Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,7

burning eyes became his burning eyes, with the hue changing from bottle green to bright Wedgwood blue.

“You never can trust anyone,” he seemed to answer. “But when you get old, you finally figure it out.”

Possibly he was right. You’re old when you learn that needs are to be eclipsed by civility. You’re old when you join the sticky, stenchy morass of concealed neediness that is society. You’re old when you give up trying to change people because then they might want to change you too. When you’re young, needs are explicit, possibilities endless, formalities undiscovered, and proofs of allegiance direct. If only there were a way to keep the world new, where every day remains a wonder.

“Jack,” I said. “Remember how easy it used to be? Remember when friends used to cut themselves and share blood?”

3

The sun was a mean wall behind us, shoving up against our backs, and the tar that coated the railroad ties was sticky. A resin smell filled the air. I could feel it creeping the way molasses drips, only upward, burning the inside of my nose. Kate didn’t like the tar to touch her shoes, so she stepped with perfect strides on the gravel between the ties. I took the rail.

When we reached Newtown Lane I hesitated, teetering on the strip of steel. “I’m just gonna run across the street and grab a cup of coffee.”

Her face screwed up into the sunlight. “We’re going to be late.”

“I’ll go fast.” I jogged into the street, dodging minor morning traffic.

Three bells on a crooked wire tinked and jangled against the store’s glass door. Bucket’s Deli was full of laborers in T-shirts, shorts, and Timberlands waiting patiently for egg sandwiches—patiently because the city people had gone back and there wasn’t much work for them to do. I made my way to the counter and ordered. Joe, the counter-guy, filled one of those jumbo Styrofoam cups with ice cubes and cold coffee from a plastic coffee storage container that was grossly discolored. The radio near the meat slicer played a song by Genesis that reminded me of summertime.

I will follow you, will you follow me?

All the days and nights that we know will be.

“All set for school today, Evie?” Joe asked. “Senior year at last.”

I shrugged. “I guess.”

“C’mon now,” he said, throwing back his head slightly to one side with a smile. When he smiled, I noticed a gap between his teeth. I’d never noticed a gap there before.

I turned away. Outside looked hot, hotter even than when I’d come in. It’s hard to start school when the weather is still like summer. Sometimes a time ends or a person dies and you have to move on, though reminders are everywhere. I paid for the coffee real slow, knocking the coins around with one finger.

Joe started ringing up the guy behind me. “Forget about it, Ev.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got it.” I funneled the change into one of his hands.

I stepped back out into the sluggish heat. It was tipping against the glass door of the deli like a chair you use for a lock. As I crossed the street and climbed the grass embankment onto the sidewalk, I pushed the damp paper off the straw. Kate extended her hand and took the paper from me, putting it into her pocketbook, and we started walking. I wondered if straws were named after real straw, the kind animals eat. Maybe some farmer started chewing a piece and accidentally sucked through it.

I pulled at my shirt, blowing down. “It’s got to be ninety degrees out,” I said.

Kate did not reply; she just kept stepping eagerly. I thought I should feel eager too, but eagerness is impossible to simulate without seeming phony. I drew in the last mouthful of coffee. The straw probed the empty avenues between the cubes, hunting profitlessly for more liquid.

We turned onto the high school driveway. The building appeared exceptionally horizontal, lower and longer than usual, like a block of grass rising up off a flatland. The parking lot was full, though the main entrance was vacant because no one ever hangs out on school steps and sings, the way they do in movies. As soon as people arrive, they go inside, stop at their lockers, then just walk around the building until classes begin.

Jodie Palumbo and Dee Dee Barnes were smoking in an alcove at the side entrance, near the language and math wing. Jodie was hideously tanned. Her freckles looked three-dimensional, like popped boxes.

Kate paused and offered