smell good.” Deena leaned toward Nathan, took a big sniff from his neck. “Like the trees. It’s the trees that smell so good, you know. The pittosporum.” She held up a guidebook to show she had done her homework.

“It smells like love,” said Nathan, and Karen melted into his arms, making sure her mother saw it, making sure she knew, over and over again, that Nathan was hers.

WHEN THEY BROKE
the news to Deena over dinner that they no longer needed her coaching services, she looked as if someone had shocked her with a cattle prod, but she quickly straightened her spine, regained her composure.

“I suppose I should have seen this coming,” she said, looking
into Nathan’s eyes, her own eyes wet, hurt, tears hovering but not falling. Karen held her breath.

“I suppose it will give me more time to be your manager.” Deena started to rearrange the salt and pepper shakers. “I have tons of calls to make. Disney wants to do a special, and I think I have a Got Milk campaign lined up …”

Nathan squeezed Karen’s knee under the table. Karen held back the urge to tell her mother they were just kidding, that she could still be their coach, that she had been a wonderful coach, that they were silly to ever think otherwise.

“It’s just you and me, babe,” Nathan whispered into her ear, and a chill ran through her whole body. “You and me against the world.”

I
HAD BEEN LOOKING FOR BEN SINCE THE PARADE, SO I
was thrilled to see him walking toward the booth. At least until I realized he was holding hands with a small Indian American woman. She wore khaki shorts, a bike race T-shirt, Tevas, a big smile. My heart sank.

“Izzy, this is Shanti,” he said, his face apologetic.

“Your research partner.” My voice sounded flat in my ears.

“You’ve been talking about me, Benjamim? How sweet!” She wrapped her arms around his waist and I wanted to slug her. “I’ve heard so much about …” I thought she was going to say “you,” but then she said “the Pear Fair. I had to come check it out for myself.”

“She surprised me.” Ben gave a half-smile, half-grimace. “I didn’t know she was coming.”

Shanti was not much taller than five feet, but she was formidable. She looked like someone who could run a marathon and barely break a sweat. Or stand in front of a room full of students
and make them fear her and fall in love with her all at once. Her body was wiry and compact, her eyes large and dark, like a deer’s, her shiny black hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. I took some comfort in the fact that her cheeks were a little ashy, her lovely eyes rimmed with dark circles.

“Plus I have to see the whales, of course.” She smiled as if she were running for office.

“Of course you do.” I could feel a sneer on my face, but didn’t do anything to wipe it away. “If you two will excuse me,” I said, avoiding Ben’s eyes, “I have more pears to sell.”

“Izzy …,” Ben started, but I turned away before he had a chance to say more.

I could hear Shanti ask him about my handwritten sign. So far, Roberts hadn’t shown up to protest it; maybe his eyesight wasn’t good enough to see it from his booth. I hoped he’d come over to complain so I’d have an excuse to punch someone in the face. When I turned back around, I could see Ben and Shanti walking arm in arm toward the auditorium.

“Are you okay?” Abcde asked. She and Quinn were both drinking pear smoothies.

“Hmmm?” I asked, watching the happy couple disappear into the building.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Abcde took a big, rattling slurp.

I had seen just the opposite, in fact; the abstract girlfriend made flesh. When she was just an idea, just a floating thought, she didn’t seem so bad. Not nearly as threatening as the shining sun of Sam. Now that I saw her real self glommed onto Ben, I wanted to throw up.

“Just a little tired,” I said.

“Can I have some more money?” asked Quinn. “I want to try to win a goldfish.”

“Where are we going to keep a goldfish?” My voice turned shrill. “We can’t bring a goldfish with us on the road!”

“I thought we were going to stay …” Tears sprang into Quinn’s eyes.

“Not for long.” I slammed a bag of pears on the wooden counter so hard, the paper sack ripped open. Pears flew out, one hitting Roberts, who was storming toward the booth, in the chest.

“And now you try to kill me!” he shouted.

“Take your sign down!” The words roared out of me like a hurricane. They surprised me as much as they did Roberts. Quinn and Abcde took a step back, too.

“Jeez, woman,” he said. “Get ahold of yourself.”

“Take it down!” I could feel my whole face turn red, the veins in my neck bulge.

“If you take your sign down”—he nodded to my cardboard—“I might be persuaded to get rid of mine.”

