Emma's Table (26 page)

It weighs about a million pounds, she thought—that fork fit for a giant.

Gracie hadn't liked Emma's food much either. It tasted funny, she thought, and there was too much sauce.

She knew better than to complain.

With her fork set down, and no worry of spills, Gracie tried inching her chair back again. Her mother squeezed her thigh beneath the table.

Don't!
that touch said, clear enough.

She felt like a prisoner sitting there at the grown-up table, in such a fancy place. She pushed her chest right into the table's curve, as if to show her mother how foolish she was being, wanting her to sit so tight.

Her dress looked pretty against the deep brown wood.

They go together, she thought, staring down at the combination—the buttery yellow and dark, dark wood. She let her fingers brush against her taffeta skirt.

She got to wear her pretty dress, at least.

Things weren't so bad, she supposed. Gracie didn't like to be angry with her mother.

She sat back in her chair and began fiddling with the bracelet on her wrist, pulling the elastic away from her skin and twirling the candy hearts that were strung all around it, each of them printed with a sweet little wish—“Be Mine” in pink, “All Yours” in pale blue. Her grandfather had given it to her on Valentine's Day, just three days before. She loved that bracelet with all her heart, only took it off to bathe.

She hadn't eaten a single candy.

They were much too pretty for that.

Gracie lifted the bracelet to her cheek and looked to the mirror on the opposite wall. It wasn't quite the picture she'd been hoping for: the bracelet was practically invisible on her wrist, and her face so wide—much wider than a face ought to be.

She saw the man at the head of the table smiling at her, at her reflection anyway. Gracie looked back down into her lap.

She didn't like those mirrors at all, hanging all around the room.

Like a bathroom, she thought, only a million times worse. There were mirrors on every wall. She'd been tricked into looking at herself all night, sometimes when she least expected it: glancing up at her mother to ask her a question, or peeking at the pretty girl across the table.

Gracie liked preparing herself before she looked into mirrors.

She raised her eyes again; the man was smiling at her still—the older one at the head of the table.

Gracie turned in her seat to face him.

“Knock, knock,” he said, looking straight at her still.

Gracie knew what she was supposed to say, but she felt too shy to say it. She looked back into her lap instead, plucking at the candy bracelet.

“Knock, knock,” the man repeated, a few seconds later.

She felt a smile blooming on her lips; she couldn't help it.

“Who's there?” she said, still looking down—at her shiny yellow skirt and the bracelet on her wrist.

“Wanda,” he said.

“Wanda who?” she asked, looking up at him. Gracie didn't know this one.

“Wanda be my Valentine?” he said.

She giggled and covered her mouth, pressing chubby fingers against her lips. She turned to her mother and saw her smiling too.

“I like your bracelet,” Mr. Blackman said.

“She doesn't eat the candy,” her mother replied. “They're all there still.”

Gracie dropped her head again. She didn't like it when people talked about what she ate—not that that ever stopped them.

“They had bracelets like that when we were kids,” Mr. Blackman said. “Remember?”

Gracie peeked up at the mirror again. She watched her mother nodding back.

“My grandfather gave it to me,” she told him. “For Valentine's Day.”

The holiday had been just as bad as Gracie imagined. She'd only gotten a handful of cards—a mere fraction of the number she'd handed out, and so many fewer than the other girls.

Her face lit up with shame.

Her handmade cards hadn't done a thing. But at least it was behind her now. Gracie had gotten through it.

“You keep your head up, Gracie”—that's what her grandfather always said.

But the little girl had deciphered already that head position had very little to do with it. Sometimes it was just about getting things over with.

She glanced up at the mirror, and found the man at the head of the table smiling at her again.

“Knock, knock,” he said again.

Gracie swiveled to her mother, who nodded back.

“Who's there?” she said, a little more confidently that time.

“Banana,” he told her.

“Banana who?” she asked. Gracie didn't know this one either.

“Banana,” the man repeated.

“Banana WHO?!” Gracie said again, letting her voice grow louder that time, getting a little carried away. Doesn't he know how to play this game? she wondered.

Her mother shushed her.

“Banana who?” she repeated, nearly whispering.

“Orange,” the man said.

Gracie squinted back at him. Maybe he really
didn't
know how to play. “Orange who?” she said, just in case.

“Orange you glad I didn't say banana?”

Gracie smiled at that, all open and wide. She looked around the table. Her neighbors were smiling too: her mother and Mr. Blackman, the pretty girl across the way.

“What's going on down there?” the lady asked—the one sitting at the other end of the table, her mother's new boss.

“Just a few knock-knock jokes,” Mr. Blackman said.

“Are they funny, Gracie?” the lady asked.

She nodded her head in quick little strokes, then looked back down into her taffeta lap. She covered up her Valentine bracelet with her free hand. The lady made her a little nervous.

“I've got one for you,” the lady said.

Gracie looked up at her shyly.

Everyone at the table did the same: the tall man at the head of the table and the pretty girl across the way; the tiny couple with the straight black hair; her mother and Mr. Blackman too. They looked at the lady like she was the star of the show.

Gracie admired her soft brown hair.

She sneaked another look back at the mirror. She knew her own hair would never be soft.

“Knock, knock,” the lady said.

Everyone turned to Gracie then. It was her turn to be the star of the show.

“Who's there?” she replied, in her very best voice—hooking an imaginary hank of hair behind an ear.

“Vassar girl,” the lady said, smiling in anticipation.

Gracie turned to her mother fast. She didn't know what that was.

“Vassar girl,” her mother said, repeating it for her slowly.

Gracie screwed up her courage and said her line: “Vassar girl who?” she asked, but it made her nervous, not to understand.

“Vassar girl like you doing in a place like this?” the lady said, tossing her head back and laughing at her own joke.

Gracie didn't understand it still.

She looked around the table, surveying the faces of the people there, all groaning with pleasure and laughing along. She studied her mother, laughing and smiling along with the rest. It wasn't her mother's real laugh—not the one she used with her, but it wasn't quite fake either.

Gracie started laughing too.

She wasn't sure why exactly.

She pretended it was a funny joke.

Look at me, she thought, peeking up at the mirror and taking stock of her laughing face. She looked almost pretty like that—with rosy pink cheeks and bright white teeth, her yellow hair band tied perfectly straight.

Somehow she knew, though she couldn't have said how, that everyone was laughing just to be nice. Like when Mr.
Blackman gave her that coloring book that was too young for her by far, or when her friend Bessy admired the tiny pile of Valentines on her desk at school. It wasn't lying, she decided—pretending like that, not if it made your friends feel good.

Gracie laughed even louder then.

Many thanks to Betsy Lerner, Jennifer Barth, and Jonathan Burnham for the excellent care they've given me and my book.

I'm grateful to my first readers, whose encouragement made it just a little easier to pass the manuscript along: Kathleen Galanes, Andrew Herwitz, Lori Finkel, Tracey Hecht, Mary Haverland, and Barbaralee Diamonstein-Spielvogel.

Finally, I owe a mountain of thanks to Michael Haverland and our inimitable Chiccio. I would never have found the goodness in Emma, much less myself, without them.

Jacket photograph © Darryl Estrine/Getty Images

Jacket design by Abby Weintraub