why we haven’t gone totally batshit crazy yet, living with Gran.
—
Selma is the complete opposite of me. She came into the world in the most unconventional way and must have decided before she was even three days old that she was going to fall in love with her life, no matter what. (It helps that she doesn’t live with someone who might chop off her hair.) Selma has these enormous brown eyes like a seal, and for whatever reason, she doesn’t feel bound by the same rules as the rest of us, which makes her a great friend. But she doesn’t live in Birch Park, and I’m reminded of that when I hear a timid knock at the door, so light that Gran doesn’t hear it in the kitchen.
Selma’s wide eyes are laughing around the edges as she mouths silently, “Alyce.”
Alyce will sometimes drop by and pick Selma up on her way home from ballet. They both live on the other side of the river, where the houses get nicer in a hurry and the rent is much higher.
Alyce is long and lean with high cheekbones. Her hair is pinned perfectly into a bun. She’s wearing leg warmers, too, which might be fine at ballet, but in Birch Park I’m sure anyone who sees her just thinks she cut the sleeves off her sweater and is wearing them on her legs. She always looks terrified when she comes to pick up Selma. I’m not sure what she thinks will happen to her here; all she’s doing is standing on our doorstep.
“Ready to go?” she says to Selma, barely acknowledging me.
The only reason she steps inside is because it’s twenty below on the porch.
“Hi, Alyce,” I say.
“Hi,” she mumbles, looking down at the puddles of melting snow from her boots. “Too bad you missed Lily,” Selma says, as if Alyce cares. “She’d love to talk to you about fishing. Maybe you could convince your dad to take her on as a deckhand and you could get a summer off?”
“Selma—” Alyce looks embarrassed.
“There’s a recruiter coming from one of the top dance colleges this summer,” Selma says to me, “but Alyce can’t get out of fishing with her dad, so she doesn’t get to audition.”
“Selma,” Alyce says, “your mom’s going to be worried. You know how she is; we should go.”
Selma is pulling on her snow pants, completely unfazed and unaware that Alyce is so uncomfortable. I run my fingers through my hair and then stop when Alyce glances my way. She has tiny startled eyes like a baby bird, and when she looks at me I know exactly what she is thinking. Neither of us will ever forget Gran chopping off my hair.
Boo-hoo, no college scout for Alyce, I think as she looks quickly back down at the floor. At least Alyce has the decency to be embarrassed. But not Selma.
“I don’t see why you don’t just ask your dad,” she says, struggling into her parka. “Or get your mom to tell him. How hard can that be?”
Alyce’s bun is starting to come undone from its bobby pins, as if Selma’s talking about her is making it unravel bit by bit. I’m tempted to reach out and spin her like a top. Would she unspool all the way down to her bright-pink leg warmers?
“Her parents don’t really get along,” Selma says, now rummaging through the milk crate where we keep hats and old woolen socks that we wear in layers on our hands. Cheaper than buying mittens.
“Yours are on top,” I tell her, pointing to the pair that Selma knit herself, as if anyone could miss them. The thumbs are twice the size they should be and they are fluorescent orange.
As much as I like Selma, in certain situations she can be kind of oblivious. Suddenly I’m as anxious to get Alyce out of our doorway as Alyce is to leave.
“Thanks for dinner,” Selma yells at Gran as they open the door; Alyce practically leaps into the snowbank trying to get away. Even in a panicked rush, she is the most graceful person I’ve ever seen, and I cannot picture her working on a stinky boat gutting fish, no matter how hard I try. Selma smiles and waves good-bye, then links her arm with Alyce’s and I watch their shadows bob away under the yellow streetlights. How does Selma manage to break all the rules and still stay on everyone’s good side?
—
But maybe it’s my turn to break some rules, too,