AllFreeNovel
Share Us
There are a thousand ways for me to take this conversation, and arguing with Tessie has never gotten anyone anywhere but into a laughing fit. But I can’t just let that go. “You know Daisy Buchanan is, like, the bad guy, right?”
She shakes her head. “But she makes things happen. Like the woman in the song.”
I really can’t help it. “Selfishness. Entrapment. Greed. Moral corruption. Total misery. Should I keep going?”
Tessie laughs. “Can you? Because you’re building my argument for me.”
I take her hand and shake my head. In a whisper, I say, “I’m really not.”
She looks to the door again and then back at me. “I’m arguing that the ethical ambiguity of women in times of oppression is a step toward opening doors for the women who follow them.”
“Like her daughter, the beautiful little fool,” I say, because I can’t help arguing with her. It’s a longstanding habit.
She slaps the desk with her open palm. “Exactly.
I nod because there is no way to win this. Even when I win. “And your conclusion?”
She laughs. “Who knows? I’m making this up as I go. I’ll let you read it when I’m done.”
The thing is, it will be brilliant. She’s very persuasive.
She’s looking at the door again. “Is Hayes late?” I ask.
A blush and a grin. She’s totally smitten by this guy. I mean, I kind of recognize the symptoms.
“Not late, just not here yet. Is it okay if I hang with you until he gets here?”
“Always.” It’s true, of course, but I realize I haven’t gotten much done since my search through the spring catalogs. I love that I get to help choose what books we buy for the library’s collection. And I love even more what stopped me from looking.
Grayson Mercer asked me out. On a date.
As much as I still feel like a kid around all the adults who were here when I was a student, he’s different. And yeah, there may be ten (or more, I guess) years between us. Is that weird? Yes. Is it a deal breaker? Oh, I really hope not. I mean, he knows how old I am. It’s in my chart, along with my medical history. All of it.
Tessie chatters to me about her day, about how she’s planning to wear her hair to Harvest Ball, maximizing her best features. I remember being absorbed with the same things when I was a student. Tessie is all over the Chamberlain experience, making the most of her time here. She plays intramural field hockey and competes in the academic decathlon. She’s in line to edit the school zine next year. She’s been dating the same boy since halfway through her freshman year, and her college plans are, at least peripherally, linked to his. Do I worry about this part? Not really. I mean, it’s high school. And she’s loving it.
I love that she does her studying here. She almost always comes after Desi leaves, and her timing this evening makes me wonder if she waits to see her go.
She’s holding half her hair up in a twist at the back of her head. I nod that it’s perfect, and then say, “You know you can come here and talk to me any time, right? You don’t have to wait until my boss is gone.”
There’s another glance to the door and a different kind of blush. One without the smile.
“Yeah, but Hayes had a little run-in with Ms. Chappell. So it’s better if he’s not here when she’s at work.”
I wait for her to tell me more, but she gives me nothing but a commentary about each of her fingernails, which are all painted in intricate autumn-scapes. Her artist roommate is in high demand for doing the girls’ nails for the dance, and Tessie is acting as her fingernail portfolio.
“She could do yours,” Tessie says, glancing at my hands. “Now that you’ve let the nails grow out.”
Without meaning to, I drop my hands into my lap under the desk.
Fingernails. Who knew this would become a touchy subject?
When I played violin every day for hours, my short nails were a matter of necessity. And I’ve never let them get long until very recently. I didn’t think too much of it—I mean, who thinks about their fingernails when they’re not actively in the way?—until Tessie mentioned it a couple of weeks ago, and now I guess it feels like there’s a statement there. About not picking up the violin that sits at the corner of my living room in its case.
Tessie moves past the fingernail conversation long before I’m finished obsessing about it, but when she asks me a direct question, I have to bring my attention back to her.
“Did you actually ever wear the shoes you bought for a dance while you were dancing?”
I shake my head. “I got fabulous new shoes for every dance of freshman and sophomore years, and by that spring, I knew I’d never keep them on once the dancing started. I just wore the same pair of shoes to every dance for the next two years. And before you ask, nobody noticed or cared.”
