Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,39

there was a knock. A stranger, I knew, since friends never knocked. Through the screen door was a guy, maybe in his twenties, well-built, not tall. He was wearing shorts and a Darkness on the Edge of Town concert jersey.

“This Irene’s house?”

“It is. But she’s not home.”

“Yeah, well, okay,” he said, embarking on an explanation. “I was hitchhiking a couple weeks ago at the college, you know, by the gymnasium, right before the turn onto Route 27.” His voice was slightly croaking. I got the feeling he was smart. Croaking voices like that frequently belong to smart people. “Anyway, Rene picked me up, and we got to talking. She told me to stop by next time I came through East Hampton,” he concluded, throwing his arms to each side, grinning. A faint mustache drew out like taffy to cap his lips.

“So here you are,” I said.

“So here I am,” he replied.

“Okay, well, come on in. She’ll be back soon.” I snapped the latch. The door sprang and he caught it.

“Nice place,” he said as he entered. “The way everything’s blue. Unusual.”

The kitchen was cavelike and cool. I turned on the light and offered him a drink, lobbing a can of club soda from the refrigerator. I lifted myself onto the counter and rested my feet on the edge of the base cabinet door, pushing it open and wedging it closed, going back and forth, playing with it, like wiggling a loose tooth.

“I’m from California,” he informed me after taking a sip.

“Oh,” I said. “California’s far.” Three tomatoes lined the windowsill, bright red and radiant at the edges. My aunt Lowie had grown them in her garden. I reached for one and took a bite.

He nodded. “Is Rene your sister?”

“Mother.”

“Mother?”

“She’s thirty-five,” I said, anticipating his question. It was always the same question.

I heard Kate’s footsteps on the stairs. She came around the hall corner in a curious half-walk, brushing her hair. “Who are you talking to?” she asked with a smile.

“Some guy,” I said, locating a single tomato seed and chewing it. “Mom picked him up hitchhiking.”

Kate peeked around the wall. “Hello, Some Guy.”

He smiled brightly. “Hello there!”

“I’m Kate. Do you have a name?”

“Some Guy is fine,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Kate.”

Kate started to travel around the room as if by conveyer belt. She went first to the refrigerator, where she opened the door smoothly and bent at the knees to ease out a drink, excessively conscious of poise. She looked like one of those old Ziegfeld girls, the kind who shimmies down scenery steps in treacherous heels and sequined breeches, balancing an oafish feather hat. She put the hairbrush down near me and cleaned off the top of the soda can in the sink.

“You two aren’t sisters, are you?” the hitchhiker asked.

“Us? God, no,” Kate said as she took a seat across from him. “Just friends. Since second grade. I’m staying here for a few months to finish school. My parents passed away.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry.” Then he said something else, which I missed. I was wondering what Kate found so offensive about the idea of us being sisters.

Birds were visiting the feeder outside. There was one male cardinal. I like cardinals. They’re unimpeachably red. The red bird plus the remaining red tomatoes made a strange pattern. Kate and the hitchhiker were discussing astrology. He was a Leo; she was an Aquarius.

“Aquarius,” he said. “Whoa! I’m surprised you two are such good friends. Aquarians and Scorpios usually don’t get along.”

Kate turned to me. “Evie! Did you tell him your sign?” she asked.

He shrugged. “She didn’t have to. It’s obvious. Scorpios are intense. They’re ruthless and self-contained. No one’s worthy of their trust. But Aquarians, they’re like silver rainbows.” His fingers danced in air. “They’re dreamers. Are you a dreamer?”

“Totally,” she said. “I’m a total dreamer.”

“Well, there you go.”

“It is so weird that you knew that. It is so cool.”

I stood and went to the sink, lowering my head in, spraying my hair.

The hitchhiker apologized to me, calling over, “Hey, no offense or anything.”

“None taken,” I said, waving my left hand up. My voice inside the sink made a hum. Water streamed down my neck when I righted myself, and around my shoulders, and onto my T-shirt. I used Kate’s brush, then pulled my hair into a ponytail on top of my head and held it in place while I hunted for a rubber band. There were no rubber bands where they were supposed to be, which was in