“If I take mine down,” I said, “and you don’t get rid of yours, I’m reporting you.” To who, I wasn’t sure, but it seemed sufficient enough of a threat.

He glared at me, grabbed my sign, and stomped back to his booth. For a moment, he put my sign up on his counter, mocking me with my own words. I held up a pear, ready to lob it at his throat, when he wagged his finger at me and ferried both signs away.

THE VICTORY OVER
Roberts was short-lived. My little outburst had attracted more attention than I would have liked. A reporter came up to me and asked what the ruckus was all about. Thankfully, Abcde took over. “Organic politics,” she said. “Quite real shit.” She let him lead her over to a quiet place to talk about the situation. I told Quinn to come into the booth with me and help me sell pears.

My limbs were so full of adrenaline, I could barely stand still inside the little booth. Luckily, a new crowd had formed—people who had spilled out of the auditorium after the latest cooking
demonstration—so I was able to keep my hands busy. Quinn was happy to take money and make change, too—her math lesson for the day. I tried not to pay attention as Ben and Shanti emerged from the auditorium—Shanti talking animatedly, waving a bunch of pamphlets around. I tried not to notice when Ben briefly looked over at me before turning his attention back to his girlfriend. I was glad when they disappeared around the corner, most likely for Shanti to expound in some profuse and intelligent way upon all the offerings at the art fair. She was undoubtedly a better conversationalist than me. How did I stand a chance against someone so educated, so confident in her opinions? How could I ever dare to think I could compete with the Shantis and Sams of the world?

AFTER HER IMPROMPTU
interview, Abcde managed to steal the microphone from the stage before the last band of the day performed. I was glad I had a good view from the booth.

“I have a little pear poem,” she said. “A list, really. Did you know there is a pear for almost every letter of the alphabet?”

Not many people were paying attention, but a few in the crowd whooped.

“Here is a sampling,” she said, and read, in very dramatic intonation:

“Anjou.” A slight smattering of applause.

“Bartlett.” A huge cheer.

“Comice.” A cacophony from the Vieira contingent.

The next pear names didn’t receive as much of a response: “Dana’s Hovey, Easter Beurre, February Butter, Giffard, Hardy, Idaho, Joan of Arc, Kieffer, Lucrative.”

One person shouted out, “Lucrative, baby!”

“Marguerite Marillat,” she continued. “No N,” she said with a wink. “Onondaga, Philopena, Rossney, Seckel.” More cheering. “Touraine, Urbaniste, Vicar of Wakefield, White Doyenne.”

I wondered what every pear on the list tasted like, if each of them was capable of melting flesh.

She did a little spin on the stage, her dreadlocks and skirt fanning out. “X out
X
,” she said mischievously. “Y no
Y
?”

Then she took a deep breath, and sang, in a surprisingly pure tone, “Zoe.” She gave a little curtsy, said, “Thank you,” and left the stage to a wide round of applause.

A MAN STEPPED
onto the stage and announced that the Big Pear Contest winners were going to be revealed.

“Can we go over there?” Quinn asked excitedly.

I looked across to Mrs. Vieira, who nodded, even though the line was fairly long at the booth. I let Quinn pull me over to the tent.

Someone walked out of the giant papier-mâché pear, holding a basket full of large fruit.

The third-place winner was the Silveira family.

“They’re Portuguese, too,” Mr. Vieira said proudly as he stepped up next to me.

Roberts won second place. He accepted his ribbon with a nod and a wave. I snarled when he looked in my direction.

Quinn shrieked and jumped up and down when Vieira Pears was named the first-place winner.

“You wanna go up there and get the prize?” Mr. Vieira asked. Quinn looked at me for confirmation. I nodded and she ran to the podium.

“I want to thank Jorge for picking the best pear,” she said breathlessly, her mouth a little too close to the microphone. “And the Vieiras for growing the best pear. And my mom for taking us to Vieira Pears, the best place, in the first place.”

She looked so confident up there, so at home. I wondered what other prizes she could have won if I had let her go to school, if I had let her take some sort of classes—dance or piano or acting or science fairs. What talents had I not encouraged? What unknown
gifts had I carelessly let wither away by keeping her tucked so firmly beneath my wing?

She hoisted the giant blue-ribbon-bedecked pear high in the air, looked at Abcde, and said, exultant, “A Bartlett can do everything!”