And This Is Laura. Ellen Conford

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ a great house,” I said enviously. “Wait till you see mine. It looks like a rummage sale.”

      I began to wonder what Beth would think of my family when she saw the way we lived. It’s not that we would be condemned by the Board of Health or anything. It’s just that the place always looks like a crazed litterbug has just run amok through it. My mother has a woman who comes in to clean every Friday and before she comes we dash around trying to put away the clutter that’s amassed during the week so she can get to things like floors, countertops, etc., but within a day or two all the stuff somehow reappears in the living room and dining room and you’d never know that underneath all that mess it was really clean.

      “We have a maid come in Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays,” Beth said. “It would never look like this if she didn’t. My mother’s a lawyer.”

      Well, that explained why she was all dressed up. After all, even my mother wouldn’t go out to work in a sweatshirt and jeans. Although my father does, come to think of it . . .

      We had planned to do our homework, but every time we picked up a pen and actually started to work one of us would begin talking and we’d forget what we were supposed to be doing. We found we liked the same books, watched the same TV programs and hated the same things in school—graphs, maps and fractions.

      We agreed that Jean Freeman would probably be the star of any play Mr. Kane’s club put on.

      We were just about to give up on the homework and do pantomimes instead when Mrs. Traub called us to set the table.

      I followed Beth as she bounced down the stairs and was suddenly aware of how at home I felt here. I could very easily get used to living surrounded by quiet elegance, I thought. It was quite a comfortable feeling.

      Since Beth knew where everything was, she carried in all the dishes and forks and things and I set the table. We do set the table at my house, in spite of what you might think. As a matter of fact, we use a very old, fancy set of china that my Grandmother Hoffman gave us. It’s practically an heirloom. We also use real silver and cloth napkins. My mother says she likes to set a nice table. It never seems to bother her that we usually eat in the kitchen, and that it might strike people as a little silly to use all that good stuff when stacks of pots and half-empty packages of macaroni and little heaps of recipes and clippings surround you on all sides and you know you’re eating in the midst of this mess because you can’t get into the dining room . . . But as long as the table looks nice she doesn’t care.

      Beth’s mother had changed her clothes. She was now wearing plaid slacks and a turtleneck sweater. She didn’t look one bit less classy than she had before.

      “This is my father,” Beth said. “Daddy, this is Laura Hoffman.”

      “Hello, Laura.” He turned to his wife. “Isn’t it amazing, Lee? The older Beth gets the prettier her friends get.”

      Mrs. Traub just smiled, like she had heard that before.

      I, on the other hand, hadn’t. At least, not from a father who looked like him. He was much younger than my father and he could have been a male model. He had dark blond hair, dark brown eyes and had either just come back from Miami Beach, or used Insta-Tan.

      I realized I was staring. I quickly went back to setting the table.

      “Did you call your parents, Laura?” asked Beth’s mother.

      “Yes, I did before.”

      “That’s good. Beth, get Roger away from the television, please, and tell him we’re eating.”

      Beth sighed. “All right. Where’d you leave the leash?”

      I giggled. She went into the living room and yelled, “ROGER! COME AND EAT!”

      “If I wanted someone to scream for him, I could have done that myself,” Mrs. Traub pointed out.

      I couldn’t believe she’d ever scream about anything.

      Beth disappeared from the living room and came back a few moments later propelling her brother by a firm grip on the back of his neck.

      “You don’t have to choke me to death,” the boy whined.

      “Laura, this is Roger.”

      “So,” I said, smiling at him. “The famous Roger.”

      “Who said I was famous?” he demanded.

      “I just meant—well, Beth told me a lot about you.”

      “Beth’s a liar.”

      She gave me a look of disgust and shrugged her shoulders.

      Roger spent most of the meal twirling incredible amounts of spaghetti onto his fork and insisting everyone watch while he forced them into his mouth.

      “Bet you think I can’t eat this one,” he’d say, and cram it in.

      “How gross,” Beth declared. She turned away.

      I didn’t watch him after the first time. It was much pleasanter to keep my eyes on Beth’s father.

      He ate very nicely.

      Apart from Roger the meal was fine. Mr. and Mrs. Traub made me feel right at home and the food was very good. Beth and I told them all about the classes we had together and the drama club meeting.

      They seemed interested in whatever we had to say and didn’t ask dumb questions like “What do you want to be when you grow up?” or “So, how does it feel to be in Junior High School?”

      We had apple pie and ice cream for dessert and before I knew it, Beth and I had loaded the dishwasher and it was time for me to go home.

      “I’ll drive you,” Mr. Traub offered.

      “Oh, no, that’s all right. My mother or father can come pick me up.”

      “Don’t be silly,” he insisted. He put his jacket on and walked toward the door.

      “I’ll go with you,” Beth said. “Come on, your books and things are upstairs.”

      “Well, okay, thank you.” I turned to Mrs. Traub. “Thank you for dinner and everything. I really enjoyed it.”

      “You’re welcome, Laura. You come again now, anytime. It was fun having you.”

      I got my books and jacket from Beth’s room. She grabbed her sweater off the bed and we went downstairs.

      “Goodby, Roger,” I called to him. A burst of gunfire exploded in another room, so I didn’t really expect him to hear me. But just as we were going out the door there was a faint, “ ’Bye,” from somewhere inside the house.

      I gave Mr. Traub directions to Woodbine Way and when we pulled up in front of the house I told Beth, “You’ll have to come to my house next time.” But my heart wasn’t in it. I said it because I thought I ought to, but what I really hoped was that Beth would keep inviting me to her house. What in the world would she think of my family and the way we lived, compared to her surroundings?

СКАЧАТЬ