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of anything except my own bad mood. I was leaning against the cold
wet
railing, staring out at a docked freighter, but really going back and
forth with myself over whether I should have tried harder to stop
Sally,
when a voice at my elbow said, "Don't jump"--and there was Annie. She
was wearing jeans again, and some kind of scarf, and her cape.
"But," I
stammered, "but--but how ..." She pulled out the notebook from when
we'd
exchanged addresses and waved it at me. "I wanted to see where you
live," she said, "and then there I was at your building so I rang the
belt, and then your mother--she's pretty--said you'd gone for a walk,
and
then this kid--your brother, Chad, I guess--came out after me and
said he
thought this was where you'd probably be and told me how to get here.
He seems nice."
"He--he is." It wasn't much to say, but I was still so bewildered and
so
happy at the same time that I couldn't think of anything else. "Nice
view," said Annie, leaning against the railing next to me. Then in a
very quiet, serious voice she said, "What's the matter, Liza? The
suspension?" It was as if the script that had been written for us had
suddenly jumped way ahead.
"Yes," I said.
"Walk with me," Annie said,
stuffing her hands into her jeans pockets under her cape. "My Nana
says," Annie told me, "that walking helps the mind work.
She used to hike out into the countryside from her village in Sicily
when she was a girl. She used to climb mountains, too." Annie stopped
and looked at me. "She told me once, back when we were in California,
that the thing about mountains is that you have to keep on climbing
them, and that it's always hard, but that there's a view from the
top,
every time, when you finally get there."
"I don't see how that ..." I began.
"I know. You're student council
president, but you're really just a person. Probably a pretty good
one,
but still just a person. Because you're student council president,
everyone expects you to be perfect, and that's hard. Trying to live
up
to everyone's expectations and being yourself, too--
maybe that's a mountain you have to go on climbing. Nana would
say"--Annie turned, making me stop--"that it'll be worth it when you
get
to the top. And I'd say go on climbing, but don't expect to reach the
top
tomorrow. Don't expect yourself to be perfect for other people."
"For a unicorn," I think I said, "you're pretty smart." Annie shook
her
head.
We talked about it a little more, and then we went on walking along
the
dreary, wet Promenade, talking about responsibility and authority and
even about God--no pretending this time, no medieval improvisations,
just
us. By the time we were through, I realized I was talking to Annie as
if
I'd known her all my life, not just a few days. Annie? I'm not sure
how
she felt. She still hadn't said much about herself, personal things,
I
mean, and I had. By about four o'clock we were so cold and wet that
we
went up to Montague Street, which is the main shopping street for the
Heights, and had a cup of coffee. We started getting silly again--
reading
the backs of sugar packages aloud and imitating other customers and
laughing. When Annie blew a straw paper at me, the waitress glared at
us, so we left. "Well," said Annie, on the sidewalk outside the
coffee
shop. "Their mead," I said, reluctant for her to leave, "wasn't half
as
good as yours."
"No," said Annie. "Liza ...?"
"What?" Then we both spoke at once. "You first," I said.
"Well, I was
just going to say that if you don't have to go yet, you could come
back
to my apartment and see my room or something. But it's almost six
..."
"And I was going to say that if you don't have to eat supper right
away,
maybe I could come back to your apartment and see your room."
"Supper," I said, looking up to see what color the traffic light was,
and then crossing the street with Annie, "is sometimes pretty
informal
on Sundays. Maybe Mom will even invite you ..." Mom did, and Annie
phoned
her mother, who said she could stay. We had baked ham and scalloped
potatoes, so it wasn't one of our informal and easily expandable
Sunday
suppers, which usually was eggs in some form, cooked by Dad. But
there
was plenty of food, and everyone seemed to like Annie. In fact, as
soon
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