Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,13

by the door, talking about golf with the AV teacher.

Nico dug deep into his pocket and removed a fistful of stuff—coins, bills, gum, and erasers, those awful ones that fit on top of pencils. He laid the erasers on the desk. Most of the other boys did the same, except for Stephen, who didn’t budge, and Marcus Payne, who was facing back from his seat in the front row, observing.

“This is gonna be great,” Nico said.

Marcus stood, addressing everyone with a series of panoramic nods. Whenever I saw him, I felt bad for the way he was treated but also inspired by his stamina. I secretly admired the gentlemanly way he always managed to face off with his oppressors.

“Now, listen up, people.” His eyelids fluttered and his top teeth gnawed at the air. His head cocked to one side, and his arms came out from his shoulders at a preacherly incline. “Watch out for my head with those things.”

“Shut up, Marcus,” Bobby Tabor said. Bobby’s parents owned the liquor store and every night at dinner the whole family got drunk on good wine. Bobby got invited to all the parties. “Pouilly-Fuissé,” he would say to his teen host, rotating a bottle lovingly in his hands to feature the label. “1974.”

“Yeah, Carcus. If you don’t wanna get hit, move,” Mike Stern warned as he emptied a snack bag full of erasers onto his desktop.

“It doesn’t matter where you sit, Payne,” Billy said. “We’re gonna hit you anyway.”

Mr. Shepard closed the door behind him.

I asked Nico what was going on.

“Everyone’s supposed to toss erasers at Shep when he makes a bad joke,” Nico said.

“You can’t do that,” I said.

“It’s tradition,” Nico stated defensively. “I didn’t invent it.”

I looked around the room. All the boys were seated properly and staring ahead; the only signs of impudence were the piles of erasers on most desks. It was tradition; of course they wouldn’t be punished. It was a preliminary test of gender loyalty, a distinct part of the male experience—next came fraternities, bachelor parties, firefighters, the police, politics, war. It wasn’t girl tradition. Girls had no traditions—anyway, none that teachers and boys would participate in willingly.

“Relax, baby.” Nico leaned into my face. “We’re just gonna have a little fun.”

4

There was a line I always liked to walk, a single discolored plank that went from the east to the west wall of the barn behind my house. I called it a barn because it was shaped like one, but actually it was just a shed, twenty by twelve, with no plumbing, no heat, and no insulation. The light inside was gauzy, like light in a tent. I went there almost every day to paint or to study.

One warm night, in the spring of my junior year, I fell asleep on the floor. When Mom couldn’t find me in the house in the morning, she checked the barn and saw me curled up in the corner. That afternoon, Kate and I found Mom’s Plymouth Scamp parked in front of the high school. The car was old but anxious to please. It leaned forward like a pollen-yellow rhombus. We approached cautiously; we’d never seen my mom at school.

“Maybe she got fired,” Kate whispered as we exited the building.

“Maybe she has cancer too,” I said.

Mom waved. “Hop in, you two! We’re going to Sears!”

We headed toward Amagansett on Pantigo Road. At Sears, Mom ordered a piece of foam from a catalog. “A mattress,” she said. “Now you can crash in the barn whenever you’re working late. It’ll be your studio.” She tore a plain blue check from her wallet. On top was her name, Irene Ruane, and our post office box number, and East Hampton, New York, 11937. The amount was forty dollars.

“I wrote it on the bottom, Laura,” she told Kiki Hauser’s mom, who worked behind the counter. Mrs. Hauser had asked for our phone number even though she knew us. My mother refused to allow the insult to dampen her spirits. As we waited for processing, she brushed my cheek with her hand. “Isn’t this exciting? You can sleep there all summer if you want.”

Afterward we stopped at A&B Snowflake to celebrate with soft-serve ice cream, then we dropped Kate at her house on Mill Hill Lane. Maman was still alive then, though very sick. When we pulled away, we waved to Kate and I felt sad. It’s sad to leave a friend, especially at four-fifteen in the afternoon, especially when her mother is dying but yours